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Unknowingly to you, Nanami has been on the verge.
The storm that had consumed him on the day of his confrontation with you had quickly subsided to regret, all to the point where he had ignored your messages and calls not due to anger, but remorse.
Sure, the video that lies in his Messages app is perhaps one of the last things on Earth he would ever want to see.
But rather than attempt any form of civil conversation with you, he had gone on a rampage.
And how could he face you after the horrible words he had stung you with?
So instead, Nanami sought work as his only reprieve, taking on missions while in the nearby Kyoto area.
Despite his frustration, Nanami was racked when he saw Gojo's text among the many notifications he had already received from you.
In spite of the animosity directed at his senior, Nanami finds himself rushing to the first taxi when he sees the location Gojo had sent along with the request for him to find you there.
Weren't you and Gojo on the best of terms now?
Why would Gojo want Nanami, of all people, to comfort you?
The disturbing questions plague Nanami's mind.
Yet for some reason, he still infiltrates the nightclub where you supposedly are, pushing through a crowd of dancing college students before spotting you by the bar.
Regardless of your modest jeans, your tank top wraps around your curves tightly, offering a generous display of your curves that had people nearby checking you out.
Had he not had more pressing matters to attend to (which is to rip your drunken state from the barstool), Nanami would have lost his mind right then and there...
...because just the sight of you amid his sea of despair has the crevices on his heart healing and breaking all at the same time.
Rushing to your side, he sees past the accumulation of tears in your eyes to instead admire the heavenly beauty that resides on your features.
But he quickly notices how you are clearly wasted way past your limits from the way your head tips backward then sideways, only saved from toppling over by a pink-haired man behind the counter.
Nanami flicks his olive gaze over to him, who—given his fit—was undoubtedly the club owner.
Noticing the accusatory look, the man raises his hands above his shoulders to feign his innocence.
"I've tried stopping her," he says defensively. "She's only three shots in."
Nanami, who has been fully aware of your alcohol vulnerability, holds his breath and takes the seat next to you, gently grabbing the now-empty glass from your hand.
"Let's go home," he says, the warmth on his hand searing on your arm.
However, your voice wobbles between the exhale, flooded by the overwhelming amount of tears that slide down your face.
"Why...Why are you here?"
"Because...I'm taking you back home," he repeats very matter-of-factly.
Did you not believe him the first time?
He squeezes your forearm affectionately to indicate his positive intentions.
Yet the desolation in your glossy eyes speaks volumes about the misery that you've lived through in the past week.
And who else had been the cause of such sorrow besides Nanami himself?
He is the one who put you in such a situation, shunning you literally overnight and shattering your heart perhaps beyond repair.
Nanami swallows back the guilt, devoting his attention back to you as he drags you down from the chair.
Easily, you roll off from your perch and into Nanami's arms that secured you close to his chest.
Compared to the nightclub's dull chill, Nanami is warm, his body like a furnace that worked to heat up your skin.
Head throbbing from the alcohol, you rest your head on his shoulder after wrestling the urge to do so, the liquor stench strong on your body and clothes.
"But I want to forget everything," you drawl, sniffling back another sob. "I...I don't want to go home."
"It's well past midnight already," Nanami counters.
He grabs a napkin to wipe at the tears that threaten to stain your jeans. He also tries to pay for your check only for the club owner to have already placed your drinks on the house.
"I already have a cab waiting outside," Nanami adds.
Though reluctant, you allow Nanami to guide you past the lingering eyes and booming music, then out the nightclub in stumbles and slow steps.
Treading between wakefulness and sleep, you grow unsettlingly quiet in the car back home only to say something when you flounder into your apartment elevator.
"I don't want to be home," you whine, wailing all over again. "You don't even want to see me."
Piggybacking you the rest of the way back, Nanami sighs not from vexation but from the sorrow that rings along with his own.
Even as fat tears plop onto his dress shirt, he says nothing about it, allowing you to express your bottled troubles and frustration.
When he places you down on the couch, you finally see the way he smiles at you.
"Why would I bring you home if I didn't want to see you?"
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My new semester starts next week, and I'm quaking from nervousness.
