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swearimnevergivingup · 3 days ago

Text

EMERGENCY CONTACT

ex-boyfriend!nanami kento x reader ─ one shot

sypnosis: when a hospital visit leaves you too weak to go home alone, you don't think twice before agreeing to let the nurse call your emergency contact. only... the person who shows up isn't who you expected. you thought nanami had walked out of your life for good three years ago – so why is he here now?

content: MDNI, exes to lovers, long-term relationship in the past, just two people hung up over each other, yearning, so much yearning, reconciliation, fluff, non-detailed references to mental health struggles, explicit smut, nanami kento has a big dick…., hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending!! porn with plot, makeup sex (but it’s 3 years in the making) word count: 10k

a/n: i've been sitting on this work since last year so i'm really happy it's finally done! i hope the nanami girlies enjoy <3 ALSO uh i’m kinda obsessed with the idea of nanami not being with anyone else for the entire period of the break up because he’s just loyal like that. this man loves you so much… i love men who yearn and this particular man yearns hard. ao3 link

you sit on the edge of the bed, the discharge paper crumpled in your hands. your body aches, your head throbs, and the bright fluorescent lights are way too harsh on your eyes.

you kick your feet idly, letting the sound fill up the quiet of the hospital room. you’ve been waiting for the nurse to come back and give you the all-clear to leave. she had asked if you would like her to call your emergency contact first – advising that you were still weak and would be much safer with someone to help you get home. exhausted and bleary-eyed, you had simply shrugged and agreed without much thought.

your mom would probably rush over, give you a stern lecture about taking care of yourself better, though her worry would be evident in the way she’d sneak side glances at you the entire drive back to your apartment.

“i told you not to overwork yourself,” she would chide, her brows furrowed. “you can’t keep living like this.”

guilt presses down, heavier than the fever pressing at your temples. she’s right, of course. you’re just not sure what else to do. your industry treats burnout as a badge of honour, and slowing down means falling behind. you’ve already sacrificed so much, so what’s a few skipped meals, a few dizzy spells?

a knock on the door draws you out of your reverie. your eyes flicker up to find the same nurse from before at the door, clipboard in hand.

“it says here that your emergency contact is a person named…?” she squints at the papers in her hand, “…nanami kento?” she peers up at you from her clipboard, offering you a kind smile.

your stomach drops.

nanami… kento?

you haven’t heard that name in months, much less seen the man himself in two years. the sound of his name reverberates in your ears, a familiar ache washing over you once more.

“we actually tried to get in touch with him earlier while you were unconscious, but he didn’t pick up.” she continues, her tone cheerful, oblivious to the distraught expression on your face. “good news though, i just managed to contact him and he’s already on his way h—”

“wait, no!” you cut her off, your voice sharp with panic as you frantically wave your hands in front of you.

“oh…?” the nurse blinks at you, now startled by your sudden outburst, as you scramble to explain yourself.

“t–that won’t be necessary. i’ll uh– i’ll call someone else right now,” you say quickly, standing up to grab your phone from your bag. “he’s– he’s…”

my ex-boyfriend.

“…he doesn’t live in tokyo anymore,” you finish, voice softening in panic-soaked whisper. “he definitely won’t be able to come.”

and he probably doesn’t even think about me anymore.

“thats odd,” her eyebrows lift. “it’s just… when we called him, he said he would be here soon, and he sounded quite worried, actually.” she eyes you with a gentle concern.

oh god, no.

you sit down just as quickly as you stood up, clutching the sides of the bed frame like an anchor and feeling like you might be rapidly cycling through the five stages of grief.

stage 1, denial: because there’s just no fucking way. nanami kento, who hated you so much he quit his job and disappeared to kyoto to get away, a whole train ride away from tokyo, is supposedly coming to pick you up?

step 2, anger: why the hell did you let them call him? what were you thinking? why is he still listed as your emergency contact? which puppy did you kick? what god did you offend?

step 3, bargaining: maybe you can hobble out of here and call a taxi before he arrives. no wait, the nurse had said it wasn’t advisable with your condition. is hiding in the toilet or under the bed a feasible option instead? you can’t help but peer down the edge of the hospital bed. no, too much space underneath. he’d spot you instantly. fuck.

you’re about to progress to the next stage: existential crisis when someone clears his throat at the door.

you know instantly who it is without having to look up.

you really don’t want to look up.

how many seconds is a reasonable time to spend staring at the ground below your feet?

taking measured breaths to steel yourself, you count to three before slowly raising your head to look at him.

you swallow hard upon doing so, your voice instantly dying in your throat.

standing right in front of you, it's undeniable that he’s just as handsome as ever. the same chiselled jawline and hollowed cheekbones, the signature blue dress shirt, and the same calm, steady presence that used to make you feel so incredibly safe. his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and you have to try really hard not to notice the way his biceps pull the fabric tight against his arms.

and.. he still smells entirely familiar, the distinctive smell of the cologne you gifted him on your second anniversary being hard to miss. you wonder if he’s finished the bottle, or if he went out and repurchased the same one. you wonder if he thought of you while doing so, if he remembered the night you shared together the night you presented him with the gift.

you wonder if he knows you still think of him – when you pass by his favourite bakery, when you cook a dish that used to be enjoyed together, or when it’s late at night, and the bed’s far too cold, and you find yourself missing the warmth of a certain ex-lover.

he was more than your ex-lover, though. he was your best friend, your home, and… you’d always thought he’d be your husband one day.

you quickly shake off that thought before it cracks your heart right open again.

there’s a tired look in nanami’s eyes that mirrors your own, and his tie is slightly loosened – he must have rushed over.

there’s a brief moment of quiet. neither one of you speaks, the silence thick with unsaid things from the past that come rushing back in an instant for you. shared memories – the laughter, the promises, and the pain, that you’ve tried to block out with one too many drinks alone or with friends.

he doesn’t ask if you’re okay. he doesn’t ask why your emergency contact list still has his name. he doesn’t ask anything.

“come on,” he says simply, not meeting your eyes. “let’s get you home.”

he can’t even look at me.

so why did he even bother to come?

he just takes your bag from the side table, slings it over his shoulder, and holds the door open for you like it’s been no time at all.

thankfully, the car ride home is short and traffic is smooth, ensuring your suffering isn’t needlessly prolonged. after giving nanami your address, you simply opt to stare out the window, pretending to take great interest in the passing blur of trees and headlights. anything to avoid looking at him.

“thanks for coming,” you mumble, voice stiff and rigid. “i’m sorry about the inconvenience.”

he glances over at you. “that’s alright. i work nearby.” he’s straight-faced as he stares ahead, and the tone of his voice is imperceptible. you can’t get a read on his emotions at all, even if you tried.

you ignore the part where he just revealed that he’s back in tokyo. working. it shouldn’t hurt you that you didn’t know. he came to pick you up when he didn’t have to, when he didn’t want to, and that should be enough.

“still,” you say quietly, shifting in your seat. “thank you.”

you know this man like the lines on your palms – every freckle, every sigh, every scar he never let anyone else touch. you know the exact way he takes his coffee and how he prefers to fold his shirts. you have his initials inked into your skin, for goodness' sake. he used to trace over them absentmindedly when he thought you were asleep.

and yet.

here you are.

he was the love of your life, and you’re reduced to exchanging cheap pleasantries like strangers.

