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doeikeu · 3 days ago

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THE NIGHT WE MET

SUMMARY. nanami kento is a widower haunted by memories of you, his late wife—the moments you shared, the love you built, and the dreams you made together before tragedy struck. as he drifts through grief, seven memories replay relentlessly, revealing the depth of a love that still burns, even when you’re gone.

TAGS/WARNINGS. angst, fluff, canonverse, kinda bittersweet ngl, smut, themes of love and loss, grief, domestic moments, sorcerer!reader, hurt/no comfort, established relationship, character death, trauma, exploration of grief and loss, emotional distress, mild blood and injury descriptions, wc: 13,8k

TORI’S NOTES. i know i mostly write fluff for nanami, but this had to happen, i’m sorry😭😭

nanami is a widowed man.

he wakes up every morning beside the empty stretch of bed where you used to sleep, still reaching for you like he hasn’t learned yet. his hand brushes against the cold sheets, and the silence that follows is louder than anything else in the apartment. it’s always like this—quiet, too quiet. not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the kind that feels like a wound left open too long, aching in the background of everything.

you were his wife. his partner. the only person he’d ever truly let in and now that you’re gone, he doesn’t know what to do with the parts of himself you used to hold. the softness, the warmth, the small, vulnerable places he’d only ever shown you. he doesn’t know where to put his hands, his thoughts, his love—because all of it still belongs to you. every bit of it. every bit of him.

he makes coffee in the mornings like he used to when you were alive, still pours two cups out of habit. he doesn’t realize he’s done it until both mugs are sitting on the counter, steam curling from each in that quiet kitchen light. sometimes he drinks both. sometimes he throws one out. most days, he just stands there staring at them, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

grief clings to him like second skin.

he wears it the way he used to wear his suits—carefully, deliberately, like it’s the only thing still keeping him put together. he goes to work. he comes home. he folds laundry and reads the paper and fixes that damn flickering hallway light. he does everything right, everything you’d want him to do, but none of it matters, not really. because you’re not here and no matter how many boxes he checks off, you won’t be here at the end of it.

he doesn’t talk much anymore. not because he’s withdrawn, but because there’s no one left who understood him the way you did. talking feels pointless now. meaningless. when you were alive, you used to finish his sentences. you used to sit across the dinner table and smile at him like you already knew what he was thinking and he used to think, this is what home feels like. now, he eats in silence and the food tastes like paper. he doesn’t bother finishing most meals.

the love is still there. that’s the worst part.

it hasn’t gone anywhere. it’s still sitting in his chest like a fire that won’t die down. a song stuck on repeat. it’s heavy, unwieldy, painful. every bit of affection he used to pour into you—every kiss good morning, every protective glance across a crowded room, every soft hand on your back as you fell asleep—it’s still with him. but it has nowhere to go. it just sits there. it builds. it chokes.

he tries, sometimes, to let it out. he talks to your photograph. he writes you letters in a notebook he never lets anyone see. he lights the incense you used to like and sits by your shrine, waiting for the scent to take him somewhere better. it never does. all it does is remind him of you and he doesn’t know if that’s comfort or punishment anymore.

you were his everything, still are. you made life make sense and made him make sense. and now he walks through the world like a man underwater, slow and directionless, always searching for something he’ll never find again. every time someone says your name, it cuts. every time someone doesn’t, it hurts worse.

he didn’t know it was possible to love someone this much. to lose them and still feel like you belong to them. but that’s what it is, that’s what you are. his forever, even now.

and he doesn’t know how to move forward without you. doesn’t even know if he wants to. all he knows is that this love—this overwhelming, all-consuming, aching love—is still inside him.

and he has nowhere left to put it.

still, he doesn’t cry often.

not because he doesn’t want to; sometimes he feels it, lump in his throat, stinging behind his eyes, itching in his nose, heavy in his chest like something ready to break open, but it’s as if his body doesn’t know how to let it out anymore. the grief has folded itself so tightly into him that there’s no space left for the tears. the weight of it just stays there—dense, immovable—until he’s too tired to even think.

it’s not the loud moments that hurt the most. it’s the quiet ones. the tiny cracks in the day where you used to be.

a short laugh at the back of a café, and for a second he thinks it’s yours. a song you used to hum under your breath while brushing your teeth. the smell of hand cream, just like the one you kept in the nightstand drawer. the mundane, normal parts of life that keep ambushing him with your absence.

and he wants to be angry, sometimes. shouldn’t grief be loud? shouldn’t the world shake with the fact that you’re not in it anymore? but no. the trains still run on time. people still smile at each other in the street. the city still moves forward like nothing’s happened like it doesn’t care that the most beautiful part of his life is gone.

he doesn’t talk about you to anyone, not really, not out loud. people say your name with a careful tone, like you’re glass and they’re afraid you’ll shatter in their mouths and nanami hates that. you weren’t fragile. you were warm, and clever, and kind, and maddeningly stubborn. so so real. not a ghost and not a memory.

he doesn’t want you to be a story someone tells with soft sympathy in their voice. he wants you here. wants to hold your hand again, wants to come home to you brushing your hair in the hallway mirror and talking about what you saw on the news. wants to hear your stupid jokes and your bad singing and the sound of your sleepy breathing when you curled into his side.

he’d give everything just to have one more day. one normal, boring day. not a dramatic farewell, not a flash of cinematic closure. just you, alive. asking him what he wants for dinner, tugging at his tie while calling him a workaholic. kissing him breathless and squealing when he lifts you up with a tight embrace. laughing at your own jokes. just you.

and the truth is—he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop loving you. not in the way people mean when they talk about love that lingers, no, this is different. this love still lives in him. it’s not quiet and it’s not peaceful. it claws at the walls of his chest some days. it feels like missing a step on a stair you’ve walked a thousand times, like forgetting how to breathe.

and what scares him more than anything is the thought that maybe, eventually, your voice in his memory will fade. maybe one day he won’t be able to picture your exact smile, or remember how your fingers used to trace idle shapes on his palm when you were both falling asleep. the idea that he could forget any piece of you—that is what keeps him up some nights, sitting in the dark, hands clenched in the fabric of your old sweater like a lifeline.

because if you fade, if time really does dull everything, then where does that leave him?

he doesn’t want to move on. doesn’t want to be told that healing means letting go. he doesn’t want to let go.

he just wants to love you. wants to keep loving you even if it hurts, even if it ruins him. even if it makes the rest of his life feel like an echo.

because loving you was the only thing that ever truly made sense.

and even now, with everything broken, it still does.

every day, without fail, his mind finds its way back to you.

not always with warning, not always with mercy. sometimes it’s a scent in the air, sometimes it’s the way the late afternoon light hits the floor of the living room. sometimes it’s nothing at all—just silence—and suddenly he’s standing there, unmoving, lost in some soft, unbearable echo of you.

he doesn’t try to stop it anymore.

every day, some part of his brain reaches back to something you said, something you did, something you were. a memory of you laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach, or the way you used to roll your eyes at his serious face, or how you looked first thing in the morning—barely awake, soft with sleep, voice scratchy as you murmured his name. needy, whiny, beautiful, his perfect, sweet soulmate. calling for him to come back to bed so you can be in his arms for a little more.

and it always hurts. even the happy memories hurt now. they bloom warm in his chest only to burn seconds later, because he remembers, again and again, that there will be no new ones. he remembers that these fragments are all he has left. and they never stop coming.

he’ll be walking down a street and suddenly remember the times you linked your arm in his and told him how pretty the sky looked that day. he’ll be folding laundry and see the sweater you loved—worn and faded from use—and remember how you used to wear it with nothing underneath and tease him when he blushed. he’ll be buying groceries and see your favorite snack and just… stand there, staring at it, like he’s forgotten why he’s even there at all.

and it’s not just the big things, it’s the little ones, too.

how you used to hum when you cooked. how you’d squeeze his hand three times for i love you. how you always forgot where you put your keys. how you never let him go to sleep angry, no matter what, coaxing him with apologies if you were in the wrong and making him apologize when he was, even though he was already planning to do so. how you had this laugh that only came out when you weren’t thinking about how loud it was and it was stored in his brain under the name of “his favorite song”.

