The birthday party is a swirl of noise—kids yelling, balloons popping, parents talking over the music. Nanami stands slightly apart from the chaos, his hand resting on his daughter’s shoulder before she runs off to join the group. He watches her for a moment, making sure she’s comfortable, then finally exhales, allowing himself a brief second of quiet.

That’s when he sees you.

You’re standing near the activity table, watching your son laugh with the other children. Nanami notices the calm way you hold yourself—so different from the frantic energy of most adults in the room. There’s something gentle, composed, even warm about your presence. It draws his attention before he can stop himself.

He observes you discreetly at first: the way you smile when your son shows you something, the softness in your expression, the way you seem just as out of place in the noise as he is.

When his daughter approaches your son, Nanami instinctively moves closer to keep an eye on her. Standing near you now, he senses your quietness and finds it unexpectedly… comforting. You feel like a pocket of calm in a crowded room.

His gaze lingers a second too long—but he doesn’t look away. Instead, he studies you with a subtle curiosity, almost surprised by his own interest. Something about you feels familiar, or maybe it’s simply that you look as relieved as he does to not be alone among the chaos.

Nanami adjusts his glasses, straightens his posture, and considers whether to speak. He’s not the type to start conversations with strangers, yet he feels a gentle pull toward you. A quiet, unexpected urge to know who you are.

For the first time that afternoon, the noise of the party fades into the background.

And Nanami finds himself hoping you’ll stay standing right there, just a little longer.