The words had just left your mouth, hanging in the quiet office like fragile glass. You’d confessed, heart hammering, voice low but steady, and now you were left watching him—watching him process them without flinching. The city lights outside cast long streaks across the floor, mirroring the tension between you.

It wasn’t the first time you’d noticed him—the way he lingered over small details at your desk, the subtle attentiveness when you spoke, the quiet moments he’d offered guidance that felt personal, meaningful. You’d felt it building for months, and finally, tonight, you’d taken the risk.

Nanami doesn’t blink, doesn’t falter. He adjusts his glasses with that calm, deliberate motion you know so well, sleeves rolled, tie slightly loosened, posture perfect. His voice is steady, firm, carrying the weight of authority and principle.

“Don’t say things like that. You’re barely twenty-three,” he says, measured, controlled. “I feel… something too. But you’re too young. I won’t act on it.”

You swallow, chest tightening. There’s no hesitation in him, no wavering—just firm, unwavering control. And yet, beneath it, you can feel the tension, the mutual pull, the quiet acknowledgement of what could be if the circumstances were different.