Archive of Our Own

contrary to outsider belief, your marriage to nanami worked remarkably well. too well.

a shocking revelation, considering you were “ill-tempered” while nanami had the patience of a saint, allegedly . . . .

the truth of the matter was that beneath the all the composure, politeness, and that expensive wristwatch kento always wore on his wrist, your husband unfortunately was just as much of a brat as you were.

if not, worse.

the two of you held grudges over the stupidest things imaginable: once, nanami corrected your pronunciation of “espresso” during breakfast. so? you didn’t kiss him goodbye before work for three whole days.

in retaliation, your coffee that he would make you each morning mysteriously happened to arrive without the three ounces of sugar you so adamantly required to — “balance out the armpit taste.”

petty. childish. ridiculous.

yet somehow, these cold wars became the foundation of a deeply functional marriage.

“kento dear,” you began, soft steps quietly thudding against the wooden floors as you made your way to him, who was fully dressed: soft charcoal sweater hanging off his frame, pushed up revealing his forearms, reading glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose while his sandy locs unstyled in a way you almost never got to see outside these walls.

which, unfortunately, was the problem. he was far too comfortable for the atrocities he had just committed against you whilst you slept.

“did you touch it?” your voice coming out suspiciously calm.

nanami doesn’t even look up from the cup of jasmine tea he was nursing. “no.”

you only narrow your eyes as you finally end up next to him. “kento.”

that bratty tone of yours was enough to earn you a glance now, hazel eyes tired yet sharp all the same. “i told you, no.”

“yeah, well,” you huff, crossing your arms, looking up at him expectantly, “waking up feeling like i got left in a meat locker says otherwise.”

he shuts his eyes as he takes a slow sip of his tea, setting it down with a soft clink, the steam curling between you. “interesting,” he begins, voice flat with quiet amusement.

“you seem quite functional for someone who claims they’re—” he pauses, unimpressed, before lifting his hand and giving your forehead a quick, precise knock with his knuckles, withdrawing before you can even think to catch his wrist. “—frozen solid.”

“ugh!” you huff, hands missing his wrist and instead clutching your forehead with an adorable frown. “i’m not frozen solid, but i’m going to be. i don’t know why you just can’t leave it on 72.”

he exhales slowly through his nose, “you know i get hot. i shouldn’t have to strip to be comfortable in my own home,” he says flatly.

his hand lifts without much ceremony, gently replacing yours on your forehead. he briefly rubs the spot he’d knocked before his fingers slip down to tug lightly at your ear, earning an immediate, indignant whine from you.

“or would you prefer i start walking around the house naked instead?”

“what? i’m not answering that.” you say, turning your face slightly away from him, the words coming out clipped as you huff under your breath, “pervert…”, still clearly offended at the recurring offenses.

you manage to slap his arm away. “i don’t see why you insist on wearing long sleeves and then complain you’re hot.” you grumble. “you’re making me hot just by looking at you.”

he scoffs softly at that, as if the answer is obvious. “i wear it because i enjoy being properly dressed,” he replies, smoothing an imaginary crease from his sleeve before leveling you with a look. “and physiologically speaking, it’s significantly easier to warm up than it is to cool down.”

“so, like i said,” he murmurs, reaching for his tea again, “the thermostat stays where it is.”

and just like that, the war begins . . .

the rest of the day was full of quiet hostilities:

the two of you swiping the thermostat in opposite directions each time you walked by, addressing each other by first name as if you were two disgruntled coworkers trapped in an enemies to lovers arrangement rather than of spouses, nanami opening windows for “circulation” while you wrapped yourself in blankets like a victorian child afflicted with a devastating illness, texting each other back and forth instead of verbally communicating.

clearly, neither of you were willing to concede. which only meant this was quickly becoming a battle of endurance rather than a dispute about “temperature”. which also meant this was not going to end soon.

or so you thought.

despite the many, many hours of domestic warfare, the two of you still end up in bed the same way you always did, backs turned dramatically beneath the blankets, the thermostat unfortunately still set at 63. which meant nanami was winning.

the cold seeped through the sheets and curled around your legs until your body instinctively tucks in on itself, shoulders hunching deeper beneath the comforter with a quiet frown hidden against your pillow. beside you, nanami remaining entirely unaffected, laid comfortably on his side with one arm tucked beneath his pillow, warmth practically radiating off of him in waves.

it was infuriating.

because no matter how committed you were to the cold war, your body had always betrayed you first when it came to your husband.

sometime somewhere in between stubbornness and sleep, you found yourself shifting toward him subconsciously, inch by inch until your forehead presses against his back, your leg slipping over his beneath the blankets in search of warmth. the soft fabric of the white shirt he’d changed into earlier brushes against your skin, warm from sleep and smelling faintly of cedarwood and tea.

and god, the bastard was warm.

firm beneath your touch too, broad shoulders relaxing slightly the second you curl fully into him with a sleepy little sigh.

you knew he was awake. you could tell by his breathing, it wasn’t the same comforting slow that soothed you once the day came to an end.

for a moment, neither of you said anything, pride still clawing at your insides. then came the soft shifting of sheets before nanami turned toward you, your forehead brushing against his chest as his strong arms came to cage you in instinctively, one settling around your waist while the other tucked beneath your head. his chin rested atop your hair with a quiet exhale, pulling you into his warmth. 

your fingers curl weakly into the front of his shirt, face pressing deeper against his chest despite yourself. somewhere above you, nanami hums softly, entirely too aware of the fact that you were the one to cave first.

an inevitable outcome.

“interesting,” he murmurs into your hair, sleep roughening his voice. “what happened to hating me?”

you grumble something incoherent against him.

“mm?” he asks, entirely too pleased with himself. “couldn’t quite hear you love.”

your brows pinch immediately. “still hate you.”

his chest rumbles faintly beneath your cheek at that, amusement subtle but absolutely there. absolutely nanami.

“so, you admit defeat?”

you tilt your head up just enough to glare at him through the dark. “i told you. don’t say anyth—”

you were going to argue. save whatever was left of your pride.

except your words barely make it out before he tips your face up just enough to cut you off with a slow kiss, warm and unbearably smug beneath the blankets.

any and all insults died in your throat as butterflies began to bloom low in your stomach, your leg still hiked around his waist while his warmth slowly melted the last stubborn pieces of your pride away as your lips firmly molded against his own, a soft sigh escaping you. one of spite, obviously.

you could feel the faint curve of amusement against your lips when your annoyed little huff melts into him anyway — the exact outcome the two of you had been stubbornly dancing around all day out of pettiness and “spite.”

nanami pulls away from you before resting his thumb on your lower lip. “there you are love,” he murmurs softly against your mouth, breath mingling with yours: entirely too pleased with himself.

“63 seems perfectly fine to me, no?”

he only watches as your expression softens in real time before giving the faintest nod — mentally noting the effect he had on you.

“mm,” he murmurs. “thought so.”

what a horrible, horrible man you married.