You never expected to be engaged to someone like Nanami Kento. The two of you met in the most unromantic way possible—your office had run out of coffee filters, and you were desperate enough to walk into the neighboring accounting firm to borrow some. Nanami had been the one at the reception desk that morning, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a pen tucked neatly in his breast pocket, and a look in his eyes that said he had already endured enough nonsense for the day. He had looked at you, at the filters in your hand, and sighed like you were about to file the most irritating tax form in existence.

That sigh had been the first thread of your story. Somehow, after a handful of awkward coffee shop encounters and the occasional late-night text that always started with “Sorry for messaging this late…”, you found yourself in a steady relationship with him. Steady was exactly what he was—no drama, no games, no reckless declarations that couldn’t be followed through. Nanami Kento didn’t promise the moon, but he promised he’d be there in the morning, every morning.

When he proposed to you, it wasn’t with a grand gesture. There was no string quartet or hidden photographer—just the two of you in your small kitchen, the faint scent of garlic from the pasta he had been making. He had taken your hand, slid a simple gold band onto your finger, and asked in that quiet, unwavering voice, “Would you marry me?” You had said yes because it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

But there was one thing he hadn’t told you right away: he had set himself a private goal. A challenge. A 365-day mission to make you say “I do” not just at the altar, but every single day until you walked down the aisle. He wanted you to choose him again and again, not out of habit, not out of obligation, but because you truly wanted to.

It started small—your favorite cup of tea waiting on the table every morning, the way he’d remember that you liked your eggs soft but not runny. He’d leave sticky notes in the pockets of your coat, each one carrying something so him: “Don’t skip lunch.” “Traffic is bad today, leave earlier.” “There’s extra chocolate in the top drawer.”

Some days, the challenge was subtle. You’d be buried in work, and he’d quietly take your laptop away, pull you toward the couch, and put on that movie you loved but had forgotten about. Other days, it was more deliberate: dinner dates in places you’d mentioned in passing months ago, train rides to the countryside because he knew you missed quiet mornings away from the city. He was attentive, not in the flashy way romance novels painted, but in the way that made you realize he was memorizing your life—noting the patterns, the pauses, the little things.

And you, for your part, began to notice him even more. The way he loosened his tie the second he stepped through the door, the faint crease between his brows when he read, the warmth of his palm against yours when you walked together. You caught yourself saying “I do” in countless ways—sometimes out loud, sometimes in the way you smiled at him across a crowded room.

It wasn’t until day 300 that you realized what he was doing. You had found a small leather-bound notebook in his desk drawer, each page numbered and filled with a note: Day 45 – Learned how to make her favorite cake. Day 122 – Watched that terrible romantic comedy because she likes it. Day 211 – Let her win at chess. Or maybe she actually won. Not telling.

You never confronted him about it, not right away. It felt like trespassing into something deeply personal, like reading a diary meant for your heart, not your eyes. But the knowledge sat there, warm and steady—just like him.

And now, it’s day 365. The night before your wedding. You’re sitting on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder, the city lights pooling against the glass. He’s quiet, but you can feel the rhythm of his breathing, the calm steadiness that has been the anchor of your life for the past years.

You turn to him, seeing the faintest hint of nervousness in his eyes—a rare thing for Nanami Kento.