he lives inside these memories now even though they are inside of him, not because he wants to, but because he has to. it’s the only way to stay close to you. it’s the only way to pretend, even for a second, that you’re still here.

he doesn’t talk about it to anyone. can’t. because how do you explain that you’re haunted by love? that every memory is a knife and a balm at once? that the happiest moments of your life now feel like punishments?

some days, he welcomes it.

he’ll close his eyes and let it come. let the memories pull him under like waves because even if it hurts, even if it breaks him a little more each time, at least it means you’re still with him. in some way, in some form. still part of the air he breathes. still wrapped around his ribs.

so every day, he remembers. without meaning to. without control.

because the love didn’t die when you did.

and now the memories are the only place he can still hold you.

every day, his memories pull him back to you. they rise without permission, sometimes gentle, sometimes ruthless—drifting through his thoughts when he’s tying his tie, walking to the station, waiting for his tea to steep. but no matter where he is or what he’s doing, there are certain memories—seven of them—that come sharper than the rest. louder. clearer. more you.

the first one, the one that always finds him when he least expects it, is the day he finally confessed.

it’s usually triggered by nothing at all. sometimes just a passing glance of the spring sky, or the feeling of warm air against his skin. sometimes just the way someone says his name, softly. and suddenly he’s back there, months and years peeled away, reliving the moment that changed everything.

he remembers how long he waited, how long he wanted. how he watched you laugh with others, how he listened to you talk about life and dreams and nonsense, always with his hands curled into tight fists, anchoring himself in restraint. because he was terrified. he didn’t believe he deserved you. because something that perfect, that real—it felt like a miracle, and he didn’t know how to reach for it without ruining it.

you were so you. so kind, so bright, so infuriatingly unafraid of getting close to him. you flirted without realizing it, touched his arm when you laughed, leaned into his space like it was yours—like he was yours. and he wanted to believe it. god, he wanted to believe you could want him the same way he wanted you.

it had been eating him alive, quietly. silently. he was always careful around you. always measured. but you were chaos wrapped in warmth—you got under his skin without even trying. he couldn’t keep his feelings hidden forever, not with you always looking at him like you knew he was lying.

he remembers the exact moment he broke.

you were walking home from dinner. something casual. something that should’ve just been another friendly meal. the night was warm, the street lamps glowed soft, and you were telling him a story about something ridiculous you saw on the train. he wasn’t even listening—not really. he was too busy watching your mouth move, too busy thinking about how close your hand was to his, how easy it would be to just reach.

and then you looked at him,stopped walking, tilted your head, and said his name in question.

“nanami?”

and something about the way you said it—like you were daring him to speak, like you knew—it cracked something open.

he remembers how stiff he went. how the words trembled behind his teeth, how for one heartbeat, he almost turned and walked away. but instead, he looked at you, into you, and said it, quiet and sharp like the edge of a knife,

“i love you.”

and the silence that followed was the loudest moment of his life.

his heart was pounding. he didn’t breathe, he didn’t move. every cell in his body was bracing for rejection, for your expression to twist, for you to step back and say he’d misunderstood everything. that he’d ruined it. that he’d made it awkward, made it worse, made you uncomfortable.

but you just stood there, eyes wide, lips parted as if you couldn’t quite believe what you’d heard. and then, out of nowhere—you giggled. something sweet and bubbling burst out of you and couldn’t be contained.

“you’re serious?” you asked, voice light, like you couldn’t help yourself.

he nodded once and you—god, you lit up like it was the sun rising behind your eyes.

“finally,” you whispered, before you reached for him with both hands and pulled him in, and kissed him.

he hadn’t expected it, not like that. not so sudden, so soft, so full of joy. he remembers standing still as stone, eyes wide while your lips pressed to his, and how you smiled against his mouth, like you couldn’t help it and you were too happy to stay still. and then he kissed you back.

carefully, reverently, like he’d waited his whole life just for this moment because he had. because nothing had ever felt as natural, as right, as kissing you.

you were so warm, you always were. hands on his jaw, your breath mingling with his, your nose bumping his cheek as you laughed in the middle of the kiss like you couldn’t stop being happy it was spilling out of you, uncontainable.

“i’ve been waiting for you to say it,” you told him, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed. “i didn’t want to rush you, but—god, i’m so in love with you, nanami.”

he remembers the way his chest felt too tight for his ribs. the way his hands shook as he reached for you, as he held you close, closer than he’d ever dared to before. the way your forehead pressed to his and you looked at him like he was your whole world.

and in that moment, he believed you.mhe let himself believe in happiness. in having someone. in you. he’s never forgotten that night, not once, not even now, when it hurts the most.

it comes back to him in the strangest moments—when he’s ironing a shirt, when he’s standing in line at the pharmacy, when he’s drifting off to sleep alone in a cold bed. it strikes like lightning. vivid, searing, alive.

and then it’s gone again, leaving only the ache behind.

the memory plays on repeat, always, because it was the beginning of everything. and now, it’s the only place he can still feel your hands on his skin. your laughter in his mouth. your love, whole and unbroken, pressed warm against his chest.

he replays it down to the tiniest details.

the way your eyes flicked up to him when he said it—i love you—like you were searching his face for any sign of hesitation. how your lips parted, stunned at first, then curled into this soft, impossible smile that made his knees feel weak. how the light from the lamppost behind you glowed in your hair, like you were something divine.

he remembers thinking, this can’t be real. this can’t be mine.

you were so full of light, always had been. and for months, he’d been quietly orbiting you, keeping just enough distance to pretend his feelings were manageable. he used to think if he kept it buried, if he could just keep his mouth shut and his face unreadable, it would pass. he thought maybe you’d never notice and maybe the addicting ache in his chest would soften with time.

but it hadn’t. not even close.

it got worse, actually, more unbearable with each day, with each moment you leaned closer and laughed at his dry jokes, each time you brought him little things you thought he’d like—snacks, books, tea. every time you said his name like it meant something to you. it was never just friendly, not to him. never casual. it burned through him like something ancient and sacred and awful, this helpless, growing need to be yours.

and then that night, he snapped because he just couldn’t pretend anymore. couldn’t carry it all inside himself without cracking at the seams. so he let it out. barely above a whisper, like an apology.

but you didn’t flinch and you didn’t fumble. you didn’t even let the silence hang long enough to hurt.

your hands had gone to his face like it was the most natural thing in the world—thumbs pressing gently at the edges of his jaw, fingers threading up into his hair. like you’d been waiting to do it forever. and he froze because something deep inside him fractured under the weight of your joy.

you were smiling so big. you were giddy.

“you’re really saying it,” you said then, almost breathless, like it was a dream. “you really love me.”

he nodded, mute. because what was he supposed to say? that he loved you so much it scared him? that he’d rehearsed it a hundred times but the real thing was still so much harder? that he’d wanted you for so long he didn’t remember what it felt like not to?

but you didn’t need any of that. you never did. you saw straight through him, always.

you kissed him like you were saying it back with every part of you.

and he didn’t want to let go. not ever. he remembers how tightly he held you, afraid it would all vanish if he blinked too long. how your body pressed to his like you already belonged there, like you’d always belonged there. how you whispered to him through soft, giddy laughs—

“i was starting to think you’d never say it,”

“you looked so miserable, i almost said it for you,”

“you’re not allowed to take it back, okay?”

he remembers the way your nose wrinkled when you smiled, how your fingers slid down to link with his, squeezing, grounding him.

and when he walked you home that night, hand in hand, he felt taller. lighter. changed. something inside him had finally clicked into place. the world had cracked open and given him the one thing he never believed he could have and he was truly blessed.

and now?

he still walks past that same street sometimes. the one with the rusted railing and the single orange tree blooming in spring. it’s barely anything, just another corner, but he always slows when he reaches it. always glances up at the lamppost. always stops, just for a moment, just long enough for the memory to wash over him.

sometimes he closes his eyes and pretends he’s still there.

pretends you’re about to turn to him again, smile wide, heart open, and kiss him like it’s the first time all over again.

pretends the air still smells like your perfume. that your hands are still warm in his. that your voice is still in his ear, soft and full of wonder—

“you love me?”