“it– it was an accident,” you attempt to clarify, sitting up straighter. “the nurse asked if i wanted to call my emergency contact, and i wasn’t thinking so i said yes, and she tells me she’s just called uh– you, and i must have forgotten to change my–” you cut yourself off, wincing when you realise you’ve started rambling.

“...thank you,” you say again stupidly, for lack of anything else to say to fill the space between you. “i… i appreciate it.”

it’s almost laughable how awkwardly you’re sitting, with your entire body turned away towards the window, like you’re trying to squeeze yourself towards the door and as far away as possible from the driver’s side. you might as well be trying to climb out of it.

“you’ve thanked me enough tonight,” he makes a sound that could seem like a bit of a laugh escaping him. you want to reach for it. to capture the precious sound with both hands and never let go.

“so…” nanami asks, softer now. “do you feel alright?”

“y–yeah.” you mumble, looking down at your hands. “just the usual, you know. it’s really not a big deal.”

“the fainting spells?” his eyebrows raise and he glances at you as he takes a right turn. you’re close to home. “you still get them?”

you nod, surprised he remembers. “uh huh,” you reply absentmindedly. “it’s just work. i guess i’ve been overdoing it lately. but i’ve got the weekend off so… i’ll use that time to get some rest.”

“i was really worried when i got the call,” he says quietly. “you should take better care of yourself.”

you turn your head to look at him, caught off guard. but his eyes are still fixed on the road, focused and unreadable as he pulls up to your apartment complex. there’s not a flicker of emotion on his face – nothing at all to tell you what he’s really thinking.

“yeah,” you mutter. “tha—” you quickly stop yourself. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

the engine clicks softly as he shifts into park, but neither of you move.

you stare out the windshield at the streetlights glowing against the pavement, casting long shadows that stretch like ghosts between you.

you bite your lip.

you should let him go. you know you should. thank him again, close the door behind you, and leave this buried in the past – right where he left you those two and a half years ago.

but your thoughts are moving too fast, resisting another dreadful goodbye. this can’t be it. not after everything. the way his voice cracked slightly when he said he was worried – that was real, right? there’s still so much you want to say. there’s so much you never got to tell him.

so blame it on the hospital meds, or the adrenaline, or the fact that he still smells like that stupid cologne you bought him, but before you can talk yourself down, the words are already tumbling out of your mouth.

you don’t look at him when you say it. your fingers twist painfully in your lap, breath caught in your throat.

“do you… want to come up for a bit?”

a pause.

you’re beginning to wish you could take it back. to laugh and say nevermind, to play it off like it didn’t mean anything. you glance at him, mouth opening to offer some half-hearted apology, but he speaks before you do.

“yeah. okay.”

it takes a second for the words to register. then another to believe he really meant them.

you nod once, then without looking at him again – because you can’t bear to see the look in his eyes – you reach for the door handle and hurriedly step out.

the ride up to your apartment is quiet, awkward in that strange, brittle way that only two people with history can manage. you shift uncomfortably next to him, fidgeting with your sleeves, whilst he stands a little too still. the elevator walls seem to be caving in on him, trapping him with everything he’s tried to run from. you mumble something about the weather, how cold it’s been lately, how you miss the sun in the mornings.

nanami gives quiet, polite laughs in return. tells you about his recent promotion. it feels strange, to speak of something so mundane after everything that’s passed between you. but he’s not sure what else to say, and you don’t press. you nod, your eyes somewhere else, and he can feel the way your thoughts spiral even in the silence.

when you finally reach your apartment, nanami takes the opportunity to look around while you change out of your clothes, taking in the details of your life scattered around the modest place. it’s cute and cosy and has clearly been lovingly decorated. the same warmth and care that used to fill your shared space together – he finds it existing again here.

he sees traces of familiar items – small, quiet things that tug at him.

there’s that piece of artwork you used to hang on your old bedroom wall, now on the wall of your living room. and hanging above your couch, is the sanrio alarm clock he had gifted you on christmas all those years ago.

he’d thought it was silly at the time – a childish gift – but your eyes had lit up like he’d handed you the world. he remembers the way you squealed and tackled him on the bed, calling him “the best damn boyfriend ever”. he didn’t particularly feel like it – in fact he had spent most of the relationship feeling wholly undeserving of you – but you announced it like it was gospel.

he moves further into your space, careful not to disturb anything. his fingers brush against the handmade cushion covers on the couch – your mother’s handiwork. the same ones that used to sit on the couch in your shared apartment. back when things were still good.

when he had the world in his hands.

on one side of the wall, there are framed pictures of you and your friends. he recognises some of them, like your brother, and some of your friends, shoko and utahime. there are others he doesn’t recognise though, like in one polaroid picture where a guy with weird bangs and too many tattoos has his arm swung over your shoulders as you laugh and strike a peace sign for the camera. you guys look close, perhaps a little too close.

he winces at that thought.

he has no right to feel that way. not anymore.

and he knows that, he knows what he walked away from, the vast expanse of everything he gave up, but it hits him all the same – how much of your life he’s missed. how much you’ve lived and grown without him.

nanami can’t help but feel a little out of place. standing in your apartment and seeing these snapshots of your life makes him realise how little he knows about you now. the life you evidently worked hard to rebuild after your breakup with him.

he observes how happy you look in all the photos, your smile bright and beaming – nothing at all like how you looked in the final few months of your relationship. exhausted, dull eyes, and always one breath away from breaking down.

back then, he felt like couldn’t reach you no matter how hard he tried. or maybe he stopped trying, because the guilt of failing you became too much.

your relationship hadn’t been in a good place, with his frequent travelling for work, your mother falling ill abruptly, and the both of you trying to stay afloat in the middle of weathering separate storms. he knew the love was still there – it was still loud and palpable – but the space between you only stretched wider and wider.

his love didn’t feel like it was enough to hold you together.

nanami remembers that last night like it was yesterday. maybe he had replayed it in his head too many times, like a form of punishment he wanted to inflict upon himself. a thousand moments of disconnect, of mutually failed bids for affection, and of pent up frustration boiled over in a single fight. he said things that couldn’t be unsaid. you had done the same.

when you told him to leave, your eyes red and glassy, pushing uselessly against his chest as he stood frozen in your doorway, something in him just snapped. it could have been the exhaustion. or it could have been the unbearable guilt of watching the person he loved look at him like he was the thing hurting her the most.

he thought you might have been better off without him.

so he listened.

he had done exactly that for the past two and a half years, even packing up his life in a suitcase and taking a new position in kyoto, so he could honour your wishes. sure, tokyo’s a big city, but there’s no place far enough to run to when you’re nursing a broken heart.

god, what was he even doing up here?

he’s beginning to regret agreeing to come up when you suddenly reemerge from the bedroom, your work clothes now swapped for an oversized t-shirt that barely covered your upper thighs. he catches himself looking for a fraction of a second too long and quickly averts his gaze.

“all done,” you call, padding down the hallway. “sorry for the mess,” you say sheepishly, gesturing vaguely around the apartment. “i wasn’t expecting anyone over.”

“no, i should be the one apologising. i’m the one imposing on you,” nanami mutters.

“it’s really okay! i don’t have any plans for tonight anyway,” you reassure. “do you want anything to drink?”

