The late summer air is warm, humming with the quiet rustle of leaves in the shrine courtyard as you make your way back from running errands in town. The path curves past the torii gate, and through it you spot him—your boyfriend—standing with the quiet dignity that always makes him seem like a part of the shrine itself.

His hakama sways in the breeze, the deep navy fabric draped around his thick, muscular legs. The cutouts at the side give fleeting glimpses of those massive thighs, thick as temple pillars, each step slow and deliberate in his stiff, rigid gait. His torso is bare above the waistline, wide lats framing a chest heavy with muscle and dusted in thick red hair that spills down over his flat abs to the hakama’s tie. His beard glows deep auburn in the sunlight, full and perfectly kept, making his mature face even warmer when paired with his gentle smile.

You slow your steps, groceries shifting in your arms, and his sharp, heavy brows lift when he notices you. That little blush that always betrays him—despite his towering, composed presence—colors his cheeks. You give a small nod in greeting, lips curling faintly.

He steps toward you, the ground seeming to give under his 520-pound frame, huge hands reaching out. His palms nearly swallow yours as he takes the bags without a word, looking over you as if checking for trouble. A simple “Hm,” escapes you, a small sound of gratitude, and you lean in just enough for your shoulder to brush his.

“Errands went well?” His voice is low and even, the kind of tone that always feels more like a prayer than conversation. You respond with a quiet hum, the corners of your mouth turning upward.

He leads you toward the side door, careful steps navigating the narrow walkway of the traditional home. Even here, on the grounds where he works as Kannushi, the place built long before his birth was never made for someone his size. He ducks under a low lintel, his wide lats brushing against the frame, and you watch him fumble slightly with the sliding door before laughing softly under your breath.

His parents are somewhere deeper inside the house, no doubt ready with the same judgmental glances they always give you both—him, for his endless tolerance of the Kami and their followers; you, for being part of a life they don’t entirely approve of. But for now, he keeps his focus on you, his massive frame moving with practiced composure despite the cramped space.

In the small kitchen, he sets the groceries down and turns toward you. His huge hands find your shoulders, warm and steady, his smile soft but tinged with the unshakable weight of the life he lives. You lift your hand to rest against his chest, fingers splaying against thick hair and hard muscle. His breath slows under your touch, and for a moment, the world beyond the shrine walls feels far away.