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Nanami Kento was completely, and utterly, screwed.
He hadn’t expected the day to end like this: slouched in a corner of his favorite bakery, tie crooked, hair tousled, and his head—oh, his head was pounding.
It was meant to be a quick stop, a coffee or a pastry to settle his nerves before heading home. But somehow, merely walking into the place had set him off.
Something about the warm, cinnamon laced air, the subtle wafts of vanilla, and— No. It was the baker. It always came down to you.
You stood there, apron tied loosely at the waist, a few stray strands of hair falling from the knot at the back of your head. Your hands moved fluidly as you worked, effortlessly elegant, the tip of your finger brushing along the top of a pastry in a way that made his throat close up. You were so unnecessarily beautiful.
He should’ve known better. Should’ve just ordered what he wanted and left, but your presence made everything else fade into the background.
“Nanami,” you said, voice gentle, like you were pulling him out of some kind of daydream. Your eyes flicked up from the lattice pie crust you were arranging, a flicker of admiration? Worry? Maybe it was his wishful thinking.
“You look real tired.”
He cleared his throat, adjusting his collar, though he knew it was a losing battle. It had been one hard fucking day, and now, for some reason, every part of him felt more exposed in this small, intimate space. “Long day.” he said, keeping his tone even as he gestured to your current project. “Came for a slice.”
You smiled, a smile that seemed to know exactly how much he was trying to hide, a soft weight pressing against him. “I see,” you said slowly, eyes trailing over his figure long enough to notice. He shifted uncomfortably, looking away, but not without catching the faint smudge of flour on your cheek.
He wanted to reach out, to brush it away. Though he wasn’t sure how he’d explain it to himself if he did.
“You’ve been working long hours?” he asked, trying to shift the focus on something, anything else.
You looked to the clock on the wall behind him, then back to him. “A few,” you said casually, before adjusting something behind the counter. “But I don’t mind.”
You paused, “seems like you could use a break.”
A fork falls, and when you bend down to pick it up, the slight shift of your body catches his eye. The position, the curve of your back—it gave him ideas. Unwelcome ones, at that. Blood rushed south, and suddenly, it wasn’t coffee he was craving.
Entirely uninnocent, you continued. “You’re always in and out so quickly,” light but pointed. “You can take your time here, y’know. It’s nice and quiet.”
The moment stretched on, more awkward than it had any right to be. He could practically taste the tension when you reached for a plate sitting by the register.
“I’ll take two slices and an americano,” he said suddenly, voice significantly hoarser than intended.
There it was again—the curve of your lips, the small, satisfied grin you sported that made him feel like a schoolboy confessing to his crush.
“Coming right up,” you nodded, and he’s almost certain you slowed on purpose, taking your time slicing, each motion deliberate and unhurried.
And before either of you could fully process it, the lights above flickered, darkness swallowing the room. The hum of the machinery, the mixer blades, the ambience—it all came to a quick halt.
For a moment, it was eerily silent.
Then he heard your voice, exasperated undertones evident despite the lack of visuals. “Sorry, I know you need to get home. I swear I pay my bills.”
He could make out the sounds of you feeling around the tables to navigate the room. Probably in search of the breaker box, if there was one at all.
In the pitch black of your company, he still couldn’t find it in himself to leave. At least not yet.
There was a shuffle—your footsteps barely audible over the stillness—followed by the unmistakable squeak of something giving way beneath you, the muted thump of your body hitting the ground, and the clatter of a metal tray toppling from the counter.
“Shit—” he moved before he could think, reaching into his pocket and swiping his phone’s flashlight on. The glow sliced through the dark, casting long, uneven shadows against the bakery walls.
His beam found you sitting on the floor, palm braced against the tile, hands cradling your ankle. Near your feet, a smear of something glossy: a dollop of custard or maybe an egg wash.
He crouched, assessing you. “Are you hurt?”
You blew out a breath, turning over your hands, not so clean anymore. Then your foot, which you carefully flexed. “I don’t think so,” you frowned, but when you shifted to stand, a quiet hiss escaped.
Nanami didn’t hesitate. “Stay put.”
You blinked at him, clearly taken aback. The dull throb in your ankle kept you from arguing. You pointed your thumb toward the back. “Fridge,” you said through a wince. “There should be an ice pack on the freezer shelf. Do you think you could—”
Without a word, he pushed to his feet, phone leading the way. He navigated past the swinging doors, slipping through the narrow doorway that led to the storage pantry. The air there was cooler, lined with metal racks and ingredient bins.