“just a glass of water, thanks.”

he drags out a chair and takes a seat at the kitchen counter, leaning forward and watching as you quickly wash up some leftover dishes in your sink. the scene feels awfully… familiar. too familiar.

it’s a strange feeling, comforting, yet unsettling all at once. there’s an undeniable domesticity to the moment and he feels a heavy ache making its way back in his heart.

it calls him back to shared laughter around the dinner table, the comfort lovingly infused in homemade meals, late nights spent draped over each other on the living room couch. two lives intertwined with each other, and the promise of forever that was so close to coming true.

(“kentooooo,” you would tease, nuzzling up close against him. “i love you the most in the whole wide world.”

he would say it back, just as earnestly.

and silently, he’d swear to god to let him die a cursed man before ever breaking your heart.)

it hurts.

he wonders if it hurts you too.

he peers at you, your head down whilst you remain concentrated on the last few dirty plates. if it does, it hasn’t shown on your face at all. besides your initial shock of seeing him, he hasn’t been able to get a read on your emotions.

he knows he should probably say something of substance, something meaningful. try to address the elephant in the room.

he clears his throat. “how… have you been?”

you pause for a moment, setting a glass of water down in front of him before meeting his gaze. “i’ve been okay,” you say earnestly. “things have been a little hectic at work, but it should calm down a little once the busy season is over. what about you?”

nanami takes a sip of water, nodding slowly, his mind turning over what to say.

truthfully, things have never been the same for him since the breakup. he’s always been a man of routine - a man who thrives on structure, a man who finds comfort in the predictability of his day-to-day life. he hated change, avoided it wherever possible. you leaving forced his world to change in a way he couldn’t control, and it had killed him a little inside.

of course, he had tried to distract himself. he buried his nose into work, something entirely out of character for a man like him, dedicated himself to the gym, said yes to more invitations from friends, and tried his best to forget.

so far, none of that has ever worked.

there’s a tear in his heart that bleeds like a fresh wound every time something reminds him of you. it rips open at the seams even at the most mundane things – a song, a smell, a dog he saw on the street that looked like the one you always talked about wanting after settling down.

sometimes, he tries to wrap it up in bandages, crafted out of routine and distraction, praying that one day it’ll finally scab over, so that all he’ll be left with is a vague scar in the shape of you.

but then other times… he picks at it. agitates it on purpose, just to feel closer to you again. a man who can’t help but run back into the blade, the reflection of you on the knife’s edge is what he tells himself he has to be content with.

“the same as usual,” he shrugs, struggling to keep his face carefully blank. “you know how it can be.”

you hum in understanding, tiptoeing to open a cupboard to rummage for something. your shirt rises up your thighs and he quickly looks down, setting the glass of water down with too much force.

“yeah, work can be like that, huh?” you say empathetically.

his mind is drifting, barely catching your words. it goes quiet again and the silence stretches between you, heavy and unresolved.

then, before he can stop himself, wincing as soon as the words leave his mouth, he blurts out, “are you seeing anyone? would he… be okay with me being up here?”

your eyebrows raise, and you seem taken aback by his sudden question. “no,” you laugh lightly, shaking your head. “that hasn’t really been a priority for me lately.”

“really?” self control has abandoned him. he shouldn’t be asking you this, he has no place in your life, but he can’t help himself.

“when we were younger, you used to say that you wanted to be married by 26.”

“things change, i guess. i was a lot younger, and a lot more naive,” you shrug, looking away. nanami tries not to take that personally.

“what about you?” you turn to face him, eyes searching his. “any lucky lady?”

he shakes his head, “hasn’t been a priority for me either.”

again, nanami studies your face carefully, searching for any hints of creeping resentment, anger, hurt, of anything, towards him. after all… he had ruined that for you, hadn’t he? if the break up hadn’t happened, he’s sure the both of you would have been married by now.

he comes up empty-handed. no anger, no blame, no bitterness on your face. just… nothing. maybe you got better at maintaining a facade, or maybe you had just fully moved on from him.

he isn’t sure if he likes either possibility.

he should be happy, he tells himself, to see you living a full life, even after him. it’s all he had wished for – for you to find true happiness, even if it meant him no longer being a part of your life. but it’s standing here, in your house, looking at your face, hearing the sound of your voice after so many years, that makes his conviction waiver. the sight of you is too painful to bear.

his throat feels unbearably tight, and there’s a twisting, gnawing ache in his stomach that refuses to let up.

“hey, which one do you prefer?” you ask then, holding up two different flavours of instant noodles. “sorry, i would whip up something better, but i haven’t done the groceries y–”

god.

he isn’t strong enough for this.

he can’t sit here and pretend that everything is okay. not with the reminders of what he once had, of what he could have had, scattered all around him, mocking him.

the chair scraps against the floor in a sharp, screeching sound as he abruptly stands, heart pounding against his chest.

“–i’m sorry. i should go.”

your lips part, and your hands slowly lower to rest on the countertop, staring at the noodles you’d just gotten out. he sees it – shock, then confusion, then something pained flickering behind your eyes, but before you can say anything, he’s already moving toward the door.

you remain completely silent.

he doesn’t even leave a moment to take a last glance at your face, trembling fingers already reaching for the doorknob to yank it open. but just as he’s about to turn it, your voice stops him cold.

“you’re leaving again.”

the bitterness in your tone cuts through the air. nanami turns to face you slowly, his movements stiff and hesitant.

“w–what?”

“you’re leaving again,” you repeat shakily.

“i…” his eyes are trained on the floor, avoiding your gaze. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have come up.”

at that, you let out a quiet, mirthless laugh. “you shouldn’t have come?” you echo, shaking your head. “i never pegged you as such a coward, nanami.”

feeling impending tears prick at your eyes, you quickly turn your back towards him, not wanting him to see you crumble.

you feel as though you’ve been punched in the gut, nails curling into the table edge with a desperate, white-knuckled grip as you try to steady yourself.

“okay. leave then. that’s what you do best anyway.”

you try your best to sound uncaring, cold – just as he had. like it’s nothing more than a passing inconvenience, but the last few words come out chipped and cracked as the facade you’re been maintaining all night finally breaks.

you loved him.

no, you think bitterly. you still love him.

none of it matters though, because he intends to walk out on you the same way he did three years ago. once that door shuts, you’ll never see him again. it’s so cruelly final, so devastatingly familiar, and it steals the remaining composure you have out of your body.

your gaze lands on the noodles on the counter. they mock you now. a pitiful reminder of your own foolishness. a stupid, stupid girl who somehow thought that inviting him up here might lead to something real, something redeeming. anything more than this unbearable almost.

the hope that had been slowly building behind your ribs, that had appeared like a weak flicker of candlelight the moment you saw him in the hospital, and had hesitantly grown the entire car ride home, with every glance, with every nervous exchange, extinguishes in your chest.

none of it matters, and the reality of it all is so damning that all you can do is sob miserably into your hands, feeling like your chest might collapse in on itself from the grief.

you hear nanami taking a step towards you. “you think this is easy for me?” he questions, voice strained.

you laugh through your tears, though the sound is hollow. “it must be,” you snap, refusing to turn around as you angrily wipe at your face. “i already know how this goes. so just walk out on me, run away like you did before.”

you hear him take a deep, drawn out sigh. “that’s not fair…” he says defensively.

“fair? you want to talk about fair?” you whip around to face him, eyes burning red. “you ran away, kento! you ran to kyoto, you ran so far off and changed your number and disappeared from my life like it was nothing! four years together, and you vanished without a trace? do you know what that did to me?”

the words pour out. the anguish, the hurt, the sheer betrayal of it.