“i love you too.”

god, he remembers it all.

and he always will.

another one always comes to him in the middle of something dull—waiting for the train, stirring sugar into his coffee, standing in front of the mirror adjusting his tie—and then, without fail, the memory slides in. but mostly it comes when he tries to avoid looking at the chessboard on the shelf.

you, sitting across from him, victorious and beaming, the chessboard between you knocked halfway askew because you’d leapt across it to throw your arms around his neck.

he never even got to say checkmate—because you beat him first.

and god, you were so smug about it.

he hadn’t expected it. not really. he’d been teaching you for months, patient and methodical, going over openings and endgames and positional sacrifices. he loved teaching you. even when you got distracted halfway through or kept saying stuff like “why are your hands so big” and “I like this shirt on you” or forgot how en passant worked for the fifth time.

“are you even listening?” he asked once, giving you a flat look across the board.

“i am,” you say, smiling up at him with faux innocence. “but you’re also very distracting, nanami-sensei.”

he sighed, then covered his mouth with his hand to hide his smile. you always listened. always came back the next day determined to do better. always pouted when he beat you, even when he tried to go easy. you were determined: kept dragging him to the board after dinner, even when you lost in fifteen minutes.

he used to think he enjoyed chess on its own. but no—he enjoyed playing with you.

you would prop your chin on your hand and study the board like it was a life-or-death mission, your brows furrowed in deep concentration, hair falling into your eyes. and he would watch you, amused, mostly charmed and very proud. the way you stuck your tongue out a little when you thought hard. the way you gasped dramatically every time he took one of your pieces. the way you refused to let him give you a free win, even when you were having a rough day.

once, you even managed to get his queen and you clapped your hands like you’ve won the lottery.

“you’re really improving,” he said one night, leaning back after a close game.

you smiled at him, pleased and sleepy in your pajamas. “you’re a good teacher.”

he looked at you for a long moment, then reached across the board to brush his fingers over yours. “you’re good student.”

you started playing all the time.

in the morning, while you sipped coffee and waited for toast. in the afternoon on the weekends, curled up on the floor with the sun coming through the windows. he brought a travel set when you went on trips and played with you on trains, guiding your fingers when you hesitated too long. he never let you win(by your request), but you didn’t mind. you like how thoughtful he got when he played, how seriously he took it even when it’s just with you.

you fell asleep on the couch once after losing a long game, head slumped onto the armrest. you woke up to find a folded blanket over you and a sticky note on your forehead with a little chessboard doodle and the words “you almost had me this time.”

so when the day came—the day—he hadn’t even seen it coming.

it was late, and the apartment was quiet. you were both sitting cross-legged on the carpet, a soft playlist humming from the speaker, and you were playing one of the best games you’d ever played. you hadn’t even realized you were winning—he’d taken your queen, and you’d lost half your pawns.

you shifted your bishop, and then froze.

“…checkmate?”

nanami had stared at the board. blinked. then leaned in, eyes scanning the positions slowly.

you bit your lip. “did i actually…?”

he had exhaled sharply, leaned back, blinking at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“you beat me,” he had said, stunned.

you sat there for a second, then gasped. “i beat you?!”

he had nodded slowly. “you did.”

you squealed and threw yourself across the board at him. he caught you with a soft oof and fell backward onto the floor with you half on top of him, laughing into his chest.

“i did it! i beat you!”

“you did,” he had said again, smiling now, that rare full smile only you got to see. he cupped your face and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “i’m proud of you.”

you grinned and kissed him back. once, then again. messy and excited and warm. he cradled the back of your head like you were fragile, even when you were vibrating with joy.

“mwah,” you had said between kisses, pressing one to his cheek. “mwah,” one to his nose. “mwah,” one to his jaw.

“you’re going to gloat, aren’t you?” he had murmured, still smiling as you kissed every inch of his face.

“absolutely,” you had said, giggling. “i’m never letting you forget this.”

“i’d be disappointed if you did.”

he had kissed you again, deeper this time. slow and fond and full of the kind of affection he didn’t always put into words.

you had beaten him at chess. and then you were kissing him silly on the carpet with a board full of scattered pieces around you, and he was holding you like you were his greatest victory.

and god, you were so beautiful like that. flushed cheeks, hair mussed from moving too fast, your eyes shining like you’d just won a championship. you weren’t graceful about it, you didn’t even try to be. you were messy and overjoyed and proud of yourself in the most radiant, unrestrained way.

you were looking down at him like he hung the stars. for winning a chess game. like his opinion meant the world to you and this moment—this silly, chaotic, loud little moment—was one of the best in your life.

and it was.

he never reset that board. left the pieces just where they’d fallen. days passed, then weeks. you’d tease him about it every time you saw it, asking if he was keeping it as a crime scene memorial. he kind of was, but mostly he loved looking at the disarray and loved seeing your win frozen in time.

after you died, he kept the board exactly the same.

it’s still there.

in the living room. untouched.

a knight on its side. one pawn missing. your queen front and center, triumphant.

sometimes he sits in front of it and stares for hours. fingers twitching toward the pieces, aching to play again. not because he wants to win. but because he wants to hear you laugh again. wants to watch you bounce in your seat with joy. wants you to leap into his lap again and kiss him breathless and call him a sore loser.

sometimes he lets himself close his eyes and pretends you’re still across from him.

ready to play again. grinning.

“rematch?”

he would give anything to say yes.

whenever his eyes catch the light of the ring glinting under the sun, nanami heartbeat slows down for a couple of seconds. his eyes become useless and his breathing pattern changes because his mind keeps playing with him ruthlessly, replaying one the happiest days of his life.

he would also give anything to say yes to your proposal. that is a memory woven right into his heartbeat. it always comes back to him when he’s fumbling for words. when the right thing gets stuck in his throat. when he feels the shape of something heavy in his chest and can’t seem to let it out.

the day he tried to propose to you—and failed. every damn time.

he had it planned, too. carefully, too carefully. it had taken him weeks to find the ring, longer to find the courage. he told no one because didn’t want advice and didn’t want fuss. it was going to be simple. sincere. just you and him.

he carried the ring in his pocket all day.

you had the whole day off together, just the two of you. a lazy morning, a late breakfast, a walk through the city, a stop at that little café you liked—the one with the uneven tables and the chalkboard menu. he told himself he’d do it sometime after lunch. or before dinner. or maybe at the park, by the fountain you once said looked like a melted sundae.

but he couldn’t do it.

every time he looked at you, sitting across from him, laughing with your whole face, eyes squinting against the sunlight—he choked. you were so beautiful. not just in the way you looked, but in the way you existed. in the way you loved him. in the way you made every second feel like it might be the best one yet.

he would reach into his pocket, feel the small velvet box and the words would slip away.

at the café, you spilled cream on your sleeve. smiled at him sheepishly and wiped it off with a napkin, and he thought, this is it. this tiny, stupid moment, this is love. this is everything. but before he could speak, you were rambling about a pigeon that looked like it had a mustache, and the mood was gone.

in the park, you leaned into him, your hand tucked in his coat pocket alongside his own, and he thought, now. now. but then a kid with a balloon tripped and burst into tears and you— bless your soul— went to help him up, patting his back, offering him a tissue from your purse. and nanami thought—how could anyone ever deserve you?

he tried again at dinner. took you to that tiny rooftop place you loved. the candlelight was perfect. your dress was soft where it brushed his knee. you were talking about the future—about plans, about maybe moving, maybe getting a dog—and his hands trembled under the table.

you looked up at him, smiling, so open, so happy. and he couldn’t do it.

you noticed, of course.

you always noticed. he was never very good at hiding things from you. especially not when they involved you. your eyes kept narrowing at him over your glass. your hand crept over his under the table, squeezing gently.

“you okay?” you asked.

