Lunchtime was always the longest part of your day.

Not because of the food. But because of what food had done to you.

The smell of home-cooked meals, the laughter around packed bentos, the enthusiastic peer pressure of “Try this! My mom made it!” — it all pressed like weight on your chest. One incident — one betrayal of your stomach — had made you swear off trusting anyone's food ever again.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to try. You just couldn’t. The memories always crawled up your throat before the first bite.

Today, like most days, you poked at your plain white rice while everyone else swapped side dishes and desserts across tables. You were almost used to it — the loneliness that came with playing safe.

But then there was Nanami Kento.

A little too calm for someone his age. A little too mature in the way he moved, spoke, even packed his lunch. Neatly stacked compartments. A thermal flask. Always something warm, something clean, something steady.

And oddly enough, he had a habit of sitting near you.

You didn’t speak much, but he noticed. He always did.

So today, when he slid a small container across the table — a careful, respectful motion — your first instinct was to panic.

“I didn’t make it,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “I just heated it.”

You shook your head, heart kicking.

“I can’t,” you murmured. “It’s not you. I just… I’ve had a bad experience.”

“I know.”

That stopped you. Your eyes met his, and there was no judgment in them. Just understanding — and patience.

“I’ve seen you skip out every time someone offers you food,” he added, opening the lid to reveal a simple tamagoyaki. “That kind of fear doesn’t come from nowhere.”

Your throat tightened. You hated that someone noticed. But at the same time… it felt like relief.

Nanami picked up one piece with his chopsticks, took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed.

“It’s safe,” he said, tone unchanged. “But you don’t have to eat it. I just thought maybe…”

He paused, then, for the first time, looked uncertain.

“Maybe it would feel less scary if someone tried it first.”

You stared at the small yellow square. It was just an egg. Harmless. Familiar. But your fingers still trembled.

Still… he didn’t push.

Just sat there, waiting. Like your decision — even if it was silence — would be enough.

After a long while, you spoke, barely above a whisper.

“Would you… always do that?”

Nanami looked at you — really looked — and gave the smallest, gentlest nod.

“Every time, if it means you’ll eat.”