“do you hate me that much? you can’t even sit across from me for ten minutes before having to leave?”

“you begged me to leave you alone! you screamed it to my face!”

“no!” you gasp, the pained sound ripped from you against your will. “i didn’t mean it, you asshole! i wanted you to fight for us! not run away! we could have worked things out if you stayed!”

“i knew we could have worked things out,” your voice crumbles pathetically, shaky and cracked, and you turn away from him, rubbing at your eyes furiously with your palms. “because it was us. us against the world.”

nanami opens his mouth again, seemingly about to say something. then, it closes and he simply stares at you, his demeanour visibly deflating. his shoulders lift, tense and rigid, before falling in defeat.

then, without warning, he closes the distance, arms wrapping around you, pulling you close to him.

there’s desperation in the way he clutches you, the way his fingers fist the fabric of your shirt, his hands trembling against your back. his breath is sharp and uneven and he holds you tight as you sob into his chest.

for a moment, you hate him for it.

the unexpected physical contact – his warmth, his scent, the way his hands fall right into place, the way it still brings you comfort – it sends an impulsive wave of bitterness through your body. anger overtakes you for a split second, and you thrash against him, uselessly trying to push him off.

“let me go!” you cry out, the sound fractured, torn between rage and grief.

his grip only tightens.

“leave!”

his arms only curl themselves around your shoulders, a steady hold, an unwavering anchor.

“you abandoned me!” you shout. “y–you let me love you, and then you left. you left!”

you continue to curse, cry, and shout at him, letting your words beat and tear at his chest with years of unexpressed anguish.

“fuck you, kento,” you sob through heaving breaths, clutching at fistfuls of his shirt. “fuck, fuck, you fucked me up good, i hate you, god, i wish i hated you–” another wave of grief ripples through you and you bury your face in his shirt.

and yet, he continues to wrap his arms around you, silent through it all, his grip tighter than ever, his breath hot and heavy down your cheek. you fight against his hold until you have no energy left, until your voice goes hoarse and your chest burns.

when the veil of anger finally subsides, all that is left is hurt and betrayal in its place. “i thought you stopped loving me,” you croak, voice barely a whisper. “i thought… i thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

you slump to the floor defeatedly.

that rush of anger is out of your system, and now you just feel broken. you hate how small your voice sounds, but it’s true.

when you finally peer up at him, the sight stops you cold.

nanami’s crying.

you’ve never seen him like this before – tears are brimming in his eyes, threatening to overflow as he squeezes his eyes shut to restrain himself. his hands are curled into tight fists by his sides, lips pressed in a thin line, barely holding himself back.

“i’m sofuckingsorry,” he chokes out, dropping down to his knees to pull you in. “that couldn’t be further from the truth. i promise you that.”

you can only watch in shock, taking in his words.

he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“i always wanted you. i never stopped. i just–“ he pauses to steady himself, voice low and quivering. “–when you told me to leave that night… i was just so tired of seeing you hurt and not having any idea how to fix it. i wanted you to be happy again, i really did. so i just… i thought you wouldn’t want to see me again. i thought me leaving would be the best decision. i thought it would make you happy again. maybe not at the moment but… eventually.”

you’re about to speak, but nanami shakes his head quickly as he continues on.

“i came back. please… you have to know that. please.” he looks at you desperately.

this man… he was like an unyielding rock, always so calm and steady, no matter what happened. you were the crier. he had always kept it together. your heart aches to see him breaking down like this, with his brows pulled tight and a tremble in his voice that you’ve never heard before.

“three months after, do you remember when i called you that night?”

hesitantly, you nod. twenty missed calls from him that night, and then… nothing. you never heard from him again. he changed his number, moved to kyoto, and distanced himself from your shared group of friends.

you had never been able to understand why.

“three months. i took three months to get my shit together and reflected hard on our relationship. i… i didn’t want to lose you, but my life was falling apart and i knew i just needed some… some time. i couldn’t think clearly. i was in a bad place. we both were. i didn’t want to keep hurting you,” nanami says, his voice strained.

“i came back looking for you, i wanted to apologise for everything. i was ready to do anything to get you back. fuck, i was prepared to beg if i had to. i parked my car outside our apartment that night and i…” he trails off again, looking away from you.

you see more tears spill from the corner of his eyes and your gut wrenches.

“i saw you with some man…” he continues quietly, the words catching in his throat. he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s both reliving it and trying to forget all at once. “i– i remember how you got out of his car and he kissed you on the cheek and you– you laughed. i don’t blame you… i wasn’t angry. not at all,” he swallows hard. “you had every right to move on.”

“–but seeing you like that… you just looked so happy. i hadn’t seen you smile like that in such a long time, you know? you’re everything to me. you still are. who am i to interfere with your happiness? i thought that even if it wasn’t that guy, someone else would come along, and i–” he runs a hand through his dishevelled hair, voice cracking.

“i don’t know– i wasn’t thinking– i just felt so defeated at the time,” he sighs, covering his face with a hand. “but then i regretted not doing something more, hell, i regret it every day– but then some time passed, and i… i thought i was too late– i thought i had missed my chance. i thought i had no choice but to let you go.”

a sharp pang of realisation cuts through you.

“–kento,” you choke out. you push yourself up on your knees, your arms wrapped around his neck.

“you got it all wrong… that night… aiko begged me to go on a double date with a guy she kept saying would be perfect for me,” you rush to explain, stumbling over your words.

“i didn’t even want to go, but you know aiko… she wouldn’t take no for an answer. that guy, he was sweet, but… i didn’t even want to be there. i barely talked to him. fuck, i– i cried in his car on the way home, i made a fool of myself– i couldn’t help it. nothing ever happened. nothing. it was just that one date.”

nanami’s face collapses in grief. “i should have tried harder,” he says hoarsely, shaking his head. “i wasn’t thinking straight. i should’ve called again. i should’ve showed up the next day and every day after that.” he takes another deep, shuddering breath. “i’m so fucking sorry.”

nanami holds you against him for what feels like an eternity. his touch is tender, grounding – his hand rubs small circles on your back, his lips pressing soft kisses to your forehead. he waits, silently patient, as your breathing steadies itself and the sobs fade in quiet shudders.

you lap it all up. in his arms, it feels like he takes up your whole world; the centre of your universe once again. an enveloping, encasing, and all-encompassing warmth that has you forgetting everything beyond the haven of his embrace.

you have no idea how much time has passed, although the sun has completely set, its brilliant hues no longer colouring your living room the way they did when you both had first entered. the sky has darkened, and the gentle glow of your lamp is the only thing illuminating the space.

you sit huddled up to him on the couch for a long time, his arms around you, your knees tucked into his sides. drinking him in. afraid to let go, afraid he might slip away again, like sand through your fingers. terrified that you would wake up and find out it was only a dream.

eventually, you shift to climb on his lap, your chest facing his. he doesn’t speak, but his arms adjust instinctively, holding your waist.

