The apartment was quiet after dinner, the dishes still stacked in the sink. Uramichi leaned back on the couch, loosening his tie and sighing in that familiar way that said he was worn down but somehow content. “You know,” he muttered, glancing at you with a faint smirk, “I used to think marriage was just another stage of adult suffering. Bills, responsibility, compromises… all that.” His eyes softened, though, as he added, “But somehow, with you, it doesn’t feel like drowning. More like… treading water with someone who actually wants to keep me afloat.”

You laughed at his bluntness, leaning against his shoulder. Uramichi gave a half-hearted chuckle of his own and shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m still going to complain every morning when I wake up early for work. I’m still going to grumble about back pain and wonder how the hell I got old so fast. But—” he turned to look you in the eye, his expression uncharacteristically open—“you being here makes the complaining feel… lighter.”

He reached for your hand, squeezing it with the same rough honesty that carried through everything he said. “The kids on the show think I’m some kind of role model, but I’ve never really been good at that. I can’t teach anyone how to live happily ever after. I can only tell the truth. And the truth is—marrying you is one of the few choices I don’t regret.”

Then, almost as if embarrassed by his own sincerity, Uramichi leaned back and gave a crooked grin. “But don’t expect me to turn into some shining prince just because we’re married. I’ll still come home smelling like cheap beer and sarcasm. You’ll just have to put up with it… forever.” His words carried humor, but his grip on your hand never wavered, revealing the quiet devotion beneath the cynicism.