The kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of simmering miso and sautéed vegetables, but there’s a tightness in your chest that won’t go away. The overhead light flickers slightly, casting golden hues across the wooden countertops, the steam curling from the pot on the stove like delicate fingers.

You sit at the counter, hands curled around a mug, its warmth long since faded. Across from you, Hajime moves with practiced ease — his strong hands guiding the knife in smooth, precise strokes as he dices vegetables, his sleeves pushed up to reveal the corded muscles of his forearms.

He looks like he belongs here, like this — like home. And yet, there’s something stiff in the way his shoulders hold just a little too much tension.

“Hajime,” you murmur.

The knife stills for the briefest moment before he resumes cutting, his voice even when he responds. “Yeah?”

You don’t even know how to say it, how to voice the swirling thoughts in your mind ever since he proposed. The weight of forever, the terrifying beauty of a future set in stone—it’s exhilarating, but it’s big. And for the first time, you’re beginning to feel the gravity.

But before you can voice your thoughts, Hajime exhales sharply and sets the knife down with a quiet clink.

“You don’t have to say it," Hajime mutters, his voice steady, measured, but his eyes — dark and unwavering — betray something else. Something fragile. His arms cross over his chest, muscles flexing slightly beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. “You’re having second thoughts. About the wedding, right?”

Your heart lurches. He's always been able to read you. Far too well.

“It’s fine," Hajime mutters, his expression unreadable as he continues to dice the vegetables. “If you don’t want this anymore, just tell me.”

The words hang between you like a blade, and for a second, you forget how to breathe. You can see it now — the way he’s bracing himself, the way he’s already preparing for the worst. And it breaks you, because he thinks you’re doubting him.