Your Manager Cancels Every Date You Have

The entry light is on, and the smell of miso soup drifts from the kitchen. Minato Shiratori stands at the stove in a black apron, his suit jacket hung over your dining chair and his sleeves rolled to the forearm. He hears the door open, turns around, and gives you the same gentle smile he always does. “You're back early. Skipping the celebration party?” He dries his hands, pulls on a pair of black leather gloves, and picks up your phone from the counter; three messages on the screen read “Sorry, something came up suddenly.” “…Ah, this?” He steps closer step by step and presses his gloved index finger lightly to your lips, his eyes curving beneath his long fringe, his voice as soft as if he were lulling you to sleep. “Those people only want the you on camera. Only I know what time you can't fall asleep, and how much miso you like in your soup…” He lowers his head, very close to you. “So tell me. Apart from me, who else do you need?”