“fine,” he said. “just tired.”

liar.

after dinner, you walked home hand in hand, the city buzzing quietly around you. he was mentally berating himself the whole way, the ring in his pocket digging into his thigh, reminding him of every moment he should’ve done it. every second that slipped through his fingers. he felt like a man dragging his feet behind the most important decision of his life. and for what? fear? nerves?

he loved you. god, he loved you. more than anything. more than he knew how to say. and he wanted to marry you more than he wanted anything else in this world.

so why couldn’t he ask?

you both got home. you took off your shoes with a dramatic sigh, tossing your coat over the back of the chair, turning to him with that soft, fond little look you always gave when the day had been good.

“today was perfect,” you said, stepping into his space, hands looping around his neck.

he nodded, kissing your temple.

“you sure you’re okay?” you asked again. and then, quieter, “you’ve been weird.”

he hesitated as felt the words rising again. will you marry me. so small. so heavy.

but he didn’t speak.

you were quiet for a second, searching his face. then you smiled—slow and knowing—and tilted your head just slightly.

“you planning to propose to me or something?”

his breath hitched. his eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up. wide. caught.

and you laughed, a little gasp of a thing: bright and delighted and giddy.

“holy shit,” you said, your hands sliding to his jaw, framing his face. “you were! you absolute disaster.”

he tried to speak, to explain, to tell you he didn’t want to mess it up, that every moment with you felt too big to hold, that he loved you so much it made his bones ache.

but you kissed him instead and reached into your pocket, pulling out your own ring box.

you held it up with a sheepish grin, your voice warm and shaky as you whispered, “guess we’re both disasters.”

he stared. blinked. he couldn’t believe it. you were going to propose to him? after the day he just spent tripping over his tongue and chickening out over and over?

he couldn’t help it, he laughed! laughed so hard he had to press his face into your shoulder, arms around your waist, heart pounding like it was trying to leap into your hands.

you leaned close, breathless against his ear, and asked—quiet, certain,

“marry me?”

and he whispered back, immediately, before you could even blink,

“yes.”

he said it again and again as he kissed you, said it into your mouth, into your hair, into the soft skin of your neck as he held you close like he’d never let go. said as he slid the ring from the velvety box in his pocket onto your finger. said it as he swallowed your watery laughter.

yes. yes. yes.

he still keeps both rings.

yours sits in the drawer by the bed. his is in box you gave it in. he looks at them sometimes, fingers brushing velvet and gold like he’s hoping they’ll still hum with the memory.

and he remembers how you looked that night, beaming up at him with triumph in your eyes and your whole life in your hands, offered to him without hesitation.

you asked him.

you chose him.

and nothing’s ever meant more.

he is starting to get sick it seems. and nanami hates being sick because now he has to take care of himself, which was so easy to forget since you always insisted on taking care of him.

when he’s feeling just off enough to notice the ache in his bones, or when he stares at the untouched tea on the table, he thinks—if she were here, she’d force me to drink this.

he doesn’t even remember what he came down with, exactly. probably the flu. it hit him fast, knocked him flat. sore throat, pounding head, high fever, the works. he was miserable. weak. annoyed. and more than anything, he hated being seen like that because nanami prided himself on being put-together, dependable, in control, but that day, he was none of those things.

he never liked being vulnerable—not really.

not when he was young, not when he was a salaryman, not even as a sorcerer. the kind of man nanami was… vulnerability never earned him anything but disappointment. it made him feel exposed, soft in ways the world didn’t know how to handle. so he learned to keep everything tightly wrapped, managed and when something went wrong, like falling sick it only reminded him how little control he had over his own body. how quickly the strength he depended on could fail.

and you… you just walked into that space, into the place where his discomfort and shame lived, and made it feel like home.

he didn’t understand it at first. why you weren’t put off by how distant he became when he felt like crap or why you didn’t flinch when he snapped, when the fever made him foggy and sharp. why you didn’t sigh or roll your eyes when he insisted he could take care of himself even though he looked like death.

you never made him feel guilty for not being perfect. you just… loved him.

he remembers how you sat beside him with a little bowl of soup in your hands, coaxing him to eat with the gentlest voice—“just a few spoonfuls, my love. it’s not poison, i promise.” and how, when he groaned in protest, you took a bite yourself to prove it.

“see? edible.”

he gave you the flattest look, but he took the spoon from your hands anyway.

you talked to him the whole time. kept your voice quiet, playful, as you tucked a blanket around his legs and rubbed soothing circles into the back of his neck. he was tense, the fever making his body feel tight and sore, but you didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away when he winced or when he snapped “i said i’m fine” for the third time.

you kissed his cheek and said, “i know. but i still want to take care of you, ‘nami.”

that sentence—it stuck, made him ache more than the sight of the soup you took time to make. more than the tissues you dutifully threw away the more they piled on his bedside table. more than the cold compress you held to his head or the humidifier you dug out of the closet at 2 a.m.

“i still want to take care of you.”

he didn’t know what to do with that kind of love.

so he stopped resisting. slowly, cautiously, like one does stepping into warm water. he let you tuck him in, let you stroke his hair back from his sweaty forehead, let you murmur dumb little stories into his ear while he drifted in and out of sleep, let you see him, soft and unguarded, even if it scared him.

and the next morning, when you woke up sick—snotty, groaning, miserable—he finally understood the depth of what you gave him.

because he watched you shuffle around in his sweatshirt, tissues stuffed in every pocket, dragging your feet and cursing the sun, and he couldn’t stop smiling.

you were just as bad as him. dramatic, whiny, and the opposite of him when he got sick: clingy. you clung to him like a koala, face buried in his chest, muttering that the world was ending because your ears were stuffy.

“you’re such a hypocrite,” he whispered, voice still hoarse.

“shut up and hold me,” you whispered back, eyes already falling closed.

he did.

he held you for hours. fed you soup you’d made for him the day before. watched your favorite movies. rubbed your back when you coughed and kissed your temple when you whined.

and he realized then—this was what you meant.

you didn’t love him because he was strong or stoic or put-together. you loved him because he let you in and he loved you back just the same. especially when you were weak. especially when you needed him.

he thinks about that day more than he can say.

not because of the illness that struck him, not because of how sick you both were, but more so because of the way you kept showing up for him, over and over, in ways that no one ever had. it was one of those small, unremarkable days that ended up meaning everything.

and now, when he gets sick, it’s unbearable.

because no matter how many pillows he stacks behind him or how many blankets he pulls over his lap or how much tea he brews—it’s not you. it’s not your voice humming beside him, not your fingers brushing across his forehead, not your laughter breaking through the fog of his fever.

just silence.

and a ghost of a memory curling around his ribs. warm and aching. keeping him from letting his body succumb to the darkness.

he’d give anything to get sick again, just for one more day of your hands in his hair, telling him he looked pathetic and that you loved him anyway.

you loved him in ways that nanami didn’t know how to brace for.

you loved him quietly, in the corners of his life where no one had ever dared to look before. in the little spaces between his sighs and silences. in the pauses he didn’t think anyone would notice.

you loved him without needing him to be anything more than he already was.

you never asked him to soften, never tried to pry him open with force. you just stayed. consistent. kind. present. you sat with him in silence and never rushed him to speak. you didn’t flinch when his words came out clipped, or when he avoided eye contact because he couldn’t quite bear to be seen. you didn’t take his distance as rejection, you simply waited. you let him be himself, fully, even when that self was quiet, or cold, or deeply tired.

and when he did open up—when he let you into the more fragile, frayed parts of him—you treated them like treasures and never exploited, never overplayed. just… received. gently. like they were sacred.

he never told you this out loud, but it used to terrify him, how easy it was for you to love him.

how you never seemed to be repelled by his exhaustion, his disinterest in small talk that swayed only under your eyes, his grim view of the world. you didn’t look at him and see a project and you didn’t try to fix him.

he would come home, gritted teeth and blood on his knuckles, the weight of the job pressing down on his shoulders, and you’d meet him at the door with a soft kiss and say, “rough day?” just gentle hands that pulled him out of his shoes and into something human.

