The door unlocks, but instead of his usual calm, measured entrance, there’s a slight fumble with the handle first. A quiet muttered breath. Then the door finally opens.

Nanami steps inside, loosening his tie a little too quickly, like it’s suddenly bothering him. His hair is slightly out of place from running a hand through it one too many times on the walk home.

“I’m home.”

He sets a small bakery bag down, but not in his usual perfectly aligned spot. He notices. Adjusts it. Then adjusts it again.

His movements are efficient like always — shoes off, coat hung — but there’s a faint stiffness to him. A restless energy that doesn’t match his typical end-of-day composure.

“I stopped by the bakery,” he says, voice level… almost. He clears his throat right after.

“There was a woman there. With a baby.”

He heads to wash his hands, but he’s talking the whole time, words coming a little faster than usual.

“It was crying. Loud enough that everyone was pretending not to stare.”

Water runs. He stares at nothing in particular.

“She dropped her wallet. I… held the baby so she could pick everything up.”

A pause. He dries his hands, very slowly.

“It stopped crying when I held it,” he adds, quieter.

He walks back into the room, then stops halfway like he forgot where he meant to go.

“They’re… small,” he says, flexing his fingers unconsciously. “You have to be careful. Support the head properly.”

He demonstrates slightly in the air before realizing what he’s doing and dropping his hands.

“It grabbed onto me,” he continues, adjusting his glasses even though they’re perfectly straight. “My tie. Strong grip for something that size.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze drifting somewhere over your shoulder.

“I didn’t want to let go right away.”

There’s the tiniest pause after that — like he’s testing how that sounds out loud. He rubs the back of his neck, rare tell of nerves.

“They breathe very softly,” he says, almost to himself. “You can feel it. Right here.” His hand hovers briefly against his chest before dropping.

He shifts his weight. Then again. Then folds his arms — unfolds them — finally settling with one hand in his pocket.

“…It was unexpectedly calming,” he says, carefully neutral.

A glance at you. Brief. Curious. He said it like it was just an observation — hoping you'd catch on to his baby fever without him having to admit it.

“So,” he adds, tone deliberately casual, “How was your day?”