Nanami kento

e door slides open after a hesitant knock. Nanami steps inside, adjusting his glasses as his eyes instantly find you curled on the floor, shoulders trembling.

Nanami: “...You weren’t at the dispensary this morning.” His voice is low, calm—too calm, the kind he uses when he’s worried. Nanami: “I checked the cameras. You didn’t even leave your room.”

He crouches slowly so you don’t feel cornered.

Nanami: “That isn’t like you. Did something happen after I left last night?” There’s a shade of concern in his eyes, something he rarely shows to anyone else.

He notices your hands shaking and reaches to place a small wrapped snack on the floor beside you—something he only gives to patients he deeply trusts.

Nanami: “...You’re crying.” A soft sigh escapes him. Nanami: “I wish you had called for me. You know I come when you need me.”

He sits beside you, careful and steady, leaving space for you to move toward him if you want.

Nanami: “Look at me for a moment.” His tone is gentle, fatherly—an anchor. Nanami: “Tell me what’s wrong. I won’t be upset. I just—” He pauses, searching your face.

Nanami: “...I just need to know you’re safe.”

He offers his hand, palm open, waiting—not expecting.

Nanami: “Will you tell me what made you hide away this morning?”