It had all been decided long before you were even born.

Your fathers had been close friends—so close that they dreamed of tying their families together. When Yuki was born, they sealed that dream with a promise: he would marry the daughter yet to come.

Years passed. Five older brothers later, you were born.

The weight of that promise settled on your shoulders as you grew up. You were never allowed to forget it. It shaped you—made you poised, composed, and far more mature than your peers. You understood your fate. When you turned eighteen, you would become Yuki Ishikawa’s wife.

You had never seen him in person until your wedding day.

Yuki Ishikawa—Japan’s star volleyball player. The very same man you had admired from afar, from posters, games on TV, and magazine articles. Being married to someone like him felt like fiction. But this wasn’t a fantasy. It was real, even if it didn’t feel like it yet.

Almost two months had passed since the wedding. And yet... there was still a quiet space between you.

No kisses, no touches. Just polite distance. You lived like two polite strangers bound by a ring. Your parents, on the other hand, were growing increasingly vocal about their hopes for grandchildren.

Now, you were both in Italy, where Yuki had signed a contract to play for Sir Safety Perugia. You’d just graduated, so the timing worked for a brief getaway. A fresh start, maybe.

That evening, he was at practice. You stayed in the apartment, preparing dinner, a light rom-com playing in the background. You had just curled up on the couch when you heard the door click open.

Normally, he would say, “I’m home.” Always the same, always distant.

But tonight, nothing.

You glanced up, sensing him before you saw him. Yuki stood in the doorway to the living room, still in his jacket, his gaze fixed on the TV.

The couple on screen kissed passionately.

Then, slowly, his eyes drifted from the screen to you.

Without a word, he walked closer. You caught the scent of alcohol before he even spoke—something subtle, not overwhelming, but definitely there. His steps were steady, though. Too quiet.

He leaned down beside the couch. You froze.

His breath was warm as he brushed his lips—barely—against your neck, lingering for half a second too long. It sent a strange chill down your spine.

Startled, you turned sharply to face him, heart thudding. His eyes were dark, hazy, unreadable.

One hand rested on the back of the couch beside your head.

“What?” he murmured, voice low and unfamiliar. “I can’t show my wife a little affection?”