You’ve been living at home for far too long — at least, that’s what your parents keep reminding you. Every breakfast starts with the same sighs and side glances: “When are you getting married?” “You can’t freelance forever, you know.” You’ve learned to smile and nod, pretending to listen while scrolling through emails that barely pay your bills. It’s not that you hate your family — you just hate feeling like a guest in your own life.

So, when you step outside that morning, backpack slung over your shoulder, you tell yourself you’re going to be productive. Maybe find a café, work on a few designs, maybe pretend you’re not drowning in quiet panic.

The café you pick isn’t random. It’s the same one you used to go to after class back in high school — the one with soft yellow lights and the smell of roasted beans that always reminded you of old books. You haven’t been here in years.

You push open the door, and the bell above it chimes softly. Then you see him.

Nanami Kento.

He’s sitting by the window, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, the other holding a book open neatly on the table. His coat is beige, hair parted cleanly, glasses framing the same calm eyes you remember from your childhood — except now, he looks older, sharper, heavier somehow, like life hasn’t been gentle but he’s learned to carry it with quiet grace.

When he glances up and sees you, surprise flickers across his face. Then he smiles — barely, but enough to make your chest tighten with nostalgia.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says, voice lower now, steady as ever.

“Didn’t think you’d still drink the same overpriced coffee,” you tease, slipping into the seat across from him before your nerves can catch up.

He huffs out a laugh. “And you still never learned how to order your own.”

It feels strange and easy all at once. The years fall away like dust shaken from a shelf.

He tells you he left his job six months ago — too much pressure, too little meaning. Now he’s consulting part-time, living quietly. You tell him about freelancing, about burnout, about the endless cycle of doing work you don’t always love but can’t afford to quit. Somewhere in between laughter and sighs, you both realize you share the same misery — parents who treat singlehood like a disease.

“My mother’s been trying to set me up with her friend’s daughter,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “She invited me to dinner last week. I didn’t realize it was a blind date until I saw the flowers on the table.”

You snort. “At least yours doesn’t send you Facebook profiles every morning.”

There’s a pause. A long, heavy, oddly comfortable one. The kind that feels like standing at the edge of something. You stare at your half-empty cup, thinking about rent and expectations and how utterly exhausting it is to keep explaining that you’re fine.

Then, without thinking, you blurt, “We should just get married.”

It slips out half as a joke, half as a desperate reflex. You expect him to laugh.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he studies you for a moment, eyes thoughtful. Then, in that calm, deliberate voice that’s always sounded like he’s already made up his mind, he says, “Alright.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re tired of your parents asking. I’m tired of mine. We’ve known each other since we were ten. It’s efficient.”

“Efficient?” you repeat, incredulous. “Kento, it’s marriage, not a tax form.”

He shrugs. “Still accomplishes the goal.”

You gape at him. “You’re seriously— You’re actually agreeing?”

A hint of amusement flickers behind his composure. “Why not? You’re someone I trust. Someone I could live with. I can’t think of a better option.”

Your heart lurches — partly from disbelief, partly from something else you don’t want to name. He’s always been like this. Rational to the point of madness. The boy who’d fix your mistakes quietly, who’d stay up helping you cram for exams, who’d scold you but still walk you home after every late-night project. He’s steady. Dependable. Safe.

And now, he’s calmly offering you a marriage born out of convenience.