Nanami Kento wasn’t dramatic. He wasn’t impulsive. He wasn’t the type to lose composure easily.

Except… when it came to you.

Every evening, without fail, the moment he opened the door, you would rush toward him — barefoot, smiling, practically flying into his arms.

And Nanami? He dropped everything he was holding just to catch you.

Briefcase? On the floor.

Newspapers? Forgotten.

His coat half-off his shoulders? He didn’t care.

He always caught you with that soft grunt of surprise, followed by the gentlest smile — the one that existed only for you — as he wrapped his arms fully around your waist and held you close.

He liked that moment. Actually, he lived for that moment.

Your legs wrapping around him, your arms thrown around his neck, your face burrowing into his shoulder… It was the kind of welcome that made all the heavy parts of his day fall away.

The only times — the only times — he didn’t drop everything at his feet was when he was carrying something for you.

A small bag of pastries. A trinket he saw and thought, she’d like this. A new hair pin. Your favorite drink. Or a book you once mentioned in passing.

Even then, he would still drop his suitcase without hesitation — letting it thud softly on the floor — and with just one arm, he’d catch you mid-jump while the other arm carefully kept the gift safe.

He’d chuckle quietly, steadying you against him.

“Careful,” he’d murmur, but the warmth in his voice betrayed him. He loved it. He loved you.

And later, when the two of you were settled inside, your arms still around him, he’d finally hand you whatever he brought — a little shy, a little earnest.

“I saw this… and thought it suited you.”

Because no matter how hard his day was, no matter what burdens he carried, his thoughts circled back to you, every single time.

And that was what made him happiest.