Seeing Hozuki Nozomi reveal a big bad wolf expression and slowly approach, Aoyama Nanami's cheeks flushed deeper—the color spreading from her cheekbones down to her throat.
She lowered her head, fingers nervously bunching the hem of her cotton pajama top, twisting the fabric until it wrinkled. Her lips pressed together, words dying somewhere in her chest.
He's looking at me like that again...
Hozuki Nozomi cleared his throat and settled beside her on the bed with deliberate calm, the mattress dipping under his weight. His arm wrapped naturally around her waist—his palm settling against the curve where her hip met her ribcage, warmth bleeding through the thin cotton.
"Nanami, I have a question." His voice stayed low, conversational. "Why do you always call me 'San'? I remember telling you last time—just use my name."
*I haven't been using it, my bad
Her body trembled at the pressure of his arm. She glanced sideways at him, face flushed like spring peaches, then dropped her gaze again to her lap.
"Because... Nozomi-san gives me a very mature feeling." Her Kansai accent softened the syllables, made them slightly musical. "I unconsciously like to call you that."
"Mature, huh?"
His hand tightened fractionally at her waist, pulling her closer until her thigh pressed against his.
"So Nanami thinks I'm old?"
"Huh? No!"
"If not, why are you lowering your head and refusing to look at me?"
His free hand came up, fingers brushing her chin.
"Also—Nanami didn't respond to my greeting today. Just made a few little sounds and walked away." He tilted his head, studying her profile. "Are you angry at me?"
"No..."
"Look into my eyes and say that."
His hands gripped her shoulders firmly, turning her toward him until she had no choice but to raise her face.
Aoyama Nanami's eyes met his for one heartbeat—dark and warm and too close—before she squeezed them shut, small hands flying up to cover them like a child playing hide-and-seek.
I can't... if I look at him I'll say something stupid...
But she made no move to pull away. No attempt to stand. Her body stayed exactly where he'd placed it, trembling faintly.
Nozomi drew a slow breath. The smell of her shampoo—something floral, maybe cherry blossom—mixed with the room's warmth. He lifted her easily, hands spanning her waist, and settled her directly in his lap. Her weight was slight, almost nothing, her hip bones sharp beneath the pajamas.
He reached up and gently pried her fingers away from her eyes.
"Nanami." His face hovered inches from hers. "If you won't look at me, I'm going to kiss you."
"Don't!"
Her whole body jerked, hands pressing flat against his chest. She peeked at him through her lashes, then immediately ducked her head again like a startled quail, brown hair falling forward to curtain her burning cheeks.
Why did I say don't? I didn't mean... I mean I did, but...
He could feel her shaking—fine tremors running through her frame like she might vibrate apart.
"Don't what?" His thumb traced a slow circle against her hip. "Tell me seriously, Nanami. I'll respect your opinion."
She turned her head away with a small huff, lower lip pushing out.
Respect me, he says. While holding me like this. While looking at me with those eyes.
He's so unfair.
But...
I don't want to leave.
That realization sent heat flooding through her chest, pooling somewhere low in her belly.
Nozomi studied her profile—the elegant line of her throat, the shell-pink curve of her ear, the way her chest rose and fell too quickly beneath the cotton pajama top. He swallowed hard.
He wanted her.
He appreciated her determination, her kindness, the way she worked herself half to death chasing her dreams. But right now, with her warm weight in his lap and her scent filling his lungs, he wanted her body too. Wanted to taste every inch of that flushed skin.
Without another word, he leaned down and pressed his lips to her cheek—soft, unhurried, feeling the heat of her blush against his mouth.
Then he reached past her and clicked off the lamp.
Darkness swallowed the room. He pulled her down with him into the covers, sheets rustling as he arranged them both on their sides, her back pressed to his chest, his arm locked around her waist.
Nanami's heart hammered so hard she could hear it in her own ears.
He's... we're...
What if Mahiru comes in? What if Mashiro wanders down the hall?
"What's wrong, Nanami?" His breath ghosted warm against the shell of her ear. "You seem nervous."
"Hyaaa~!"
The soft sound escaped her before she could stop it—half gasp, half whimper—as his breath sent shivers cascading down her spine.
"You... don't blow in my ear..."
That's where I'm sensitive...
"Oh?" She could hear the smile in his voice. "Really?"
His lips brushed her earlobe. Then his tongue—just the tip—traced the delicate curve.
"Nnngh...!"
Nanami's eyes went wet. She twisted in his arms, facing him, and looked up with an expression caught between arousal and accusation.
"Hozuki Nozomi is a big bad guy!" Her small fists found his chest and began pounding—though the blows held no real force, more like a kitten batting at yarn. "I hate him so much!"
"Ouch, ouch—you're killing me!" He caught one flying fist easily, fingers wrapping around her wrist. "Nanami's trying to murder her husband!"
"Wha—murder her husband?!" Her face went incandescent. "You... shameless!"
She swung with her free hand. He caught that one too, brought her knuckles to his lips, and kissed them.
"As long as I can keep Nanami by my side," he murmured against her skin, "I'll be as shameless as I have to be."
His eyes found hers in the darkness—just visible now that her vision had adjusted, the faint glow from the window catching the planes of his face.
"Nanami. I like you."
