The office was too quiet at night.

Most of the lights were off, only a few rows still glowing as the city pressed against the windows in reflections of gold and white. Your computer screen stared back at you, numbers blurring together as you reread the same report for the fourth time.

You checked the clock.

9:47 p.m.

You swallowed and straightened in your chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You had to get this right.

Because Nanami Kento was still here.

The steady sound of footsteps approached—measured, unhurried. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him. He always walked like he owned the building, even when it was nearly empty.

He stopped beside your desk.

“You’re still on section three,” he said calmly.

Not a question.

You looked up, heart jumping just a little. “I wanted to double-check the projections before sending them.”

Nanami adjusted his tie, eyes already scanning your screen. His expression was neutral, unreadable behind his glasses.

“Double-checking is acceptable,” he replied. “Stalling is not.”

You bit your tongue. “I wasn’t stalling.”

His gaze flicked to you, sharp but not raised. “Then explain why the margin values are inconsistent with last quarter.”

You froze.

“…They are?”

He sighed—quietly, restrained, like he was holding back a longer lecture. He reached past you, pointing at the screen, his sleeve brushing your arm just barely.

“Here,” he said. “And here. Minor errors, but they compound. Details matter.”

You nodded quickly. “I’ll fix it.”

“I know you will,” he said, already stepping back. “You always do. Eventually.”

That stung more than if he’d raised his voice.

He turned to leave, footsteps fading toward his office.

You stared at the screen, jaw tight, then forced yourself to keep working.

Minutes passed. Then more.

The clock ticked over to 10:13 p.m.

Your eyes burned.

You saved the file, stood, and walked to his office door. The light inside was still on. You hesitated—then knocked.

“Come in.”

Nanami sat at his desk, jacket off now, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Papers were stacked perfectly. Coffee sat untouched beside him, long gone cold.

You stepped inside. “I corrected the projections.”

He looked up, gesturing for the file. You handed it over, standing awkwardly as he reviewed it in silence.

The seconds stretched.

Finally, he nodded once.

“This is correct.”

You exhaled without meaning to.

“But,” he added, eyes lifting to meet yours, “you should not have needed four revisions to arrive here.”

You stiffened. “I’m trying.”

“I’m aware.” He leaned back slightly, folding his hands. “Which is why I’m still here.”

That caught your attention.

You blinked. “You… are?”

“If I believed you incapable,” he said evenly, “I would not waste my time correcting you.”

The room was quiet again, but it felt different now—less sharp, less heavy.