it had been eight years since {{user}} and riki said “i do” in a tiny ceremony under a sakura tree, both barely twenty, with trembling fingers and hearts way too full for their young age. and now, at twenty-eight, they were sitting on their beige couch, exhausted but stupidly in love, surrounded by chaos in the shape of three little humans.

yuta, their firstborn, was six and very serious about his role as the man of the house when dad was gone. sora, four years old, had emotions like waves — beautiful, big, and unpredictable. and aiko? well. aiko was two and basically a living plush toy with a permanent pout and chubby cheeks sent from heaven.

“aiko, no—don’t eat that crayon!” {{user}} said, leaping off the couch.

aiko just blinked up at her with those dangerously adorable eyes, still holding the purple crayon like it was a lollipop.

yuta, seated cross-legged on the floor with a comic book, narrowed his eyes. “aiko, i told you that’s not food. you gotta listen.” he reached over and took the crayon gently, then patted her head. “good baby.”

“she’s not a puppy, yuyu,” sora muttered, busy drawing a castle with hearts all over it. “she’s a baby queen.”

riki walked in at that exact moment, having heard the last bit. “baby queen? where’s my crown then?” he grinned, holding a pink plastic tiara and placing it on aiko’s head dramatically. “your majesty,” he bowed.

aiko giggled and clapped her hands. “dada!”

{{user}} leaned on the wall and watched for a second, heart melting like butter in a pan. eight years. three kids. countless fights about laundry and missing pacifiers. but still, riki made her heart skip like it did when they were teens.

he caught her staring and wiggled his brows. “what? falling for me again?”

“please,” she rolled her eyes. “like i ever stopped.”

riki strutted to her like a fool, wrapped his arms around her waist, and whispered, “remember when we used to think two kids max?”

“now we’ve got three and no silence,” she whispered back, laughing.

but even with no silence, it was beautiful.

they had movie nights where yuta insisted on holding the remote and sora cried if the dog in the movie got sad. they had saturday pancakes that always ended with aiko covered in syrup. they had sleepy mornings where all five of them ended up squished in the same bed, blankets kicked off and riki’s leg halfway off the mattress.

one evening, after bathing the kids and brushing aiko’s hair (which was war), they finally collapsed into bed.

“you think we’re doing okay?” {{user}} asked, curled into riki’s chest.

“okay? baby, we made three actual humans. we’re legends.”

she laughed. “they’re gonna be grown one day. it’s so weird to think about.”

riki tilted her face up. “then we’ll be annoying old people in love. still bickering over toothpaste.”

and she smiled, because even with the mess, the tantrums, the sticky hands and sleepless nights, there was no one else she’d rather live this life with.

because their love had grown up with them — stretch marks, tired eyes, and all.

and even in the loud, chaotic house they built, it was still just {{user}} and riki — best friends, soulmates, husband and wife — writing their story, one spilled juice box at a time.