“kento,” you finally murmur, voice soft, achingly vulnerable. “i’ve missed you.”

that last line comes out a little shakily. it feels terrifying to admit out loud, especially after all this time. you lean your forehead against his, his lips just a touch away. the distinctive smell of his cologne faintly hits your nose – it‘s aromatic and woody, a unique blend of amber and nutmeg. you used to love smelling it on him.

he doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t reciprocate your movements either, and you freeze, suddenly afraid that you’ve misread the situation.

you lock eyes for a moment, before yours shamefully darts away, suddenly feeling very, very small. you realise his body is tense under yours, and although one hand is lightly pressed against your waist, the other is curled into a loose fist by his side, as if restrained.

deep, burning humiliation floods you, and you feel your gut twist. have you managed to misinterpret the situation this badly? you feel the stinging sensation of tears building up again and quickly wipe them away, not wanting to embarrass yourself further.

“i’m sorry, i–”

frantically, you start to shift, attempting to pull away from him and perhaps look for a hole in the ground to hide in, but before you can stand fully, nanami’s grip on your waist tightens, anchoring you back in place.

“don’t.”

you stiffen completely, staring down at him, your expression twisted in a mixture of discomfort and confusion.

“i’ve missed you too,” nanami says quickly. “but i need– i need to hear you say it,” he admits. “i don’t want you to regret anything. i don’t want you to regret me.”

(nanami is aware that this is awfully uncharacteristic of him.

he’s hesitant, for one, and he doesn’t want you to think he only agreed to come up because he wanted to drop a few sorrowful words to get in your pants. and then there’s the confrontation you just had – were you even in the right state of mind to be doing this? was he taking advantage of you in a vulnerable state?

would you regret it after? kick him out of your bed, saying it was no more than a moment of weakness?

and… and he’s tried so hard to move on, but he doesn’t even think it matters when you’re right here in his arms, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off your skin. your burning touch, your longing gaze, the smell of your shampoo lingering in your hair.

you had always been the kind to wear your emotions on your sleeve. he sees it now too, with your reddened eyes refusing to meet his, the way your lip has started to tremble with self-doubt.

he wants you. he wants this. god, he craves it more than anything in the world. he detests the idea of you thinking otherwise.

but nanami knows deep down, after everything, the choice has to be yours. he has to hear it from your lips before he succumbs to his deepest desires.)

“i want you,” you breathe. there’s something frantic in your quiet admission, a desperate bid for connection. “all i’ve wanted is you. i assure you. no regrets.”

“good,” a tug on your waist has you falling back down onto his lap. “because i want you too.”

the admission stirs something primal within you. you lean in, lips brushing against his in a tentative kiss. it feels good. like returning to a place you once called home. nanami’s reaction is immediate this time, his hands threading through your hair, returning the kiss slowly in a hesitant rekindling of lost love.

he cups your cheeks, you wrap your hands around his neck, letting unsteady kisses gradually grow confident between you two until you’re both left gasping for air, completely lost in each other.

you moan into his mouth, your hands hungrily trailing across his body, from his chest, down his abs, and across his strong arms. you know nanami’s always been a well-built man, and he definitely takes care of himself, but he’s a lot… sturdier than you remember.

your hands run appreciatively down his upper body, taking in the changes. it’s an intoxicating mix of both the familiar and the new, and you find yourself captivated, trying to commit every contour and plane of his body to memory.

you’re tasting him – just as he’s tasting you, your eyes taking the other in, palms sliding across what has been untouched for too long. the years of distance feel like they’re evaporating like vapour with every frantic open-mouthed kiss.

your fingers rush to unbutton his shirt, almost yanking them open as you hastily make your way down towards his hips to undo his belt. it’s hard to focus though, because his hands have travelled under your shirt, palms warm and rough against your skin.

it’s impossible to contain your moans as his hands trail up and down your waist for a moment, before moving to squeeze at the fullness of your breasts. pulling your bra down at the front, his thumbs graze over your nipples, whilst his palms knead at your flesh ravenously.

you manage to get the front of his shirt open, eagerly pushing the fabric aside. it’s still tucked into his pants, but it falls open at either side, exposing his toned chest and a blond trail of hair that leads downwards.

nanami’s face is flushed, swollen lips red and messy from your kisses. he’s panting slightly too, and the sight of his bare skin sends a rush of heat through you.

“your turn,” he growls softly, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

you lift your hands to help, and it’s quickly taken off and discarded onto the floor. your bra follows next, unhooked and tossed aside without hesitation.

how long has it been since he last saw you like this? your hands shoot up to your chest, wanting to cover up, but nanami’s hands encircle your wrists, gently stopping you.

“don’t hide,” he murmurs, reaching forward to press another kiss to your lips. “you’re as pretty as ever.”

instinctively, you shoot him a sceptical look.

“it’s true,” he hums, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “you take my breath away.”

his smile is gentle, fond, the one you know was only reserved for you. you want to believe that hasn’t changed.

nanami’s eyes flicker down your upper body, stopping when he finds what he’s looking for. “you kept it,” he murmurs. “the tattoo.” a finger runs back and forth on the ink, like he’s trying to see if it’s really still there. “i figured you might have gotten it lasered off.”

it’s a subtle piece.

but it’s undoubtedly all for him.

after his surname in kanji: 七海; meaning seven seas, you had gotten a small, fine line tattoo of the ocean’s wave under your ribs.

“i’m still yours,” you confess quietly. “...if you want me to be.”

i’ve always been yours.

tattooed into my skin and down to my very bones. i was always meant to love you.

he cups your jaw with one hand, pulling back to look at you. “i’ve never wanted anything more.”

his tone carries so much sincerity it makes your heart stutter, so you push that shyness aside and slowly let your arms drop to your sides, allowing him to maneuver you until you’re splayed out on the couch beneath him.

the world blurs around you.

all you can think about is this very moment.

the significance of what you’re doing is entirely palpable to you. you’re inviting him in, not just to your house, but into your heart again.

breathing heavily, your eyes follow his every movement in anticipation as his fingers dance across your inner thighs.

nanami’s hands slip underneath the waistband of your panties, two fingers sliding in between your slick folds. you tense a little at the sensation as he parts them, the rough pads of his fingers prodding the sensitive bud of nerves that make you shiver and whine.

“god,” he groans. “i’ve fucking missed this pussy.”

you let out a little laugh at the foul language that slips from his tongue. it’s been so long since you’ve heard his voice like this, and even longer since you’ve felt his touch.

“missed your cock too, kento,” you murmur, eager to show that you’ve been equally longing for him, if not more. you want to hear more of him, so you reach your hand out to palm at his erection. he’s rock hard, and there’s a little wet spot on his pants from the precum.

“fuck,” he mutters, hips pushing up to meet your hand. “it’s been a while.”

you giggle at that, “it’s been a while for me too.”

“n-no, you don’t understand,” his grip on your waist tightens as he struggles to maintain his composure. “you were the last.”

oh.

your eyes widen at that revelation, stopping your movements to fully look at him. “w–why haven’t you–”

you find yourself in complete disbelief. you were the last person he slept with? that had been more than 2 years ago – way more than enough time for things to change, for someone else to come along.

but then again, nanami’s always been a serious man, and by extension, that applied to his love life too. never one to seek out casual hookups, that man dated to marry.

he exhales quietly through his nose, almost like the answer to the question is too simple, too earnest. “i didn’t want anyone else.” he says. “only you. that hasn’t changed.”

and then, as he shifts to tug his pants the rest of the way down, he mutters, almost begrudgingly, “and besides… how the hell would i explain this?”

you glance down instinctively and your breath catches.

just above his hip, etched into the skin of his v-line, is a tattoo. it’s faint, but deliberate.

it’s your birth flower.

you used to doodle in the margins of your notebooks all the time as a college student, and sometimes the back of his hands became an unwilling canvas. he used to grumble and complain, but he never washed any of it off.

those silly little drawings. you’d drawn your birth flower once, on his wrist. pointed to it and batted your eyelashes real pretty at him, jokingly asking if he’d ever consider getting a tattoo of you. he’d said no with a resolute shake of the head, told you he wasn’t the type to get inked, and then gave you a kiss and chuckled at your pouting face.

and now, that very flower is tattooed on him.

you blink, stunned. “kento…” you whisper. “what… you– you got a tattoo of me? when?”

he huffs out a small laugh, head tilting back to rest on the couch. “call me a masochist, i guess,” his voice turns gentle when he admits, “i wanted something of you to keep.”

your heart clenches.

