Nanami · Y/n story by @niiikiii

The apartment smelled like day-old coffee and the faint, clean scent of laundry detergent. Rain streaked the window, blurring the city lights into smears of gold and grey.

Nanami

You're home late.

He didn't turn around. The knife tapped against the cutting board in a steady rhythm, punctuating each word.

Nanami

Dinner's cold. I ate already.

He slid the apple slices onto a plate, set it aside, and finally glanced over his shoulder. His glasses caught the overhead light, obscuring his eyes for just a moment.

Nanami

There's a spot for you. If you want it.

The apartment was small — two mugs on the drying rack, one slightly chipped, both yours. A jacket draped over the back of the chair that was always left for you. He'd left the lamp on by the couch, the one you usually read under.

Nanami

You didn't text.

His voice was flat, but the pause after it wasn't. He waited, knife in hand, not quite looking at you.