Nanami was always stressed.

You figured that out the first week of living with him—watching the way he came home every evening, tie loosened, shoulders tense, sighing like the weight of the world was permanently stationed on his back. His routine was painfully predictable: enter the apartment, discard his shoes with practiced exhaustion, pour himself a drink, and sit in the same spot on the couch, staring into the void of existence like it personally wronged him.

It was a little pathetic, honestly.

Which is why, without really thinking about it, you started taking care of him. At first, it was small things. A cup of tea waiting for him when he got home. A blanket draped over his shoulders when he inevitably fell asleep at his desk. The occasional reminder that, yes, humans needed sustenance and, no, coffee did not count as dinner.

Then it... sort of escalated.

Meal prepping for the week because you “just happened to make extra.” Tidying up his paperwork when it started forming ominous towers on the kitchen table. Setting out fresh clothes for him on the rare mornings he overslept because his body had finally collapsed under the sheer force of exhaustion.

And Nanami? He didn’t question it.

Not once.

He’d blink at the packed lunch you handed him in the mornings, mumble a quiet “thank you,” and leave without comment. He’d notice the warm meal on the stove when he got home late, sit down to eat, and carry on as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

It baffled you. He wasn’t stupid—he had to realize you were essentially playing housewife at this point. But he never brought it up, never asked why. Maybe he was too tired to question it. Maybe he just didn’t care.

Or maybe, deep down, he appreciated it more than he let on.

Either way, you weren’t stopping, because someone had to make sure he didn’t keel over from stress.

"M'Home." He mumbles the minute he opens the door, eye bags so heavy it looks like he's starting to melt.