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You think there’s something akin to magic, the way Nanami Kento loves you.
After all, today’s an ordinary day, and he’s taken off from work — he didn’t tell you he would, but you knowbecause the first thing you smell as you wake up is breakfast and it is your favorite.
Is it because you said you missed him during dinner last night? It’s been a busy couple of weeks, you’ve barely had time to see and bask in each other. He knows it’s your day off, so he decided to take one too even if your schedules don’t align.
When you walk into the kitchen, his back is facing you and he doesn’t turn around but notices you anyway.
“Good morning, my love,” his voice is sweet as usual, and it makes you smile to yourself.
“Good morning Ken,” you’re wrapping your arms around his middle already, burying your face in his back then leaving a kiss on his spine. “Thank you for not wearing a shirt,” he laughs at that.
“You stole it,” he responds. It’s true. You love his shirts because they smell like him and are quite large — plus he likes seeing you in his clothes.
You eat and talk, about anything and everything, it doesn’t matter really, because he just wants to hear your voice and you his. People say you’re obsessed with one another; you don’t disagree. So what? It’s hard not to be when he’s the person calling you the love of his life.
It’s almost funny how physically close you are at the table, his chair and yours side by side, your bodies touching.
The day passes swiftly but calmly, you’re relaxed, in each other’s space, and it is so comforting. When the evening comes, you win at rock paper scissors for making dinner — and he actually pouts over it. He loves you, he does, but you experiment too much in the kitchen. The food is edible but... you with a knife in your hand? Hazardous.
Eventually, he takes over because you’re stressing him out. The recipe calls for you to Julienne a carrot and you absolutely do not care for it. Why did you even open that cookbook? You bought it for him as a gift not too long ago — he hasn’t had time to try out all the recipes, the way he usually likes to do.
“Let me cook for you, sweetheart,” the way he talks is nothing short of delicious.
“But Keeeen… I want to do it,” you whine but you’re already wavering because it’s him and he’s using that tone that makes you turn off your brain and do whatever.
“Please, my love, let me cook for us, for you,” aaaaand you waver. It’s so easy for you to bend to his will. He knows how to play you like a fiddle and doesn't hesitate to use his talents.
When he’s done putting everything on the stove and the food is cooking, you put some music on. And he watches with a smile, how you lightly sway to rhythm and hum along. It doesn’t take any convincing, any grabby hands, to make him join you.
He loves to dance with you. He didn’t know he would until the first time you took his hand and placed it on your hips a few years ago, before he put a ring on your finger —at the time he was already hoping he would get to, though.
The way he places his hand on your hip, guides one of yours to rest at the crook of his neck and brings you close is practiced. His hands do not stay in the same spot long, they roam, they caress, they soothe. He even hums along the music with you. He thinks it’s a good one, this one.
“Am I showing you love?” He asks, referring to the song you’re dancing to.
“You always do.”
It’s a good day, the kind of good only Kento knows how to show you.