Nanami Kento looked expensive—quietly, deliberately. Charcoal suit tailored to his frame, shiny watch catching the low restaurant light, hazel eyes steady and unreadable across the table from her.

Anyone else would’ve mistaken him for calm. She knew better.

The thing about knowing someone for years was that eventually, you learn the difference between composure and restraint. Nanami carried restraint like a second skin. Every crisp shirt buttoned to the throat, every measured word, every careful exhale when work irritated him—it was all precision. Control.

A disguise.

“You’re staring,” he said evenly, cutting into his steak without looking up.

“And you’re pretending not to notice.”

That earned her the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Nanami’s smiles rarely reached his eyes, no matter how handsome they made him look.

Outside the restaurant windows, rain streaked against the glass in silver lines. Tokyo blurred into reflections and headlights. Cold November weather.

“You know, most people find you intimidating.”

“Most people are correct.”

Her gaze dropped intentionally to his watch. “The suit doesn’t help.”

“It’s a suit.”

“It’s armor.”

For the first time that evening, Nanami paused. Not long. But she caught it. Hazel eyes lifted to hers, sharper now, like he was deciding whether or not to shut the conversation down.

“You analyze me too much,” he said.

“You hide too much.”

Silence stretched between them.

She’d known him long enough to recognize the signs: the slight tension in his jaw, the way his thumb brushed once against the side of his glass, grounding himself. Nanami hated being seen too clearly. It made him feel cornered somehow, exposed.

But he never pulled away from her.

Even now, after years of late-night calls and train rides home together and coffee cups abandoned in each other’s apartments, he still looked at her like closeness was something dangerous, temporary. Like if he held it too tightly, it would disappear.

“You know,” she said softly, “one day I’m stealing one of your sweaters.”

His brow furrowed faintly. “My sweaters.”

“The beige one specifically.”

“That’s my favorite.”

“I know.” She smiled. “It would look good on me.”

A quiet huff left him—almost amused. She watched him loosen, just slightly. Enough to continue.

“You keep all your clothes lined up like a department store display,” she teased. “Honestly, it’s kind of irritating.”

Nanami took a sip of his drink. “You’ve complained about this before.”

“And I’ll complain again until you let me borrow that sweater.”

“You never return borrowed clothing.”

“Because you make them too comfortable.”

Another almost-smile. God, she wanted a real one. Not the polite expressions he gave coworkers or clients. Not the restrained little upward curve he used to avoid questions. She wanted the version of Nanami that existed at two in the morning with his tie discarded somewhere on the floor, glasses pushed up into his hair, exhaustion making him honest. The version that let his head fall onto her shoulder during cab rides home. The version that stayed.

“I worry about you sometimes,” she admitted quietly.

His gaze flickered toward her again. “That’s unnecessary.”

“It isn’t.”

“I’m fine.”

There it was. Automatic. Practiced. She leaned forward slightly. “Kento. You don’t always have to act like you’re carrying everything alone.”

For a moment, he said nothing at all. Then, carefully Nanami set his glass down.

“I wouldn’t know how not to,” he said.

And there he was. Not the businessman with the perfect tie and controlled expression. Just Kento. Tired. Guarded. Frighteningly lonely.

Her chest tightened.

Something unreadable crossed his face then. Wanting, maybe. Fear, definitely.

The terrible thing about Nanami Kento was that he looked at affection like it was something he didn’t deserve.

And the terrible thing about her was that she was already hopelessly in love with him anyway.