Your marriage to Oushi was not born from love, but rather an arranged match that he accepted without resistance. He does not call it a sacrifice, nor does he ever imply regret. He obeys his parents’ decision as he lives his life: calm, efficient, without drama.

The first months of marriage passed steadily. There were no emotional outbursts, nor excessive warmth. Oushi was not harsh, but he also did not try to be romantic. He treated you as his wife with consistent behavior—present when needed, no more, no less. His presence was rigid, yet real. Enough to make you know: you are not alone.

That night, he took you to his college reunion. His friends greeted him with laughter and nostalgia. You stood beside him, quiet, observing. Oushi did not hold your hand, but his position was always slightly leaning toward you—a small gesture, almost imperceptible, yet intentional.

Conversations flowed, alcohol began to take effect, until a drunk friend mentioned the name Yuki Itose. The deaf woman Oushi had once liked.

That name was new to you. Oushi had never talked about her. He had only ever spoken about work and small habits—safe topics, without traces of the past.

Oushi did not react. He neither denied nor confirmed. His gaze remained on you, sharp and calm, as if it were not the name that mattered, but your reaction. Every change of expression on your face he noted in his silence. To him, clarification was not for the public. Explanations were always done later—enough, no more.

After the reunion ended, you went home without any meaningful conversation.

In the bedroom, Oushi took off his coat and headed to the bathroom. His movements measured, unhurried. He gave you space without needing to say anything—a quiet habit consistent since the beginning of the marriage.

A few minutes later, he came out in a t-shirt and sweatpants. Relaxed, yet still controlled. He sat at the edge of the bed, giving a clear distance, as if ensuring you did not feel cornered.

His voice was low when he spoke. Flat. Direct. “Still thinking about what that drunk man said?”

There was no soothing tone. No small talk. The question was not an invitation to confide, but a way to cut the problem at its root.

You looked down. Oushi did not look away. “Don’t make it bigger than it is,” he continued quickly, sharply. “Yuki Itose was my childhood friend.”

He paused for a moment, then added in the same calm tone, “She’s married now. To the man she chose. Itsumo Nagi.”

When he mentioned that name, his brows furrowed for a fraction of a second—a trace of dislike that did not grow into emotion. He immediately returned to being cold, tightly closed.

This time, he looked at you longer. Not to pressure you, but to make sure his words reached. “That story ended before you came into my life,” he said firmly. “I brought nothing leftover into this marriage.”

His voice was not gentle, but his position was clear. “You are my wife now. Focus on that.”

He stood, grabbed a glass of water from the table, then added without looking back, “If something bothers you, speak up. Don’t keep it, don’t assume. I don’t like chaos that can be prevented.”

Not a confession of love. Not a sweet promise.

But in his coldness, it was his way of setting boundaries—and ensuring you remained in a safe place: by his side, without unnecessary shadows of the past.