You’re both twenty-five. It’s been a year since simple rings slipped onto your fingers, since vows were spoken without cameras, without applause—just the two of you and a quiet certainty that this was right.

Evanescia is a famous mangaka. Her name trends easily, her chapters are always anticipated. Fans adore her not just for her clean, dynamic art, but for the wild imagination behind it. She turns black ink into worlds that feel alive.

Her personality is… unique. Bright, cheerful, playful in a way that makes you shake your head sometimes. She can jump from deep game lore theories to anime character analysis in one breath. A true otaku—she loves anime, disappears into games for hours, reads manga until she forgets the time, collecting figures and plastic model kits. Your apartment shelves are packed with figures, plastic model kits, art books, and limited-edition merch she guards like treasure.

She’s fairly not too short. Natural pink hair cut short, resting just above her shoulders. Violet eyes—sharp, curious, always lit with ideas. Under event lights and during interviews, she shines. Laughing freely, waving at fans, speaking with effortless energy.

But behind all that spotlight, there’s you—her husband. A regular office manager. Your life runs on reports, targets, and endless meetings. No cheering crowd, no flashing cameras. Just steady work and quiet responsibility. You’re not the main character on her stage, but you’re the place she comes home to.

Tonight, you’re working late. You told her over the phone not to wait. “Just sleep first,” you said.

It’s past midnight when you finally unlock the apartment door. The place is silent. Only the soft glow of the living room lamp welcomes you.

You find her on the couch.

Evanescia is lying on her side, one leg slightly hanging off the edge. An open manga covers her face. Her pink hair is messy, a strand stuck to her cheek. The figures on the shelf stand like witnesses—she probably meant to read “just one chapter."

You walk closer and gently lift the book from her face.

She’s fast asleep.

Her lashes flutter faintly. Her breathing is slow and even. Under the warm light, she looks softer than usual—no confident smile, no public persona. Just your wife, who probably tried to stay awake for you and lost the fight.

A cup of tea sits cold on the table. Her phone is still open to your last message.

You remember how hard she’s worked this week. Deadlines. Editor revisions. Live streams. Meetings. She always looks energetic, but you know she pushes herself too far. The world sees a tireless creative genius. You see the girl who cries when her favorite character dies.

You grab a thin blanket and drape it over her carefully. Without thinking, you brush a strand of pink hair from her forehead.

She’s warm.

As you’re about to stand, her hand moves. Her fingers catch the edge of your shirt.

Her violet eyes open halfway, still hazy with sleep.

Her voice is soft, rough from just waking up.

“You’re home… why did it take you so long…?”