“besides,” he continues, poking you lightly at your ribs, where your tattoo lies. “you were stuck with this reminder of me, too.”

it isn’t just desire that curls in your gut now. it’s… grief. love. the ache of lost time. and the devastating realisation that he never stopped being yours, just as you never stopped being his.

“say it again,” you whisper. “i want– i want to hear you say it again.”

“i only want you.” nanami must have realised how much you needed to hear that, the same way he had needed your confirmation earlier, because his voice is more resolute this time.

“i need you to know that i’m not the same person i was before,” he says, voice low and laced with urgency. “after we broke up, i took a hard look at myself. if you… if you do give me a chance, i promise it won’t be the same way. i’ll never let you go again.”

you nod your head, blinking away fresh tears and hoping he sees your answer written plain as day on your face. he leans up to kiss you, and there’s nothing rushed about it this time. he takes his time, kissing you like you’re something sacred, thumbs brushing along your jaw with a reverent touch.

he’s kissing you the way he should have for every lost second with you.

a kiss goodbye when he leaves for work.

a goodnight kiss on your forehead, right before he turns out the lights.

a kiss on your cheek, just to see you smile.

a slow, languid kiss down the column of your throat, pressing into the spot just beneath your jaw – the one that always made your breath hitch. he remembers. of course he remembers.

“this–” his hand moves to cup yours, guiding your movements as he slowly drags your hand over his cock. “–s’all for you, sweetheart.”

a breathy moan involuntarily leaves your mouth, further spurred on by his words. he feels so big, his erection pulling the fabric tight across his boxers. and he called you sweetheart. it’s a simple word, but it kind of leaves you feeling dizzy, like a schoolgirl with a crush, nervous and blushing.

“you want my fingers?”

you whine and nod your head eagerly.

“use your words, love,” he coaxes. “you know i’ll give you anything you ask for.”

love. there it is again.

you squirm a little, trying to evade his gaze. “w–want your f–fingers, kento. want them inside me.”

“that’s it,” he purrs.

one hand reaches for the back of your neck, holding you tenderly as he peppers kisses on your lips and all over your neck.

the other hand, though, moves deviously between your thighs, a singular digit plunging into your soaked cunt. one quickly becomes two as he stretches you out with his fingers, the expert movements leaving you gripping the sheets and gasping.

“let me make up for lost time…” you gasp when he drops to his knees in front of you, hiking your legs over his broad shoulders. his mouth finds its way to your sensitive clit, drawing quick flicks with his tongue.

your thighs involuntarily squeeze around his head, and he simply groans into your cunt. the sound vibrates across your core, and you cry out, tipping your head back as pleasure washes over you.

“k–kento. kento, fuck–”

his fingers continue curling upwards, brushing against your sweet spot, never letting up for even a split second. he doesn’t show signs of stopping, even when your fingers tangle in his hair and your thighs quiver around him.

(and when you cum undone on his fingers, shaking and mewling, nanami relishes the way you gasp into his mouth, back arching off the couch as all sorts of pretty sounds drip from your flushed lips.

i love you.

i still love you, after all this time.

he doesn’t say it out loud – no, it isn’t the right time.

but he repeats it loudly enough inside his head, hoping that somehow, you might hear it too.)

hungry for more, you tug him upwards, off his knees and push him back down onto the couch. you capture him in a heated kiss, his mouth still wet with your slick, and he makes quick work of his boxers, the urgency and hunger growing.

“kento,” you beg, dizzy with need. “i– i want it so bad. give me everything.”

nanami audibly groans when he hears you say that, his voice low and raspy.

when you pull back to glance down, your breath catches.

“fuck.”

he cocks his head at you, amused. “you act like it’s the first time seeing it.”

“w-well, no… but–” like you said, it’s been a while.

nanami pauses, mistaking your reaction as a sign of hesitation. “do you still want to do this?” he asks, dutifully seeking your confirmation.

ever the gentleman. truly, it was endearing. if you weren’t so frustratingly desperate for him, you would have scoffed or huffed a laugh.

“kento,” you plead. “i appreciate you asking, but i need you to fuck me. i might… die if you don’t.”

you pull him down by the shoulders so you’re beneath him, his arms holding himself up by your head. the couch isn’t the most comfortable, but you don’t want to pause to move to the bedroom, hating the thought of having to stop for even a second.

nanami actually laughs at this, an amused smile on his face. you can’t help but return a dopey smile of your own, but that’s quickly wiped clean off your face when you feel the tip of his cock rubbing briefly against your entrance before starting to ease in, inch by inch.

“–fuck!” a drawn-out whine escapes you, squeezing your eyes shut as you struggle to accommodate to his size. “oh god, you’re really f-fucking big. wait– wait–”

“you can take it, can’t you? doing so good for me,” nanami rasps, eyes trained downwards where his cock is stretching your tight hole out. “didn’t you say you wanted everything?”

you whimper in response, trying to force your body to relax for him. your dazed eyes meet his, and his pupils are dilated so wide that they seem to swallow the hazel rim around them.

he gives you a few moments to adjust, panting from exertion, before delivering slow, shallow thrusts as your breathing gradually evens out and your body relaxes under him.

“o–okay. y–you can go deeper,” you pant.

at your words, he pushes himself all the way to the hilt, hips snapping against your thighs. your face contorts in pleasure, mouth hanging open as your eyes roll back while he drives into you. you’re trying to say something, but your words are lost in between airy breaths and quiet curses.

“you look so pretty like this, baby,” he grunts.

(you can’t see it, but he can. the creamy ring of arousal at the base of his cock as he pulls out, the slick coating your inner thighs, the way your warm, wet hole seems to be sucking him in with no reprieve. your fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, eyes shut as you struggle to take him.

it makes him want go harder, deeper - wants to see your face as you lose yourself in pleasure and cry for him, only him.)

“it’s all for you,” he rasps. he’s pressing your thighs down and wide open, and you couldn’t run from his cock if you tried. from your position, you can see the way he drives into you, pulling out all the way before pushing his entire length back inside you.

“every. inch. s’all for you… only ever been for you. so take me good, yeah?”

“y–yes, god,” you babble. “s–so good, feels so good–”

he’s stretching you open, moulding you to his shape, and most of all, he’s yours. he’s yours again, yours to hold, to have, to never let go.

your moans are getting breathier and breathier as nanami thrusts into you, soft little gasps that escape your mouth as you buck your hips up to meet his cock.

“fuck,” he curses loudly, screwing his eyes shut. “you’re s–so fucking tight.”

nanami lowers himself down onto you, sucking on your neck as his hand cups your breasts. you groan loudly when he delivers a particularly deep thrust, wrapping your arms around him as you moan.

