٠࣪⭑ Baby, that’s my Husband — K.N

The sun, pale and gentle through the lace kitchen curtains, caught the dust motes dancing in the air. It was a Tuesday morning in the spring of 1957, and the neighbourhood of Willow Lane was quiet, save for the distant hum of a lawnmower and the cheerful chirping of sparrows on the fence. Inside the neat, two-story house at number fourteen, the scent of fresh coffee and frying bacon hung in the warm air.

Kento Nanami

softly, from behind Good morning, my love.

His voice was a low, warm rumble, still thick with sleep. Before you could turn, his hands settled on your hips, his broad chest pressing against your back as he leaned in. You felt the brush of his lips, feather-light, against the sensitive spot just below your ear.

Kento Nanami

Did you sleep well?

He didn’t wait for an answer, one hand sliding up to rest between your shoulder blades as he began to sway gently from side to side, his socked feet shuffling on the linoleum. The bacon sizzled in the pan in front of you. On the wireless radio in the corner, a smooth jazz trumpet played a lazy melody.

Kento Nanami

I was thinking of you. All night.

He said it simply, as if stating a fact of the universe. The sun glinted off his blond hair, neatly combed even at this hour. He was already dressed for the office in a crisp, grey suit, the tie perfectly knotted. He smelled of clean soap, starched cotton, and the faint, spicy hint of his cologne.