He spotted a blue industrial fridge and heaved it open, the faint chill seeping into his sleeves as he reached inside. A few conveniently placed ice packs accompanied by ziploc bags of strawberries.
Less than a minute later, he returned, earnestly kneeled beside you once more, gingerly pressing the ice pack onto the afflicted area (your left foot).
“You really didn’t have to,” you mumbled, voice softer now, edged with something he couldn’t quite place.
“Of course I did,” he said simply. And despite himself, despite the long day and the exhaustion catching up to him, he didn’t move away.
Nanami propped his phone up against the closest cabinet, illuminating your expression—clearly very grateful, maybe a little surprised.
It also made him really want to kiss you.
You sighed, watching him. “You’re really good at this,” you said, quieter now, calmer.
“Taking care of people, I mean.”
Nanami exhaled sharply through his nose, grip tightening for a fraction of a second.
“You should elevate it,” he grunted, voice jaggy, words landing somewhere between nervous command and gentle suggestion.
“You didn’t leave when the lights were still on.” you countered, tilting your head at him.
He could have. should have. instead, he was here with you—pulse hammering in his throat, stomach twisting at the way you looked at him.
Your hands moved with a mind of their own, fingertips brushing against his wrist. Fleeting, yet it still burned. Nanami was already stiff, and that simple contact made something snap inside him.
The ice pack is forgotten when he presses his palm flat against the floor beside you, leaning in enough to feel the warmth of your breath against his own lips.
“You must’ve really had a long day.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. God, has he always smelled this good? “You could say that.”
He hesitated, and then your fingers curled around the front of his tie, hardly grabbing, and he was a goner.
It wasn’t rushed. Nanami kissed like he meant it. No frantic clashing of teeth or fumbling for control—he had thought about it for far too long, and now that he had finally allowed himself to indulge, he wasn’t going to waste a single second of it.
You made a soft sound against him; his forehead, like clockwork—rested against yours, breath uneven.
You swallowed, eyes flickering down to his mouth again. “Not gonna blame this on exhaustion, are you?”
His lips quirked—not a smirk, but close. “No.”
It was too easy, too natural. He’d been standing on the edge of this moment for far too long, waiting for an excuse to finally fall. And now that he had, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to find his footing again.
“Good.” and before either of you could think better of it, you pulled him back in.
♡︎ ♡︎ ♡︎
His hands, broad and greedy, spread you apart, thumbs pressing in, keeping you exactly where he wanted. A curse rumbled in his throat at the sight of you: glistening, open, waiting for him. So fucking pretty. He leaned in, let the heat of his breath fan over you, teasing, testing, before dragging his tongue up the length of you, slow, deliberate, and savoring.
Your thighs trembled at the first stroke, fingers clawing hard at his hair, tugging in pure, mindless desperation. He groaned against you, vibration sinking deep, right where you needed it. Didn’t stop you. Didn’t tell you to be gentle. He let you take what you wanted, let you use him however you liked. “Nanami—”
His fingers dug in harder as he sucked. “Call me Kento,” he kissed the inside of your thigh, lips warm and damp, “go ahead, do it again.”
You barely had time to register it before he was back on you, everywhere—open mouthed kisses, slow, obscene drags of his tongue, sharp edge of his teeth scraping sensitive skin, just to see you jolt.
“If I’m doing this,” another deep, wet lick, “we’re far past formalities, don’t you think?”
Your answer was in the way your body reacted, hips rocking into him, desperate little whimper breaking from your throat. It only spurred him on.
“That’s it,” he mumbled from under you, voice half praise, half tease. His tongue flicked against your clit, pressure building. “Let me hear you.”
His hands kept you wide open, holding you still as he worked you over; he buried himself in you like he’d been starved. (He had been.)
He’d been letting his own discipline choke him, and you wanted him to lose it, he’s sure.
He yanked your top apart, fabric jerking from your shoulders. The buttons of your blouse popped free one by one. The clasp of your bra released with a quick, almost inaudible snap. A hand rested on your thigh as the other reached past you.
A cabinet door creaked open, and a slow hum rumbled from his chest, thoughtful.
“Ah,” Nanami mused, pulling down a familiar canister. He spun it in his palm, reading the label as if he hadn’t already made up his mind. His thumb flicked idly against the cap before he met your eyes, mischief replacing his usual composure.
“I assume this is for coffee,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners while he turned the label toward you. Reddi Wip, made with real cream.
“Can I use this?” he coaxed when you didn’t answer, free hand skimming along your side. “Please?”
You nod.