“look at me baby,” he rasps, holding himself up with one hand. “wanna– wanna see your face when you cum–”

he’s hitting all the right spots, and it’s not long before you feel the buildup of heat in your lower stomach, but you can’t even warn him before your orgasm rushes over you rapidly, a full body sensation that ripples through your twitching body.

“kentokentokento, m’ coming–”

your own release has your walls clamping down on him, clenching him in a vice grip. “fuck, fuck– y–you feel so good,” he gasps.

there’s unmistakable pleasure written in every strained breath and trembling motion as his own arousal reaches a fever pitch and he delivers one, two, three final thrusts into you. then, he hisses as he pulls out, spilling on your stomach with a groan.

“fuck,” nanami pants, collapsing back down on the couch. “sorry. give me a second.”

you giggle loudly, feeling how shaky your legs are when you tense them. “that good?”

he pokes you in the side and you yelp. “being celibate for two years will do that to you.”

you laugh again, softer this time. the room is quiet now, save for the slow rhythm of your breathing and the distant hum of the city through the windows. nanami shifts beside you, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek.

“wait here,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead before he stands and disappears to the bathroom.

when he returns, he kneels beside you with a warm cloth in hand and a look in his eyes that makes your throat tighten. “let me take care of you,” he whispers, and the tenderness in his voice is almost enough to undo you completely.

when he’s done, he lifts you, arms wrapping around your back and under your knees. the bedroom creaks open as he steps inside – it’s not the same as the place you used to share, that tiny apartment you lived with him when life was just starting out for the both of you – but in the dim light and the hush of the moment, you can close your eyes and pretend.

nanami sets you down gently, helps tuck you inside the covers, and slips in beside you. his hands reach to envelop yours, the pads of his fingers tracing over your knuckles gently. the movement is familiar; sentimental. it’s what he used to do when you would cuddle in bed, your body draped over his.

the world shrinks to just this. you and him, as though no time has passed. it’s almost like you’re still in your shared bedroom, tangled up in each other, and unbeknownst to you, there’s a little blue box with a sparkling stone tucked away in his side of the wardrobe, waiting for the right moment to be revealed.

you turn your head to see him already gazing at you. there’s a trace of a fond smile that forms across his lips, and he raises a hand to trace the curve of your nose, down to your lips.

that’s when you realise this truth: that the ache you carried for him – all this unexpressed love-turned-grief – had never truly left you. you’d simply pretended it didn’t exist, drowned yourself in work, shared the occasional bed with shitty men who could never compare to him, and nursed a bottle or two of wine on lonely nights, but you could never undo his presence in your life.

how his love changed you.

how it made you.

you’d be lying if resentment and bitterness hadn’t crossed your heart at multiple points in time after the breakup. but the years have whittled away any semblance of that initial sourness, leaving behind only regret and the desire to make things right again, if ever given the chance.

and it’s right here in front of you, the man who was on his knees with his head dipped in between your trembling thighs. this silly man, who permanently inked a reminder of you on his skin even though he had already resigned to living a life without you. who now lies beside you, looking at you like you’re the only light in his world.

your love for him was never a ghost that haunted you.

it was a dream come true.

so is it enough? is it enough to just be two people, who have somehow found their way back to each other, both yearning for another try?

whatever that answer might be, your heart has already spoken: you don’t want to miss your second chance.

there are apologies to be made, lost time to reclaim, and parts of each other waiting to be rediscovered.

and yet, you know him like an old song. you know every single word, carved into the lining of your skin, you know the melody, a soft hum that echoes in the chambers of your heart. you know the pauses, the quiet lulls where the music fades, only to swell again with aching familiarity.

nanami kento is that lingering rhythm, that pained harmony, existing deep within the cracks of memory and longing – an unfading symphony in your soul. your heart was always meant to be his.

you desperately want it to be enough.

and maybe, this time, it might be.

a/n: this was fun but also so, so exhausting to write man. like there are were so many emotions happening… but i can't stop myself i like the hurt/comfort trope too much. my favourite part was the tattoo bit like PLEASEEEE THIS MAN?????? nanami yearns 4 u the way i yearn to know your thoughts on this!!! so please let me know what you think! <3 i love reading the comments n tags they make my day

taglist: @perqbeth @mierins @francesca-the-1st @mylilsodapop @riellanami @rjreins @b-is-obsessed @aotdump @sukunasbedwarmer @aaaaslaaaan @coolgirl6996 @berry-marys @yokotsu @kamuihz @jjknanamin @bbysredhearts @kyluskaye @tyvalon @expreissionism @aureamediocritasorsmt @shibataimu @chiikasevennn @p1nkfl0wers @obsessedalpaca @nanananaminshi

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nikiexe0 · 13 hours ago

Text

Part 1 Part 2

The kids didn’t move for a long while.

Jason sat on the floor with his back against the wall, arms loosely around his knees. Damian had taken a seat in the armchair, arms crossed but watching. Dick leaned against the fireplace, one arm over his eyes. Tim stayed close to the window, quiet, still.

Cass settled beside little Bruce again.

The boy had gone back to his drawing, but he was quieter now. Humming had stopped. His lips were pressed in a line too tight for someone his age. His crayon wobbled with each stroke, like he couldn’t quite keep his hand steady.

Finally, he spoke. So soft they almost missed it.

“…I think I make everything worse.”

Tim blinked and turned. “What?”

Little Bruce kept coloring.

“It’s always my fault,” he murmured. “When Papa’s angry. When Mama’s sad. When the staff quits. When people go quiet when I walk in.”

He tilted his head, as if trying to remember something far away.

“Sometimes I think maybe if I was better, things would be easier. Maybe he wouldn’t look so disappointed.”

Jason slowly sat up straighter. “…You’re just a kid. None of that’s your fault.”

Bruce shrugged. “It feels like it is.”

The crayon paused in his hand. He stared at the half-finished page.

“…Do you think I’ll ever make anyone proud?”

The question hit harder than it had any right to.

No dramatics. No tears. Just quiet, genuine curiosity—like he was begging for a different answer than the one he always carried in his chest.

Dick inhaled sharply, blinking too fast. He crossed the room and sat down beside Bruce, gently placing a hand on his back.

“You already have,” he said. “More than you could ever imagine.”

Bruce looked up, confused. “But I haven’t done anything.”

“You exist,” Cass said softly, her fingers stilling on the fabric of her sleeve. “That’s enough.”

Bruce furrowed his brows, clearly not understanding.

Jason knelt in front of him. “Listen to me, kid. There’s not a single one of us who’d be here—alive, whole, standing—without you.”

Bruce looked at each of them in turn, his small face creased with confusion.

Tim gave a soft, bitter smile. “You were the first person who ever believed in me. You pulled me out of the shadows.”

“You gave me a home,” Damian said stiffly, looking away. “Even when I didn’t deserve one.”

Bruce’s eyes widened.

“You always listened,” Dick added, squeezing his shoulder. “Even when you didn’t know how to fix things. You still stayed.”

“But…” Bruce bit his lip. “I don’t… I don’t think anyone loves me. Not really. Except for Mama.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Jason finally swallowed and said, very quietly, “A lot of people love you, Bruce. We all do.”

The boy looked down again, staring at his crayon.

“…Even if I mess up?”

