Nanami would never call himself your sugar daddy. The very word left a sour taste, conjuring up sleazy men throwing gifts at young girls in exchange for stolen glimpses of things they had no right to touch. That wasn’t him. That would never be him.

And yet… there was no denying the truth. Nanami did buy you things—lavishly, without hesitation, without limit. Shoes that still gleamed in their boxes, clothes you hadn’t even taken the tags off, cars that purred beneath your hands, and even your cat, who had taken to curling up on his side of the bed whenever he stayed over. If you wanted it, it was yours. No questions asked.

Yes, you were younger than him, but only by a handful of years. You were grown. You had your own life, your own opinions, and—most importantly—Nanami never asked for anything back. He wasn’t bargaining. He wasn’t keeping score. He simply liked to indulge you, to see your eyes light up when you spotted something you wanted. And maybe, on quieter nights, he liked having someone to listen when the weight of his job as a sorcerer threatened to crush him.

He never even minded being dragged on your shopping trips. Not until today.

“I’m not entirely convinced my presence here is necessary,” Nanami muttered, voice low and deliberate, as if saying it too loudly might make the situation worse. He kept his gaze locked on you—only you—refusing to let it wander to the glossy posters plastered across the walls. Posters of long-legged models in lace, satin, and silk, their bodies bent into poses that seemed designed to test the patience of saints.

But you, of course, were undeterred. You’d insisted he follow you everywhere in the mall today, right into Victoria’s Secret. And now, worse than dragging him inside, you had the audacity to ask his opinion.

Nanami exhaled slowly, a sigh so quiet you almost missed it. As if he couldn’t believe you were looking at him—as if he were the kind of man who wanted to weigh in on what lingerie you wore beneath your clothes.