He...
He said it.
Just like that.
Her entire face ignited. She yanked her hands free and rolled over, presenting him with her back, huffing loudly.
"I... I don't believe it."
"You already have Yukino and Mahiru. They're so cute." Her voice wobbled. "Even Mashiro, Misaki-senpai, Eriri Spencer Sawamura... ugh, the more I count the more there are! You playboy scumbag!"
Nozomi couldn't exactly argue with that assessment.
After a moment, he pulled out his trump card:
"Then what is Nanami always doing outside this scumbag's door? Hmm?" His arm snaked around her waist again, pulling her back flush against his front. "You've been tempting me."
She pinched his side hard, twisting the skin.
"I wasn't at your door! I was just... just passing by..."
He caught the offending hand and laced his fingers through hers.
"Passing by, sure. But since you're already inside..." His lips found the nape of her neck. "You're not leaving tonight."
"So shameless..." Her protest came out breathless. "You said you'd respect me..."
"I am respecting you." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "If I wasn't, I wouldn't be holding back right now."
She felt it then—the hard length of him pressed against her backside through the thin layers of their pajamas. Heat flooded between her thighs.
"You... you can't... I'm not ready yet!"
Gently, he turned her to face him again. His hand came up to stroke her hair, smoothing it back from her damp forehead.
"Don't worry." The words came out strained but sincere. "Even if I feel like I'm going to explode, I won't hurt you, Nanami."
He means it.
He really means it.
She stopped struggling. Her hands pressed flat against his chest—not pushing, just resting there, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath her palms.
Asada said... she said he was always so gentle with her.
I'm not jealous anymore.
"Nanami." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "Can I have your Valentine's chocolate?"
"I... don't want to make it."
"That's a shame—"
"Idiot, I haven't finished!" She huffed. "If you really want it that badly... I suppose I could try making one."
"Then it's a deal." His smile was audible. "I'll be looking forward to it."
He's happy.
I made him happy.
She pressed closer into his warmth, tucking her head beneath his chin. His arms tightened around her, one hand splayed across her lower back.
The silence stretched, comfortable now rather than tense. His breathing gradually steadied.
But hers didn't.
Because she could still feel him—thick and insistent against her belly, even through the fabric. And his body was so warm it made her dizzy. And the smell of him—clean sweat and something faintly spicy, like sandalwood—kept filling her lungs with every breath.
He said he felt like he'd explode.
Because of me.
If he gets sick from this...
Slowly, hesitantly, her hand crept downward.
"Nanami!"
His voice cracked with surprise as her fingers found the waistband of his pants and slipped beneath.
"Idiot, don't talk." She buried her face against his chest, unable to meet his eyes. "Mr. Bad Guy... I'm not doing this for you. And not because I like you either."
Her small hand wrapped around the hot, rigid length of him, and she heard his breath hitch sharply.
"I'm just... considering the happiness of Mahiru and the others." Her voice came out muffled against his shirt. "I can't let you get sick because of me."
It's so hard... and so warm...
Am I doing this right?
"Nana—mmph!"
He stopped pretending. His hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back, and his mouth crashed down onto hers—hungry and deep and tasting faintly of the green tea he'd drunk earlier. His tongue swept past her lips, tangling with hers, swallowing her surprised whimper.
Her grip on him tightened reflexively. He groaned into her mouth, hips jerking forward into her fist.
Oh... he likes that...
She stroked experimentally—base to tip, her palm slicking with the moisture gathering at the head. His cock throbbed against her fingers, thick enough that she couldn't quite close her hand around it, the skin silk-smooth over steel.
"Fuck... Nanami..."
The curse word in his usually composed voice sent a thrill through her. She pulled back from the kiss just far enough to see his face—flushed, eyes half-lidded, jaw tight with restraint.
I did that.
I made him look like that.
Her hand moved faster, finding a rhythm. He panted against her throat, his own hand sliding down to grip her hip, pulling her tighter against him with each stroke.
"Nnnh... Nanami, if you keep... I'm going to..."
"It's okay." She didn't know where the boldness came from. Maybe from the darkness. Maybe from the way he kept saying her name like a prayer. "You can... you can do it."
His whole body seized. He buried his face in her neck, a low groan vibrating against her skin, and she felt him pulse in her hand—hot spurts spilling over her fingers, coating her palm, the smell of it sharp and musky in the small space beneath the covers.
She kept stroking until the last tremor faded, until he caught her wrist with a shaky hand.
"Stop... sensitive..."
They lay tangled together in the aftermath, both breathing hard. She became aware of the mess between them—sticky warmth smeared across her fingers, soaking into the fabric of his pants.
"I'll... get something to clean up," he managed, voice rough.
"Mm."
He pressed one more kiss to her forehead, then extracted himself from the covers. She heard him pad across the room, heard water running briefly in the small attached bathroom.
I did that.
With my hand.
For him.
When he returned with a warm washcloth, she let him clean her fingers one by one, face burning but unable to look away. He was gentle, thorough, his touch almost reverent.
"Nanami."
"...what?"
"Thank you."
"I told you, it wasn't for—"
He kissed her again, soft this time, cutting off her denial.
"The night's still long," he murmured against her lips. "And I have a lot to teach you."
Her heart stuttered.