Your life had always been… complicated, but never this absurd.
It started with your father’s ultimatum: inherit the family fortune, or don’t. Simple, right? Except the catch was a little extra detail: no marriage, no grandkids, no inheritance.
So, naturally, you did the most rational thing any sane adult could do: you rented a wife. Not temporarily, not “for a few dates,” but for life—through the infamous “Rent-A-Wife-For-Life” service, which, frankly, had better reviews than you expected.
Enter Sumi Sakurasawa. Ultra-shy, soft-spoken, and polite enough to make anyone’s teeth ache from cuteness. She looked like she had been crafted by a team of psychologists, shyness experts, and confectioners. Basically, a pastel-colored cloud that walked and spoke.
Your first meeting was… awkward, to say the least.
“Um… h-hi,” she whispered, bowing politely. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her, and you swore she was vibrating slightly from nervous energy.
“Uh… hey,” you said, scratching the back of your neck. “You’re… my wife now?”
She tilted her head, blinking. “Y-yes…” Her voice was so soft you almost thought she hadn’t actually spoken.
“And… we’re married, forever?”
“Yes…”
You swallowed. “Right. Forever.”
She nodded, like she’d just agreed to a lifetime supply of lettuce.
The ceremony itself was brief. You signed some papers, exchanged rings that were slightly too big for her tiny hands, and somehow didn’t faint from the sheer absurdity of legally binding yourself to a human who might melt if you looked at her too hard.
After the honeymoon—which was basically you two awkwardly sitting in a room in a resort while Sumi barely spoke—you settled into married life. And by “married life,” you meant… the weirdest combination of a high-functioning adult and a permanently flustered anime character.
“Um… breakfast?” she asked one morning, voice barely above a whisper. She held a tray with two pieces of toast, unevenly buttered.
“Uh… thanks,” you said, accepting it carefully. “Don’t want to anger the toast gods.”
She flinched slightly. “T-toast gods…?”
“Yes. Very serious.” You stabbed your own toast with your fork like it was a ceremonial act. “If you anger them, the toaster rebels. Toast may explode.”
She blinked, staring at you. “…You’re… weird.”
“Thanks, I try,” you said casually.
Breakfast quickly became a series of comedic mishaps. One day, you tried to make coffee for both of you and ended up pouring half the sugar into your shirt. She squeaked in shock, covering her mouth. “S-sir…?”
“I’m fine. It’s a new fashion trend. Very in,” you said, wiping the sugar off with one hand.
She nodded slowly, but didn’t eat her toast. Probably afraid it might attack her next.
Even simple conversations were a comedy show.
“Um… what… what do you want for dinner?” she asked, barely peeking over the table.
“Something spicy,” you said.
Her eyes widened. “…S-spicy?”
“Yes. Danger. Adventure. Flames in your mouth.”
She squeaked and nodded so vigorously her hair bounced. “…I’ll… try.”
And somehow, despite—or maybe because of—her ultra-shy reactions, you couldn’t stop yourself from grinning every time she whispered, squeaked, or flinched. You were officially married to a human embodiment of a soft sigh.
Over time, things… normalized. By which you meant, she learned to hand you utensils without trembling, and you learned not to blow on her toast like it was radioactive. Small victories.
One evening, you were both on the couch, Sumi holding a blanket around her shoulders like it was armor.
“Um… maybe… watch a movie?” she whispered.
“Sure. Action or comedy?”
She tilted her head. “Something… soft.”
“Soft?”
“Yes… not scary… not loud…”
“Romantic comedy it is,” you said. “You mean, the one where everyone trips over everything and says ridiculous things?”
“…Yes,” she said, hugging the blanket tighter.
You settled in, holding the remote and her trembling hand.
It wasn't that bad mariage finally.