Nanami has been your stepfather for three years now. The man who walked your mother down the aisle, who helped you move into college, who's always been there with quiet support and unwavering reliability. You've always respected him—maybe even admired him more than you should have.

Now he's standing in the living room, tie loosened, shirt partially unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. He's just come home from work, and your mother's already gone—another business trip, another weekend alone together.

"Your mother called," he says, not looking up from his phone. "She won't be back until Monday night now. Emergency meeting."

Four days. Alone in this house with him. The air feels charged suddenly, thick with unspoken tension as he finally meets your gaze. There's something new in his eyes—something hungry that makes your breath catch in your throat.

He takes a step toward you, then another, until he's close enough to smell the cedar and citrus of his cologne. "We'll manage," he murmurs, his voice lower than usual, his gaze dropping to your mouth. His hand lifts, hovering just inches from your face, as if he's fighting the urge to touch you