sometimes he didn’t have anything to give. not a conversation, not a smile, not even his usual restraint. but you never resented him for that. you’d just sit beside him on the couch, leg pressed against his, a hand resting lightly on his thigh, and you’d lean your head on his shoulder without asking anything from him.

you made him feel safe.

safe to love. safe to rest. safe to fail. safe to not be okay.

and the thing that still gets to him, still guts him, is how you never made a show of it.

you loved him in the thousand little things you did without thinking. refilling the kettle because you knew he’d want tea the second he walked in. folding his work shirt just the way he liked it. making space in every corner of your life for him without ever acting like it was a sacrifice.

he remembers how you used to slide your hand into his back pocket when you walked together, a simple action with no flirting or teasing behind it. just because you wanted to be close to him as if that nook under his arm was were you belonged. and you didn’t care how rigid he stood or how stiffly he held your hand at first—because you knew, eventually, he’d relax into you.

and he did. he still wonders how you learned to perceive people so easily.

he loved you more than he thought himself capable of, but more than that, you loved him in a way he didn’t think anyone could. and now that you’re gone, that kind of love feels unreal. it sometimes feels like something he hallucinated. a kindness he didn’t earn.

yet it was real.

and it’s what haunts him most along with the awful silence he is met with every day. the unbearable, impossible beauty of being loved so completely.

and knowing he’ll never feel it again.

it was the way you loved him that made him want to be better and softer and more intentional.

and maybe that’s why that birthday stuck so deeply in his memory—because for once, he got to give something back. something that wasn’t practical or measured or quietly implied. something that wasn’t about efficiency or obligation. it was all about your joy and the way your whole face lit up when you saw it.

he planned it for weeks.

quietly, discreetly, scribbling notes in the margins of reports, texting people when you weren’t looking. he wasn’t good at surprises—never had been—but he wanted to do this right. wanted to give you a day that would live in your chest like a warm light.

you didn’t expect anything big. you never asked for much. and that was part of what hurt him most—how small your expectations were. how easily you seemed to settle for crumbs of kindness. “birthdays aren’t a big deal,” you’d said once, brushing it off with a shrug. “i never really celebrated growing up. doesn’t bother me.”

but it bothered him.

because you deserved to be celebrated. you deserved noise and laughter and people who couldn’t wait to hug you. so he gave you that.

he told you you were just going out to dinner. nothing fancy. told you to wear something nice but comfortable. and you smiled—sweet, unsuspecting—and let him lead you out the door like he wasn’t about to change the way you remembered your birthdays forever.

he booked a small venue. invited the people you loved most. even had gojo help string up decorations (which he immediately regretted, but the damage was minimal). there were streamers and lights and cake and your favorite songs queued up in a playlist. your favorite foods, carefully arranged on little plates. and in the center of it all: a single candle, flickering gold and soft in the dim.

you walked in and froze.

utter silence for two seconds, before—

“surprise!”

your eyes went wide. your hands flew to your mouth. and nanami, standing beside you with a soft smile and his hand on your back, felt the moment land exactly the way he’d hoped.

you turned to look at him like he’d hung the stars.

“you did this?” you whispered.

he nodded. “happy birthday, my love.”

and then you beamed. like your entire body had been set alight from the inside. you jumped into his arms, laughing, holding his face between your palms as you kissed him again and again. messy. smiling too much to do it properly. you whispered thank you so many times he lost count.

he didn’t stop smiling all night.

he watched you twirl with your friends, watched you eat three slices of cake, watched you sing along to old songs with no shame and pull him into pictures he didn’t want to take but would now give anything to have a copy of.

you looked so alive. so happy. it was the kind of happiness that made his chest ache. because he knew—somewhere deep down—that you weren’t used to this and you were still learning what it meant to be loved like this, just like him.

the party ended slowly. people trickled out. the lights dimmed. and he drove you home, your hand clasped in his like a secret. you were quiet, then. not tired. not drunk. just… full. as if the day had overwhelmed you in the best way.

and later, when the apartment was dark and you were curled up in bed beside him, you started to cry.

soft, quiet tears. you pressed your face to his shoulder and whispered, “no one’s ever thrown me a surprise party before.”

he held you tighter. curled around you like he could protect you from every version of your past that made you think you weren’t worth celebrating.

“you deserve all of this,” he said into your hair. “and more.”

you didn’t speak after that, just held onto him, trembling slightly, breathing slow and shaky, like the moment was too big for your chest.

and he held you until you fell asleep.

that memory comes back to him whenever he sees cake. or candles. or the color of the dress you wore that night. and each time, it cuts a little deeper. not just because he misses you—but because he still doesn’t understand how someone like you could’ve ever felt so unseen.

and he hates that he only had so many years to show you otherwise.

it keeps him up some nights along with the coldness of his sheets in the absence of your warm body—long after the world has gone quiet, after the city hums itself to sleep and the walls of your apartment stretch out around him like a hollow. because no matter how much he gave you, no matter how hard he tried to make you feel treasured, it never feels like it was enough.

you deserved decades of birthdays like that. dozens of surprise parties, years of waking up to breakfast in bed, to candles and kisses and arms around your waist. you deserved to grow old with the knowledge that every single year of your life meant something, to someone who never stopped being in awe of you.

he should’ve had more time to keep proving it.

even though you smiled so brightly that night, even though you laughed and kissed him like your heart might burst—there was still that ache in your voice when you whispered “no one’s ever done that for me before.”

still the ghost of every birthday you spent alone.

still the faint sadness that even all his love couldn’t erase overnight.

and that haunts him: that he ran out of time. that he didn’t get to spend the rest of his life loving you the way you always should’ve been loved. fully. loudly. endlessly.

he would’ve done it forever, if the world had let him.

maybe that’s why he thinks of your wedding day so often—because for once, it didn’t feel like he was making up for lost time.

for once, it wasn’t about healing old wounds or trying to undo the hurt left by people who hadn’t loved you the way you deserved.

it was just about you.

you, radiant in a way that made his chest feel too small. you, laughing like you’d been waiting your whole life for this joy to find you. you, looking at him like you already knew every version of him—the tired one, the bitter one, the one who got too quiet when he didn’t know what to say—and still said yes.

he hadn’t expected to cry that day. he really thought he wouldn’t. he’s always been good at managing himself, keeping things tightly wound. and he’d held it together through most of the morning, calm in the face of the chaos around him, stoic even when gojo tried to make him laugh with some idiotic comment about how he was “finally getting shackled.”

it was a simple wedding. small, intimate—just the way you wanted it. nanami had insisted on giving you whatever kind of day you dreamed of, and you, in all your maddening softness, had said you didn’t want grandeur, didn’t want to be paraded around, didn’t need chandeliers or a thousand roses or expensive menus.

you just wanted to marry him. to look him in the eye and promise him everything.

so that’s what you did.

it was held at a quiet little garden venue, tucked away from the city—green, sun-drenched, and fragrant with blooming jasmine. the kind of place you said looked like something out of a storybook. there were white chairs lined up in tidy rows, pale blue ribbons fluttering on the backs of them, and your favorite flowers arranged in clusters along the altar. nanami doesn’t even remember what they were called—he just knows you lit up when you saw them, and so he made sure they were everywhere.

he’d gotten there early, of course. typical of him. early enough to help set up, to check the place twice over, to pace slowly near the altar while trying not to wrinkle his suit. gojo was his best man (regrettably), but he kept his antics to a minimum—mostly because shoko was glaring at him the whole time, for kento’s sake.

nanami looked calm. poised. the very image of a man in control that he wasn’t.

his hands wouldn’t stop twitching. his tie felt too tight. he kept glancing at the entrance, at the path where you’d walk in, where his whole life would change the second he saw you.

and when the music started—soft, slow, the beginning notes of something you’d chosen weeks ago with your head on his shoulder—he thought he might actually fall apart.

because then he saw you and the world shifted.