“I’ll be careful,” he murmured, eyes hazy as he bit the cap off. “Unless, of course, you prefer otherwise.”
Nanami’s jaw pulled taut as he watched the first dollop of whipped cream land. It pools, soft peaks forming against the curve of your chest.
His breath shuddered, a rough, unintentional inhale, fingers flexing. His cock gave the faintest, needy twitch in his slacks, heavy against the fabric, but he kept a placid face… for the most part.
His palm scaled up, fingers brushing under the swell of your breast as he leaned in, mouth a breath away from the mess he made. “Can’t let this go to waste,” he murmured, voice thick, nearly lost to the sound of his own restraint. “Stay still, sweetheart.”
A beat, then his tongue flicks out—licked a long, deliberate stripe through the sweetness, from your stomach up to your tits—lips trailing along the sticky trail.
You grappled at the neat blonde strands at the nape of his neck, tugging enough to make him groan again, the sound vibrating against you. He tilted his head, pressing his lips over the soft swell of your nipple, gently sucking and biting like he’s working overtime.
“Mm— been thinkin’ about this all day,” he panted, voice dripping. “Needed to get my hands on you—” another lick, another groan, “needed to taste you.”
The way he looked up at you, lids heavy, pupils blown—pooled between your legs. You swallowed, breath hitching as his lips brushed higher, dangerously close to your throat. “Gonna take your time with me, Kento?” you rasped out as he palmed at you again.
He chuckled, breath at your pulse. “Oh, baby,” he murmured, kissed below your jaw. “You have no idea.”
He traced over the sticky remnants on your skin until he dragged his thumb over your lips, prodding.
“Open,” he ordered, and when you did, he slid his thumb past your lips, watching as you closed around it. He staggered, hips rolling forward in insensible need. “Fuck, sweetheart—gonna ruin you, y’know that?”
A hand slipped between you, unfastening his belt with a quick pull. The clink of metal echoed in the charged air, and then—zzzt!—the sound of his zipper sliding down, agonizingly slow.
And when he finally sinked into you, raw, he swore you were trying to swallow him whole. It doesn’t take you long to adjust, and it doesn’t take him long ‘till he’s rutting into you, frenzied and desperate, spasming inside you.
“Goddd— you’re so. hah— fucking. tight.” he leaned in to kiss you, practically drooling all over your tongue.
You were milking him, the strangled noises both of you made not exactly helping his case. He grinded and pumped into you until the cabinets started creaking, thrusts growing lazier and lazier.
Soon enough—you were seeing stars. Your back arched as his knees buckled, hands moving to brace on the counter while he fucked you through your high.
“Juuuust like that, good girl,” Nanami cooed, nipping at your collarbone as he started back up again, his precum collecting at his base as he picked up the rhythm.
His forearms slipped under your thighs, tilting your pelvis up as his hips smacked over and over against yours.
“So good to me, baby. You’re—” thrust. “So,” thrust. “Good,” thrust. “F’me.”
Nanami’s face grew hot as he chased his climax, muscles tightening as he emptied himself inside of you, spilling out and moaning into your mouth when your eyes rolled back during your second.
He gently pulled out, thumb grazing the back of your hand. “Feeling okay?” his eyes were locked on yours, waiting for an answer.
You nodded, closing your eyes, letting yourself breathe. “Better than okay.”
He didn’t let go of your hand. Instead, he reached over to where his button up was on the counter, draping it over your shoulders.
“I didn’t mean to—” Nanami started, voice hesitant.
“You don’t have to apologize,” you interrupted, squeezing his wrist. You pulled it to your chest, heart still beating, now a steady thrum.
“I trust you.”
A breath of relief left him then, shoulders relaxing, weight lifted. He smiled, sincere. “Thank you.”
His fingers traced slow patterns on your skin, touch anchoring you in the moment.
“If you need anything,” he whispered, “I’m here.”
You shifted, leaning in toward him, lips brushing his ear as you spoke. “And if I need more than anything?” you teased, laughing into another kiss.
Nanami raised an eyebrow, lips curling as he fake-checked his watch. “I’ll need to check my schedule.”
He turned away to grab a clean towel, dampening it with cool water.
He looked like he belonged in there. In your bakery, your life. You fidgeted with his shirt, pulling it tighter around you.
Nanami wiped the sweat from your brow, hand brushing your hair, tucked a loose strand behind your ear. He leaned in, pressing his mouth to your forehead before moving to grab a glass of water from the counter. You watched him, smiling as he returned to gently hand it to you, fingers lingering.
“Same time tomorrow?”