Work Text:
It’s a quarter to six when Nanami Kento’s footsteps on the front porch announce his arrival. It’s not that your house is small or the walls are thin–– it’s that he walks like he carries the world on his shoulders.
He does, though.
The front door opens, then shuts, and then–– “Honey, I'm home,” his sonorous voice calls out.
“Kitchen!” you sing. The bright cooking space is engulfed by the smell of lemon and thyme and the chicken in the oven–– not an unfamiliar scent to the Nanami kitchen as of late. You count his steps as they grow louder and when they finally stop, you take your eyes off the oven door and turn around.
Nanami leans against the archway with a half-smile on one side of his lips, dangling his tan suit jacket over his shoulder by the collar. The glasses he’d worn out the door in the morning are now tucked in his shirt. He looks a bit tired.
“Hello, handsome,” you purr, slinking up to the blond. Instinctively, his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you closer to his muscled chest. His head dips down for a gentle kiss.
“How was your day?” Nanami asks in a murmur.
Your phone buzzes on the counter, interrupting the tender moment.
“That’s the chicken,” you sigh, slipping out of his arms.
“No, that was the timer,” he replies, stealing another kiss from you before letting you go. “The chicken is dead, sweetheart.” You look over your shoulder as you slip on an oven mitt, rolling your eyes at his joke. He laughs and crosses his arms over his chest, proud nonetheless.
“Do you think you’re funny?” You take the tray out and set it on the counter. The mouthwatering smell of lemon roasted chicken intensifies in the kitchen.
“Sometimes.” Nanami grabs the meat thermometer on the counter and sticks it into the thigh. 165 degrees. Perfect.
“I think this time it might be edible,” you joke, grabbing the tray and moving to the dining table. Nanami follows with two plates and two sets of cutlery in hand. As you set the table, he goes back to bring the other dishes over.
Once you’re both settled in your seats and have food on your plates, he says the little “thank you for the meal, darling” that he always does. Nanami lets out an approving hum when he pops a piece of the chicken in his mouth, commenting on how “it tastes amazing” this time–– unlike the last, when you essentially drowned the chicken in lemon juice, revived and buried it alive in thyme, and then killed it again by charring it.
“I'm a fast learner,” you say smugly. And then you remember what Nanami had said as you were cuddling in bed last night. About being a mentor. “Oh, speaking of learning… how’s that kid doing? Itadori, you said his name was?”
Nanami sighs and sets his utensils down. “He’s just a kid,” he begins, leaning back in his chair. “But… he’s got soul.”
You frown and grab his hand, giving it a light squeeze. Only after that white-haired man called Gojo came knocking on your door did you learn about your husband’s… talent. The way he’d described growing up with it, though, made it seem more like a curse. Fourteen-year-olds having to fight cursed spirits, having to die for the greater good of humanity… you understood why he chose a life far away from that.
But Nanami Kento is also the man who rescues strays from the streets and takes them to shelters. He holds doors open for entire lines of people. He gives umbrellas away to the homeless when it rains.
He just wants to be a good person.
So you also understand why he’d go back to it.
Nanami offers you a half-hearted smile. “Can we not talk about… that stuff?” he chuckles, folding his hands together and resting his chin at the top. “I’d like to hear about your day. Did you get the problem with Hana sorted out?”
Yes, you did and, in fact, because you’re the managing editor of the newspaper you work for, the problem was resolved pretty easily. How? Oh, well you did have to talk to Yamamoto about making deadlines more flexible and…
“Work is shit,” you sigh at the end of your story. “But… it’s not all bad. I'm lucky enough that I get off at four and not five like you. I guess the moral of the story is that there’s happiness everywhere. You just have to look for it.”
The clock in the living room chimes.
Chuckling, Nanami takes a sip of his chardonnay. “You’re right, love,” he muses. “It’s always six o’clock somewhere.”
Little things take up the rest of your conversation–– a quote from the book you’re almost done reading, the recent drop in the temperature outside, the neighbours’ new baby boy. Dinner finishes up as seven rounds the corner.
You bring the dirty dishes to the kitchen together.
Nanami rolls up his sleeves and starts washing the plates as you sit on the counter with your feet dangling below.
“Say,” you start in an awfully suspicious tone.
“No,” he says immediately.
“But––”
“In this economy?” Nanami asks, looking into your eyes.
“Well, I don’t know how much Mojo is paying you––”
“Gojo.”
“–– but I'm making a handsome five figures each year, and we still have a lot saved up from when you were at Sachs,” you say, looking at him through your lashes.
Nanami thinks it over as he scrubs down the last plate and puts it into the dishwasher. There are so many things that could go wrong… especially now. “Are you sure?” he asks, still not fully believing what you’re insinuating.
“I'm sure,” you say, grinning. He looks around the kitchen for a towel, only to find it already in your hands. “C’mon, Kento. Let’s start a family.”
An expression, feather-light and equally soft, comes over his defined features as he takes the towel and dries his hands.
“There’s a lot that we have to plan before we go into this,” he begins sternly, blue eyes twinkling beneath the ceiling light.
“Well, then, let’s plan it out,” you return, hopping off the counter and wrapping your arms around him. Nanami chuckles, noting how, like always, you just do things the way you want to. That freedom in your soul. He wonders if two years of marriage is enough for it to start rubbing off on him. “How about we go for a walk outside and talk about it?” Nanami smiles softly and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Okay,” he agrees, rubbing your back affectionately as the two of you walk to the door.
Nanami already has a shoe-clad foot out the open door when he pauses and remembers how the temperature has been dropping recently. “It’s a bit cold outside already,” he tells you, nodding at the coat closet. “You should grab a jacket.”
So you shrug on a light beige one–– one that matches the suit he was wearing earlier–– and hold his hand in his pocket.
And this time, you walk out together.