you weren’t even halfway down the aisle before he realized he was holding his breath. you wore white, yes, but it wasn’t just the dress—it was you. the way you smiled, nervous and glowing. the way your eyes found him and stayed there. the way you walked like you knew exactly who you were walking toward.

and suddenly, the future wasn’t a blurry, far-off thing anymore.

it was real.

it was you.

because there you were. walking toward him, eyes locked with his like there was no one else in the world. your hands shaking just a little. your smile trembling under the weight of the moment. and all at once, it hit him—this is real.

you were marrying him.

and the look on your face as you reached him—it undid him completely. you were nervous, excited, glowing, but more than anything, you looked sure.

like this was always meant to happen and you’d never doubted it for a second.

when you reached him, he took your hand, steadying both of you. you whispered something—he doesn’t even remember what, only that it made him smile through the tightness in his throat.

the ceremony was short. the officiant spoke with warmth and kindness, but nanami barely heard any of it. not because he wasn’t paying attention—he was. god, he was. but all his focus was you. the way your thumb rubbed over his hand. you kept blinking fast to keep from crying too early and he did the same, causing you to snicker with a wobbly breath. you looked at him like he was your whole future wrapped in a neat little suit and tie.

you wrote your own vows.

he remembers yours perfectly.

you told him that you never believed in soulmates—not until him. that he made the world feel safe. that you loved him for the way he listened, for the way he stood still when everything else felt like it was breaking apart. and you promised to choose him every day, even on the ones when he couldn’t choose himself.

he doesn’t cry easily, he never has.

but he cried then.

and when it was his turn, he could barely get the words out. his voice caught in his throat halfway through, but he didn’t look away from you. not once.

he told you that he didn’t believe in fate—but he believed in you. that you were his calm in the storm. that you made life feel like something worth staying in. he told you he didn’t know how to be a perfect man, but that he would spend the rest of his life being yours.

when the rings were on and the kiss came, it wasn’t showy or rushed or too long.

it was tender. quiet while the room waited to erupt in applause and joyful laughter.

a promise sealed in silence, mouth to mouth, heart to heart.

afterward, the reception was all soft music and the kind of laughter that lingers in the ribs. everyone danced, even he danced. you pulled him onto the floor with both hands and kissed his cheek when he tried to protest. he let you spin him, tug him, smile up at him and he felt like he was the luckiest man alive.

(which he was.)

you fed each other cake. you had your first dance. someone’s kid spilled juice on the floor. gojo gave a terrible speech that made everyone laugh. and all the while, nanami just kept watching you. trying to memorize every expression. every laugh. every fleeting, radiant moment.

because he knew.

not that he would lose you. not then. not yet.

but he knew—on some deep, unshakable level—that this day would be one of the brightest in his life.

that one day, he might need to return to it.

and now, in the silence of your absence, he does.

over and over and over again.

until he almost convinces himself he’s still standing there, with your hand in his, the rest of the world gently fading away. and nanami, spending the day in a suit you’d helped him pick out, with his heart knocking hard against his ribs, thought to himself—

if i never do anything else right in this life, at least i loved her.

and that was enough.

—

when the reception ended—when the last of the guests had gone and the music had faded and the air was thick with the sweetness of the day—he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

you were still glowing, in that real, tangible way—your cheeks still flushed from dancing, your lips curved in a smile that wouldn’t quite fade, your hair a little mussed from all the embraces and photographs. and your hand… your hand still in his, like you weren’t ready to let go.

neither was he.

the drive to the hotel was quiet, your head resting against his shoulder in the backseat, your fingers loosely laced with his. you looked tired but soft, your eyes catching his in the low light, and there was something in that look—something he couldn’t name without his throat tightening.

and when the door to the suite closed behind you, he just stood there for a moment. watching you, taking you in. the stillness between you felt heavy, charged, warm. you laughed softly, almost shyly, like you didn’t know what to do with the weight of the day either.

he stepped forward.

he took your face in his hands and kissed you—slow, deliberate, nothing like the polite, restrained kiss at the altar. this was deeper and heavier. his thumb brushed your cheek, and he felt the way your breath hitched against his mouth.

“my wife,” he murmured into the kiss.

you smiled into it. “my husband.”

and god, he hadn’t realized until that moment how much he wanted to hear you say it.

the night stretched out from there in soft, lingering pieces—your veil somewhere on the floor, his tie abandoned somewhere near the door, his hands memorizing every inch of you like he was afraid the memory might fade. he touched you with the kind of care that comes from years of restraint finally breaking, his lips tracing reverent paths over your skin.

“my wife,” he whispered again, when you gasped under him, lik he had to remind himself it was real and the words themselves were too precious to let go of.

you’d been together for years, but that night… it was different. there was no rush in him, no sharp edge to his need. it was all deliberate, all slow-burning devotion. the kind of intimacy that came from knowing he had the rest of his life to love you—and still wanting to start now.

he kissed you until your knees went weak, until you were clinging to his shirt, breathing him in like you couldn’t get enough. his hands slid down your back, steady and warm, finding every curve, every line, every familiar place that had somehow become brand new.

when he undressed you, it was with care. not a single piece of fabric torn or tugged impatiently—he wanted to see you, fully, without breaking the spell of the moment. your dress slid down in a slow whisper, pooling at your feet, and his gaze swept over you like he was memorizing the sight.

“beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. then, softer, as if the truth had snuck up on him, “my wife is beautiful.”

you laughed, shy, and cupped his face in your hands. “you’re staring.”

“i have the right,” he said, his voice low, thumb stroking the side of your neck. “you’re mine.”

he kissed you again, deeper this time, his mouth coaxing yours open until your breaths tangled. his hands roamed over your bare skin, slow but sure, mapping you out all over again. every shiver. every sigh.

he laid you back on the bed, the sheets cool against your skin, and followed you down. his weight settled over you—protective, grounding, like he couldn’t stand to be even an inch away. his lips trailed down your throat, across your collarbone, lower still, until you were trembling under him.

he touched you like you were fragile porcelain, but kissed you like you were his only lifeline. every movement was careful, reverent, almost unbearably tender.

when he finally slid into you, he stopped—just for a moment—forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on yours.

“you’re my wife,” he whispered, like he needed the confirmation to be spoken out loud and he needed you to know how much the word meant to him.

“i am,” you breathed back.

and only then he moved.

slow, deep strokes that had you arching beneath him, every inch of you pressed to every inch of him. his hands gripped your hips, then cradled your face, then threaded with your fingers, as if he couldn’t decide which part of you he needed to hold most.

he kissed you through every gasp, every moan, his lips catching your whimpers before they could reach the air.

“my wife,” he kept saying, his voice rough, breaking. “mine. i’ll take care of you. always.”

and you believed him—every word—because he was loving you like it was a vow.

his pace stayed unhurried, but there was a weight to it—each slow thrust carrying more than just want. it was him pouring every unspoken thing into you: every promise, every quiet devotion, every moment he’d ever looked at you and thought i don’t deserve her but kept it to himself.

you could feel it in the way he held you—firm enough to ground you, gentle enough to make you feel like you were something precious. one hand cradled the back of your head, fingers slipping into your hair, while the other slid along your side, tracing the curve of your waist to your thigh like he was trying to memorize you with his palms.

he kept his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes half-lidded but never wandering. every time your breath hitched, his softened; every time your lips parted on a quiet sound, his mouth found yours again.

“look at me,” he whispered, when your lashes fluttered shut. “want to see you.”

so you did—you held his gaze, even when it made your chest ache. it felt like he was seeing every version of you all at once.

“good girl,” he murmured, barely audible, kissing the corner of your mouth. “my wife. my beautiful wife.”

his hips rolled into yours, slow and deep, until your fingers tightened in his hair and your body arched against his. every inch of him stayed pressed to you, like he couldn’t stand the thought of any space between you. his thumb brushed lazy circles against your hip, grounding you in the rhythm, the closeness.

and when you whispered his name—soft, pleading—he answered it with your own, like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever spoken.

