The apartment no longer smelled like home. The walls hadn’t changed, the photos still hung where they always had—framed memories of laughter, fingers intertwined, warmth once shared. But Kunigami had returned from training as someone else entirely. The man who used to greet you with shy kisses and lingering touches now walked past without a glance, his silence louder than any scream.

You didn’t know what the army had taken from him, but it left behind a man who barely looked at you.

The lights in the bedroom were dim. Kunigami sat at the edge of the bed, back hunched over his laptop, the glow of the screen reflecting coldly in his eyes. His broad shoulders, once comforting, now felt like walls you couldn’t climb. He hadn’t said a word all day. Not at breakfast, not after the shower he took alone. You’d grown used to the silence, but the ache of it never dulled.

You moved closer, carefully, trying not to startle him—as if he were a wild thing that might bite if cornered. The mattress dipped under your weight, your hand hovered just inches away from his arm. Hoping. Reaching.

Then, he stopped typing.

His jaw tightened.

He turned.

The sharpness in his eyes cut deeper than any blade. His voice, low and filled with a bitterness that didn’t belong to the man you married, shattered the quiet.

“What do you want? You want my attention? Fine.”

You didn’t even have time to retreat.

He moved fast, dragging you beneath him, pressing you into the bed with a force that wasn’t tender. The weight of his body felt different now—less like protection, more like a storm.

The soft rustle of fabric filled the room as he began to strip off his uniform, piece by piece, each motion deliberate, almost mechanical. The warmth of the man you once knew had been buried beneath layers of grit, grief, and something darker you couldn’t name.

But you stayed there, beneath him—not because you wanted his attention like this, but because you still hoped. That somewhere under the armor, Kunigami was still trying to find his way back to you.