Cass nodded.

“Even if I cry?”

Dick ruffled his hair. “Especially then.”

“Even if Papa stays mad at me forever?”

Jason’s voice broke on the answer. “Yeah, bud. Even then.”

Bruce blinked fast.

And for the first time, his lip trembled.

“…That sounds nice.”

He didn’t cry.

But he leaned—just slightly—into Dick’s side.

And Dick wrapped an arm around him like he’d been waiting years to do it.

...

The next morning

It started with a cough.

Tim nearly dropped his tablet.

Cass, seated by the bedside with her hands folded neatly in her lap, stood immediately, eyes narrowing with sharp attention.

Bruce groaned.

He turned his head slightly, eyelids twitching, brow furrowing as though his own body’s weight was dragging him back down.

But another breath—sharp, shallow—escaped him.

Then his fingers curled around the sheets.

Tim leaned over, one hand hovering near the bandage at Bruce’s abdomen. “Bruce?” he said, voice both eager and cautious. “Bruce, can you hear me?”

Bruce’s eyes opened—sluggish, unfocused.

His breathing hitched.

He blinked slowly, turning toward the sound of the voice.

Then—

“…Tim?”

His voice was cracked, hoarse, barely there.

Tim grinned. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”

Cass leaned down and gently brushed his hair off his clammy forehead.

Bruce tried to sit up—instinct, habit—but the pain hit him like a wave. He groaned and collapsed back into the pillows.

“Easy,” Tim said quickly. “You’re still healing. Just… lie still.”

Bruce nodded faintly, then winced.

“…Where…?”

“You’re home,” Cass whispered.

Bruce’s face twisted. “No. It’s not—” He frowned deeper, eyes scanning the unfamiliar wallpaper, the old furniture, the dusty sunlight pouring in from a window too small to be the master bedroom. “…This isn’t… my room.”

Tim hesitated.

Cass gently placed a hand over Bruce’s.

“Not your room,” she said softly, “but still yours.”

Bruce blinked.

And then—he heard it.

The faint sound of a child’s laughter somewhere down the hall.

A voice that sounded far too familiar.

Tim winced. “We… might’ve been sent back in time.”

Bruce’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“To when you were a child. Like—young.” He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “He’s here. The little you.”

Bruce’s face went pale.

“Thomas and Martha are alive,” Cass added.

Bruce’s breath caught.

“…I heard his voice,” he said hoarsely. “I thought I was dreaming.”

“You weren’t.”

Bruce turned his head slowly, disbelief washing over him like cold water.

“…How long?”

“Three days,” Tim answered. “You’ve been unconscious. We thought you might—” He cut himself off.

Bruce didn’t speak.

He just lay there, blinking at the ceiling, his face unreadable. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something. But nothing came out.

And then, after a long silence—

“Where is he?” Bruce whispered. “The boy.”

Cass stood.

She glanced toward the door.

Tim followed her gaze.

Because down the hall, from behind the door of the drawing room, they could all hear the soft, uncertain voice of a six-year-old boy asking Martha “Is the man finally awake mama??”

Bruce shut his eyes.

And for a moment, they saw something flicker behind his lashes—something raw and sharp and small.

....

Marth came in and the both of them stared for a few moments before Bruce quietly asks for time alone.

When young Bruce and the batkids were waiting outside, Martha finally lets go of all the emotions she tried to kept and weeped.

...

Bruce sat propped up by pillows, pale and tired, his eyes ringed with bruised shadows. The wound in his abdomen throbbed beneath the bandages, but it wasn’t the pain that made it hard to breathe. It was her.

Martha stood by the foot of the bed, her lips parted like she wanted to speak but couldn’t. Her hands trembled at her sides. For the past few days, she’d held herself together—warm, steady, motherly. But now… now her son was awake.

And he wasn’t six anymore.

He was older then her.

And the weight of all those missing years finally slammed into her like a wave.

Bruce looked at her slowly, his voice hoarse. “You knew.”

Martha blinked. “What?”

“You knew… that it was me. The moment you saw me.” His eyes lowered. “Didn’t you?”

She took a shaky breath.

“…Yes.”

Bruce didn’t speak for a moment.

Then he said, softly, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Her voice cracked.

“I didn't see a reason to" she tries to tease with a soft smile. Bruce finds he doesn't mind not knowing the real reason.

Her steps were quiet as she crossed to the bedside. She knelt down beside him, her hands trembling as they reached for his.

“I knew the moment I saw your eyes,” she whispered. “You were my baby. My little boy. But you looked so… tired, Bruce.”

Bruce swallowed hard.

Martha’s face crumpled. “What did the world do to you, sweetheart?”

And with that—

She broke.

All the grief she hadn’t allowed herself in the last three days came pouring out. Her arms wrapped tightly around him, her head buried against his shoulder. She wept—not in the way that drew attention. Not theatrically. Not loudly. But in the way a mother does when her child is hurt and she was never there to stop it.

Bruce didn’t move at first. He stared at the ceiling, his jaw clenched.

Then—slowly—he closed his eyes.

His arms wrapped around her like he was afraid she’d disappear again. Like he didn’t dare hold too tightly in case the dream ended.

They stayed that way for a long time.

Then Bruce whispered, voice shaking, “Are you proud of the man I became?”

Martha pulled back just enough to see his face.

Her eyes were red, her cheeks wet, but her hands cupped his face as though it was still small and soft and the most precious thing in the world.

“I’m proud of every part of you,” she said. “The man, the protector, the father, the son. You’ve lived through more than any human should. And yet you still gave never ending love.”

Bruce’s lips parted—but the words caught.

Tears built in his eyes.

“…Even when I made so many mistakes?” he asked, barely audible. “Even when I pushed my children away? Even when… even when they hate me?”

Martha frowned, her hands holding his tighter. “They don’t hate you.”

“They do.” His voice cracked. “You didn’t see their faces, the things they said. I—I was trying. I thought I was doing what was best, but I only ever…” He couldn’t finish. His throat clenched. His heart pounded.

“I made everything worse.”

Martha gently touched his cheek.

“No,” she said firmly. “You made a family out of grief. You made a home out of ashes. You gave those children the chance to survive.”

Bruce shook his head.

“I hurt them. Every one of them. They wouldn’t have said those things if I hadn’t—if I hadn’t—”

His breath shuddered.

And then, barely a whisper, “...Maybe they’d be better off if I was dead"

The words hung in the air like poison. Said so defeatedly, it made Martha's heart break into thousands of pieces.

Martha’s grip tightened. “Don’t you ever say that.”

Bruce looked away. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“No. I don’t.” Her voice wavered.

“But I know who you are. I know the boy who used to leave flowers in the hallway for Alfred because he had no idea how to say thank you. I know the boy who named every squirrel in the garden. I know the heart that still exists under all this pain.”

She paused, then said, more quietly, “And I know that those children love you more than anything. They’re angry because they’re hurt. And they’re hurt because they still care.”

Bruce closed his eyes, and wept.

Not loudly.

But quietly. Deeply.

The kind of tears that didn’t need to be seen nor felt.

Martha held him tighter.

And for the first time in far too long, Bruce let himself be held.

Not as Batman. Not as a soldier. Not as a leader.

But as a son.

Her son.

....

Outside the room, the Batkids sat with little Bruce in the garden, watching birds hop from branch to branch in the distance.

Inside, a mother clung to her grown child.