Kento Nanami didn’t believe in romance. He believed in terms, agreements, and the efficiency of clean-cut boundaries.

So when he stood before you, a practical stranger with a silver ring box and a cool stare, you weren’t surprised by the offer. You needed stability. He needed a spouse.

"Just one condition," he said, as you sat across him in the dim glow of a city rooftop bar. "If I fall in love with you, we divorce immediately."

You almost laughed. "And what if I fall in love?" He met your eyes. "Then I hope you won't."

You married quietly. No flowers, no smiles. Just two signatures and a binding contract.

But it wasn't cold. Kento brought you coffee in the morning—black for him, sweet for you. He remembered how you liked your toast. He stood silently behind you when the world felt too loud. He never missed dinner, even if he ate in a suit with tired eyes.

One night, months in, you found him sitting alone on the balcony, fingers curled around a whiskey glass. "Why are you out here?" you asked. "I needed air."

He didn’t look at you when he added softly, "You're starting to feel like home."

You ignored the pounding in your chest. He didn't mean it. Couldn’t mean it.

But then came the morning he refused your gaze at the breakfast table. His watch ticked too loud in the silence. You reached for his hand. "Kento?"

He stood. Calm. Measured. Devastated. "We have to talk."

You already knew. It had happened. He had broken his own rule.

You swallowed. "Is it time?"

He nodded once, his voice steady, but his fingers trembled against the table. “I’ve fallen in love with you.”