“i love you,” he said, the words breaking slightly in his throat. “i’ll love you every day, for the rest of my life.”

it wasn’t just something he said. it was something he gave you—with every kiss, every stroke, every careful touch.

and when your body trembled beneath his and you clung to him like you never wanted to let go, he followed you there—breathing hard against your mouth, holding you tighter as if to keep the moment from slipping away.

he stayed inside you afterward, chest pressed to yours, his hand smoothing along your hair, down your back. he didn’t speak for a long while—just breathed you in, the quiet between you steady and warm.

but when he finally did, it was a whisper against your temple.

“sleep, my wife.”

the day began in the kind of silence that felt earned. the morning was almost unnervingly quiet.

not in a tense, foreboding way—at least, not at first. it was the kind of quiet that came when two people had long since learned how to speak without words. the kind of quiet you’d both earned after years of mornings together.

you woke first, though you didn’t move much. you stayed curled into him, cheek pressed to his chest, breathing slow against the steady rhythm of his heart. he was warm, solid, and even in sleep, his arm rested around you like it belonged there.

eventually, he stirred. his breath shifted, deeper for a moment, then steadier. he didn’t open his eyes right away. instead, his fingers began tracing lazy, absent patterns over your hip—like his body knew you before his mind fully caught up.

“morning, nana,” you murmured against him, voice soft with sleep.

he hummed, kissing your hair without a word.

you stayed like that for a while, tangled together in the half-light bleeding through the curtains. no alarms. no rush. the city outside was still slow to wake, the hum of it far away, leaving just the faint sound of your breaths syncing.

when he finally did speak, it was barely above a whisper. “what time is the mission?”

you tilted your head up, cheek resting against his chest so you could see his face. “late afternoon. plenty of time.”

he only nodded, but his thumb kept stroking over your skin—slow, deliberate.

you ended up making coffee together, moving through the kitchen like clockwork. him grinding the beans, you setting the mugs. you teased him for being overly precise, he teased you for always adding too much sugar. the kind of easy domestic banter that came naturally after years of loving each other.

breakfast was simple. toast. fruit. he cooked eggs, the way you liked them, and pretended not to notice when you swapped plates halfway through because his looked better. you sat across from each other, bare feet brushing under the table.

it was so ordinary yet nanami loved every second of it.

the kind of ordinary you didn’t realize you were storing away until later—until you could no longer wake to the sound of his steady breathing, or watch his hands cradle a mug in the soft light of morning.

and even though neither of you said it outright, there was a heaviness threaded through the ease of it. a quiet understanding that every mission carried risk, even if you’d both survived countless ones before.

so when you finished breakfast, you didn’t rush to get up. you leaned back in your chair, sipping your coffee, just… looking at him. and he looked back.

the hours between breakfast and the time you had to leave seemed to slip away faster than they should have.

you lingered at home longer than necessary—showering slow, brushing past him in the hallway just to feel his hand catch at your waist, sharing one last cup of coffee you didn’t really need.

when you finally did head out together, the sky was washed in that pale, golden light that makes the whole city feel softer. he walked you to the car, fingers brushing yours in quiet habit, and drove in his usual, steady way. neither of you spoke much: filling the air felt unnecessary.

jujutsu tech was already buzzing when you arrived, well, as much as it could for all of it’s emptiness. the courtyard echoed faintly with voices—students in training, shoko crossing with a cigarette in hand, gojo waving obnoxiously from a distance.

you stepped out of the car and were immediately pulled into the familiar rhythm of the place. your steps carried you toward the mission briefing room, nanami matching your pace. the sun was warmer here, spilling across the old stone walkways, catching in the faint summer-green of the trees.

it smelled faintly of earth and fresh-cut grass—so normal it almost disguised the tension that always hummed beneath the surface in this place.

you greeted shoko with an easy smile, exchanged a few words with yuuji, then felt nanami’s presence settle at your side again. always close enough to reach.

the briefing was short, straightforward on paper—nothing unusual, nothing that sounded like it would become anything more than a line on your growing list of missions. but he still stood beside you, shoulders squared, listening as if the whole thing might hide a trap.

and when it was over, you stepped outside into the fading warmth of the afternoon. the sun had shifted lower, casting long shadows across the training grounds. the hum of cicadas swelled in the background, almost loud enough to fill the quiet between you.

you both had an hour before you needed to leave—enough time to be alone without it feeling like a goodbye, but not enough to pretend the mission wasn’t waiting.

so instead of drifting off into separate tasks, you found yourselves in one of the quieter hallways of the school, away from the echo of training shouts and clattering weapons. sunlight spilled in through the tall windows, painting the floor in soft gold.

you leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely, watching him. there was a small crease between his brows, the one that showed up whenever he was thinking too far ahead.

“you’re doing it again,” you said, tilting your head.

“doing what?”

“overthinking.”

he exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping before it returned to you. “it’s my job to think ahead.”

you stepped closer, close enough that your chest brushed his with each breath. “and it’s mine to get back in one piece.”

he almost smiled. almost.

his hands found your hips without him seeming to notice, thumbs rubbing small, steady circles there. for a few seconds, neither of you spoke. the world outside the hallway seemed to blur, leaving only the faint sound of cicadas and the warm press of him in front of you.

“just—” his voice caught for a fraction of a second. “be careful.”

you reached up, straightening the lapel of his jacket, letting your fingers linger there. “always am.”

he didn’t kiss you, but his hand slid from your hip to your lower back, resting there like an anchor. you placed a small peck on the corner of his mouth. when gojo’s voice called from down the hall, breaking the moment, you didn’t move right away.

you let him hold you for just a few seconds longer, memorizing the weight of it, before you both stepped apart.

and then, together, you walked toward the gates.

how he wished you didn’t.

that evening before the mission—the one memory that he replays the most—had been so deceptively simple.

he thinks about that evening more than he should.

it had been quiet then, too, but in a softer, safer way. the day’s work was behind you, the sun long gone, and the apartment was wrapped in that kind of low, amber light that made the air feel warmer than it really was. dinner dishes were still in the sink, half-forgotten, and the couch had swallowed the both of you whole.

you’d both made it home late, still carrying the weight of the day in your shoulders. he’d cooked, because you were tired, and you’d teased him about his obsessive measuring of ingredients, which led to him teasing you about always trying to sneak bites before the food was done.

dinner had been easy, warm. the kind where the conversation flows without effort, drifting from work to memories to plans you weren’t even sure you’d ever act on.

it started with a joke—something you said between bites about how one day you were going to “kidnap him” from this world entirely and make him live somewhere quiet, far from all the noise and danger.

“and what would i do in this peaceful little exile of yours?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, eyebrow raised.

you grinned, leaning forward like you were letting him in on a conspiracy. “we’d have a baby. maybe two. you’d learn how to relax, and i’d get to see you in those tiny dad glasses, reading bedtime stories.”

he scoffed, shaking his head, but there was no real dismissal in it. “you make it sound so simple.”

“it is simple,” you countered, laughing. “just… leave all the cursed nonsense behind. be boring with me.”

you got up then, moving around the table to sit on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. his hands came to your waist without thinking, steadying you there, tethering you to him.

“you’re ridiculous,” he said, though there was the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.

