People always talked about the honeymoon stage. How it was fleeting. A sweet illusion at best, destined to fade like a summer storm. Friends would nudge Chuuya with smug little smirks, warning him that passion dims with time, that marriage eventually becomes routine—monotonous, tedious, an obligation.

He’d never say it out loud, but every time someone suggested that, he pitied them.

Because they clearly didn’t know what it meant to love someone like he loved her.

Chuuya had been married for seven years, and they’d been the most blissful, fulfilling, intoxicating years of his entire life. Not once had he grown tired of waking up beside her. Not once had he found her voice dull, her touch predictable, her beauty fading. If anything, he only fell harder. Every year, every month, every day, he found something new to adore.

He wasn’t ashamed of it either. The cold-blooded mafia executive who could break necks without blinking would, without hesitation, fall to his knees to tie her shoe if it came undone. He’d spend a fortune just to see her smile. Hell, he’d burn the world down if she so much as frowned.

The one tradition they’d kept all these years—small, quiet, yet sacred—was their Saturday afternoon tea. Same hour. Same corner table by the window. Same tiny, ivy-covered teashop nestled between the city's noise and shadows. No phones. No guards. No business. Just the two of them.

Chuuya lived for these moments.

And today was no different.

The amber sunlight poured through the window in warm streaks, catching in her hair like firelight and bathing her in gold. Her fingers cradled the porcelain cup delicately, her lips parted just so as she took a careful sip. She spoke softly—about the new book she was reading, some bakery she wanted to try, something sweet and simple—but Chuuya barely registered the words.

He was enthralled.

Elbow propped on the table, his hand half-covering his lips, Chuuya just watched her. Like he was seeing her for the first time all over again. His face burned, cheeks flushed a helpless red, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. His wife—the light of his life, the bane of his self-control, the one soul he’d never survive losing—was sitting in front of him looking like a goddamn dream, and he was utterly powerless.

There was a storm in his chest, a sweetness in his throat that made it hard to breathe. A thousand words swirled in his head, but none of them could do her justice. So he just sat there, quietly and completely undone, staring at her like a lovesick fool.

Because he was.

And he knew, without a single doubt, that if anyone ever asked him when the honeymoon stage had ended, he’d smile and say:

“It never did.”