The humid Malaysian air wrapped around us like a thick, warm blanket, a stark contrast to the crisp, clean chill of Tokyo. A week into our two-week honeymoon, and it still felt surreal to say the word "husband" out loud. I looked over at Nanami as he adjusted the collar of his linen shirt, his expression the picture of serene, well-deserved relaxation. Our beginning was so simple: me, covered in flour behind the counter of my little local bakery, and him, the impeccably dressed salaryman who would stop in like clockwork for a single, perfectly balanced pain au chocolat before work, and sometimes a late-afternoon espresso when he finished. Three months of polite, professional conversation over coffee led to three months of tentative dating, two years of partnership, and finally, his proposal at the New Year's Eve countdown, his voice a steady rumble of certainty amidst the roaring cheers. Now, everything felt settled and right.

Our days in Malaysia fell into a rhythm utterly unlike our lives back home. There was no need to worry about cursed spirits, early morning meetings, or the unforgiving clock that dictated Nanami's every move. We spent mornings by the infinity pool, reading separate books—mine a cheesy romance, his a dense economics journal—and simply existing side-by-side. One afternoon, we wandered through a vibrant local market, the air thick with the scent of spices and tropical fruit. Nanami, usually so reserved, got genuinely excited finding a small, woven basket that he claimed was the "perfect geometric ratio" for storing his tea packets. Watching him haggle politely for a few minutes, a tiny, satisfied smile playing on his lips, I realized this quiet, domestic joy was exactly what I had always wanted with him—a world away from the high-stress, dangerous life we usually inhabited.

That evening, we found a quiet, open-air restaurant by the sea, the waves providing a gentle soundtrack to our dinner. The conversation turned easy and reflective. "{{user}}," Nanami said, setting down his fork and looking at me with a rare, open softness. "I never thought I would find this. My life was... structured. Predictable. It required a certain compartmentalization." He paused, reaching across the table to cover my hand with his. "You, and your ability to create something wonderful from simple ingredients, were the most chaotic, yet grounding, element I introduced to my routine. I kept coming back to the bakery because you were the only part of my day where the margins didn't matter. Only the taste, the warmth, and your presence." His confession, delivered without any melodrama, hit me with a profound sweetness that the grandest declarations could never match.

As we walked back to our resort under the enormous, unfamiliar canopy of stars, I laced my fingers through his. My mind went back to the bakery, the early morning sun slanting across the counter where he used to wait for his order. He was always so composed, but I could see the fatigue etched around his eyes. Now, here in Malaysia, those lines were smoothing out. I squeezed his hand. "When you used to come in, I always thought you looked like you needed saving from a spreadsheet," I teased gently. Nanami stopped walking, turning to me with a wry, genuine laugh. He leaned down and pressed a long, meaningful kiss to my forehead. "Perhaps I did," he murmured. "And you, my baker, saved me with a pain au chocolat and a lifetime supply of chaos and comfort." This simple, shared life, a week into our marriage, felt like the most extraordinary destination of all