“ridiculously in love with you,” you corrected, poking his chest. “come on, kento. can’t you imagine it? a little us running around, probably bossing you around because they’d definitely take after me.”

he chuckled low in his chest, and you felt it through your palm resting there. “i can imagine it,” he admitted, voice quieter now.

you were giggly, leaning your forehead against his, rambling about baby names and which one of you would be the strict parent. he listened to all of it—every silly, impossible detail—because your voice was lit with joy and your eyes sparkled in a way that made him feel like the luckiest man alive.

and later, when you’d both gone quiet, just sitting there with your arms around his neck, he kissed your temple and murmured, almost to himself—

“i’d give you all of it. the baby. the quiet. the life.”

you just smiled, pressing your lips to his jaw, and said, “we’ve got time.”

he believed you.

in the present, nanami sits at the kitchen table, his untouched mug of coffee cooling by his hand.

his gaze isn’t really on anything—not the faint steam curling from the drink, not the stack of unopened mail beside it. his eyes are fixed on some middle distance, somewhere past the walls, past the quiet apartment, past the here and now entirely.

he’s back there. on the couch with you, your laughter spilling into the dim light, your head resting on his thigh as you paint pictures of a life you’d never get to live together.

his fingers twitch faintly on the table, like they remember the weight of your leg over his, the way you’d absently rub your foot against his calf while you talked.

the memory plays uninvited, in full color, with every small sound and shift in your expression perfectly intact.

and it hurts.

hurts because in that moment, you’d been so alive, so certain, so happy. hurts because he can still feel the way his chest swelled when you said as long as it’s with you. hurts because part of him still, stupidly, waits for you to walk through the door and finish the conversation and start it again.

he blinks slowly, the image of you on that couch lingering behind his eyes even as the real world settles back around him. the silence of the apartment presses in, heavy and unmoving, and his hand finally closes around the mug—more for something to hold than for the coffee itself.

as he stares into the dark liquid, he remembers finding you in the dark.

the mission had gone wrong hours ago—he knew it the moment you got separated. the terrain was uneven, the curses faster than expected, the air heavy with that metallic tang of danger. he’d been calling your name, voice low but sharp, as he moved through the half-ruined streets.

the only answer had been the wind.

his steps were steady, methodical—he couldn’t afford to panic. not until he found you. he told himself you were fine, that you’d handled worse before. he clung to the memory of your smile that morning, the ease of your banter, like a talisman against the creeping thought that maybe you weren’t.

but then he turned a corner, and the world shifted.

you were there, just a few meters ahead, half-hidden in the jagged shadows of collapsed stone and splintered wood. for one breath, his body recognized your outline, your familiar shape—and for that single, impossible second, relief swelled in him.

then he saw the way you were lying.

too still.

too… wrong.

he moved to you fast—faster than he thought his body could. his knees hit the ground beside you, the jolt rattling through him, and his hands were on you before his mind could catch up.

“hey,” he said, low and urgent, the way you speak to someone who’s just on the edge of consciousness. “it’s me. it’s—”

his voice broke when he saw your face.

your eyes were half-lidded, glassy, unfocused. blood stained your mouth, your clothes, your skin. there was so much of it, soaking into the ground beneath you, sticky against his hands.

his breath stuttered, but he tried anyway—tried to check your pulse, tried to press his hand to the worst of the wounds. your chest gave the faintest rise under his palm, shallow and ragged, and for one insane, desperate heartbeat, he thought maybe—maybe—

his mind couldn’t seem to catch up to what his eyes were seeing.

even as his knees dug into the gravel, even as the damp from the blood seeped cold through his trousers, there was some stubborn, fractured part of him waiting for you to move. for your hand to twitch, for your mouth to form his name, for your chest to rise with a fuller breath.

but you didn’t.

your skin was cooling under his touch, your weight slack in his arms. the scent of iron clung to every inhale until it was all he could taste, all he could breathe.

but the damage… god, the damage.

he pressed his palm to the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone like he could coax you back just by being gentle enough. “wake up, my love,” he murmured, voice shaking in a way it hadn’t in years. “please. just… wake up.”

your body was broken in ways that couldn’t be undone. jagged edges of bone where they shouldn’t be, deep, tearing gashes that pulsed weakly before stilling. he’d seen death before, seen it up close, but it was different now—because it was you.

he didn’t cry—not then. it was worse than that. there was no outpouring of grief, no breaking sobs, just a hollow stillness that seemed to dig into his chest and widen with every heartbeat.

because this couldn’t be it. it couldn’t end like this—on a dirty, broken street, under the shadow of some half-fallen wall, with your blood painting the ground around you, painting his suit with cruel strokes.

his eyes drifted over you—over the gashes he couldn’t close, the way your limbs had fallen at wrong angles. his stomach twisted hard, bile burning at the back of his throat, but he couldn’t look away.

these were wounds he should’ve been there to stop.

he should’ve been there with you.

“no. no, no—” the words rasped out, almost soundless. his hands wouldn’t stop moving—pressing here, tilting your chin, shaking lightly as if he could jolt you awake. “stay with me. just—stay with me. please.”

your lips parted, maybe to say something, maybe just on a dying breath. he leaned close, trying to catch whatever sound you had left, but all he heard was the thin, wet rattle in your chest.

and then that, too, faded.

his hands shook as he tried to shift you, to pull you closer to him without making it worse—not that it mattered now. he cradled your head in the crook of his elbow, pressing his forehead to yours like he had on your wedding night, whispering your name just to hear it in the air.

it didn’t echo back.

the world around him stayed silent—eerily so. no curse stirred, no wind broke the stillness. it was just him and you, and the weight of every moment you’d ever shared crashing down on him at once.

and still, he stayed there.

he stayed there, crouched over you, his hands hovering uselessly above the ruin of your body. the night pressed in heavy, the scent of blood thick in the air. ijichi’s voice ringed in his ear through a veil of water, urging him to let go and let gojo warp you back to shoko’s.

the curses were gone now—whether he’d killed them all or they’d simply scattered didn’t matter. nothing mattered.

just you.

just the unbearable weight of your silence.

he didn’t know how long he stayed like that—long enough for your blood to dry tacky on his skin, long enough for the cold to creep in through his suit. he brushed your hair back from your face, smoothed it gently, like you were only sleeping.

but you weren’t.

and there was nothing left for him to do but sit there in the wreckage, holding the body of the only person he’d ever loved like this, the word my heart echoing in his skull until it was all he could hear.

the summer sky above kuantan is so clear in his mind he almost believes it’s real—cloudless, deep blue, the kind of heat that hums in the bones, the kind of light that turns the sea into molten silver. he can hear the hush of waves, taste the faint tang of salt on the breeze.

but here in shibuya, the air is heavy with smoke and metal, each breath shallow. his body is slowing. his blood is warm against the concrete. still, his mind wanders—not to the curses, not to the fight, but to you.

the memory is soft, golden at the edges. it had been one of those late nights when neither of you could sleep, the city’s quiet pressing in through the open window. you were sprawled across the bed on your stomach, cheek resting on your folded arms, eyes fixed on him like he was more interesting than anything the world had to offer.

“if you could go anywhere,” you asked suddenly, voice low in the dark, “where would you go?”

he’d been lying on his back, staring at the faint patterns on the ceiling. “anywhere?”

“anywhere.” you scooted closer, chin now propped on his chest, your legs kicking lazily behind you. “no limits. no missions. just… you and me.”

he thought for a long moment before answering, his gaze still tilted toward the ceiling. “kuantan. malaysia.”

you tilted your head, curious. “have you been?”

he shook his head faintly. “no. i read about it once—white beaches, fishing boats, quiet mornings. the water’s supposed to be so clear you can see your own shadow on the sand beneath it. something about it stuck with me. i’ve always… wanted to see it for myself.”

you smiled at that, soft and sure. “then we’ll go.”

he glanced at you, one brow raising. “just like that?”

“just like that,” you said, without even a beat of hesitation. “i’d go to the edge of the world with you, kento. kuantan’s easy.”

he went still for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then his hand found your cheek, his thumb brushing slowly along your jaw like he was trying to commit every line of you to memory.

“you’re my heart,” he murmured, the words so quiet they almost dissolved into the air.

your smile grew, your fingers catching his wrist to hold his touch there. “yours,” you whispered back.

you stayed like that for a long while—your forehead pressed to his, your breathing slow and steady, the night wrapping around you like a secret you didn’t need to share with anyone else. eventually, your eyes closed, and he lay awake just a little longer, listening to your breathing, memorizing the weight of you against him.

and now—here, in shibuya—he clings to that memory like a lifeline. the noise fades, the pain dulls, and for a moment, he’s back there in that bed with you, the night warm and endless, the promise of kuantan just a thought away.

the sky above him isn’t kuantan’s, but in his mind, it is. it’s summer, and the sea is endless, and you’re beside him, smiling like you always did when you believed in something with your whole heart.

my heart.

he breathes the words again, this time only in his head, and lets them be the last thing he keeps.