Work Text:
Living with Nanami Kento had been a dream wrapped in warm vanilla and slow Sunday mornings.
He always woke before you. Always. Slipping out of bed with the quiet grace of someone who had mastered the art of not waking you, even when you whined, reaching for him in half-conscious protest.
You would wake to the soft, rhythmic sounds of him in the kitchen—the scrape of a knife against a cutting board, the bubbling simmer of a pot on the stove, the muffled clink of porcelain.
And then, inevitably, his voice would call for you, warm and steady and so very patient.
“My love?”
You would stretch, burying your face into the pillow, savoring the last remnants of sleep before stumbling into the kitchen. He would glance at you over his shoulder, his expression softening at the sight of you, hair mussed, sleeves hanging past your hands because you always stole his shirts.
“Good morning,” he would say, like the words themselves carried a weight only you were allowed to share.
“Good morning,” you would echo, pressing yourself into his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. He always smelled like coffee and warmth, like home.
Then, his hands, dusted in flour, would reach for yours, fingers threading together as he pulled you gently to his side.
“Try this,” he’d murmur, lifting a spoon to your lips. “Tell me what you think.”
It was never a question of whether you liked it—because you always did. It was a ritual, an unspoken love language.
And then one morning, it was the last time.
And you didn’t know.
“My love?”
“Hmm?”
“I won’t be home Thursday evening. I have a mission.”
Your brows furrowed as you poured yourself a cup of coffee. “Curse stuff?”
“Yes.”
You turned to him, leaning against the counter, studying the way he was kneading dough with methodical precision. You hated when he had missions. Hated the way your stomach twisted with the knowledge that he was walking into something dangerous. Hated how you had to pretend you weren’t terrified every time he left.
“Just be careful, alright?”
He paused, turning to face you fully, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Always.”
He kissed your forehead, slow and deliberate, his hands lingering on your waist just a moment longer than usual.
And then he was gone.
*-*
A year later, you sat at the dinner table, staring at the plate in front of you.
The last thing he ever made.
You had kept it frozen, untouched, preserved like some fragile artifact of the life you lost. You weren’t sure why. Maybe you thought keeping it meant keeping him, in some small, ridiculous way. Maybe you thought if you left it alone, time would stop moving. That you wouldn’t have to accept that he was gone, that he wasn’t coming home, that there would be no more mornings filled with soft humming and the scent of warm bread.
The plate trembled slightly as you set it down.
Your fingers curled into your palms, nails pressing into skin.
It was just food.
It was just food, and yet looking at it made something inside you collapse.
Your throat burned as you picked up the fork, your hands shaking so badly that you nearly dropped it.
The first bite was slow, tentative. The taste hit you all at once—deep, rich, layered with flavors he had perfected over years. It was warm. Familiar.
It tasted like love.
It tasted like him.
And suddenly, you were back there.
Wednesday evening.
The kitchen was bathed in golden light, the soft clatter of utensils filling the space. He was at the stove, sleeves rolled up, his face serene as he stirred the sauce. You had leaned against the counter, watching him with a small, contented smile, memorizing the way he moved.
"Almost done?" you had teased, poking at the bowl of freshly chopped herbs.
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
"Patience, my love. A dish like this takes time."
You had rolled your eyes, but when he turned to you, spoon in hand, his expression was so full of something unspoken that your breath caught. He lifted the spoon to your lips, waiting.
“Try this,” he murmured.
And you had. The warmth of it, the depth of flavor—it was perfect. Just like everything he made.
Just like him.
Now, that same bite sat heavy in your mouth.
The second bite was harder.
Your stomach twisted as you swallowed, as if your body itself rejected the finality of it all. Your mind screamed at you to stop—to put the plate away, to leave just one last piece of him untouched.
But you couldn’t.
Because if you didn’t eat it now, it would go bad.
It would rot.
And wasn’t that so fitting? Wasn’t that the cruelest part? That time would take even this from you?
By the third bite, your vision blurred.
Your chest ached. A sob tore its way out of your throat before you could stop it, the sound breaking the quiet, shattering the illusion that for just a moment, he was still here.
Tears dripped onto the plate, mixing with the sauce, staining the tablecloth. Your body trembled as you set the fork down, burying your face in your hands.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair that he was gone, and you were still here, and the last piece of him that you had left was this—the last meal he had ever made for you.
And you were eating it.
Finishing it.
Ending it.
After this, there would be nothing left.
Just like there was nothing left of Nanami.