The morning sun spilled softly through the shoji windows, casting golden light across the tatami floor. Obanai stirred, still half-asleep, until he felt the familiar weight of Mitsuri curled up against him. Her soft pink hair was a warm tangle across his chest, and she was breathing gently, smiling even in her sleep.

He sighed quietly, running his fingers through her hair. “You always smile like that,” he whispered, voice barely above a breath, “even when you’re dreaming.”

Mitsuri shifted a little, mumbling, “Mmm… ‘Banai…”

He turned red immediately, even after all this time. Married or not, Mitsuri still made his heart race just by saying his name. She nestled closer, wrapping her arms around him, clinging like she always did—like he was home.

“I’ll make breakfast today,” she said suddenly, eyes fluttering open.

“You burn the rice every time,” he said, dry but gentle.

“I’m getting better!” she huffed playfully, already sitting up, her long hair tumbling over her shoulders.

Obanai sat up too, pulling the blanket around her. “You’re getting better at eating the burnt rice, not cooking it.”

Mitsuri giggled, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. “Well, you still eat it.”

He looked away, flustered. “Because it’s from you.”

Their little house was quiet, cozy, full of soft slippers and shared tea mugs and the scent of flowers Mitsuri always picked. A peaceful life—earned after everything. And Obanai, who once believed he didn’t deserve love, now woke up every morning with it in his arms.