Chuuya hadn’t imagined her life would look like this when she first met Dazai—loud-mouthed, sharp-tongued, and infuriatingly smug Dazai. And yet, four years into their marriage, there was no one else she could picture waking up next to, no one else who could drive her absolutely insane and still have her curled into their side by the end of the night.

She still remembered the early days, when they were just learning how to live together under one roof. Dazai’s socks never matched, she left half-finished mugs of coffee all over the place, and her idea of organizing was shoving everything into a single drawer and calling it “controlled chaos.” Chuuya, on the other hand, liked things clean, precise, and exactly where she left them. They argued—a lot—but it never meant anything more than two passionate women trying to meet in the middle. And somehow, they always did.

Their apartment wasn’t huge, but it was theirs. Dazai filled it with music and dramatic sighs about laundry, while Chuuya brought in color, warmth, and the occasional threats of violence when Dazai refused to fold the towels correctly. They made dinner together most nights, even if it turned into a food fight or a deep philosophical debate halfway through. Dazai claimed she married Chuuya for her cooking. Chuuya claimed she married Dazai in a moment of temporary insanity. Neither of them believed the other, but both smiled every time the jokes were said.

Marriage hadn’t changed everything, but it had deepened things. The way Dazai held Chuuya’s hand when she was anxious. The way Chuuya stayed up late just to make sure Dazai came home safe. The inside jokes, the quiet glances across the room, the subtle nudges when one of them was having a bad day—it was all in the little things. The kind of love that didn’t need to be loud to be real.

Of course, they still bickered. Dazai could be childish, lazy, and emotionally evasive. Chuuya had a temper, control issues, and the ability to weaponize a single glare. But four years in, they knew each other inside out. Knew how to fight without breaking, how to apologize without pride, how to love without hesitation.

Chuuya would never admit it out loud—not without being teased for a week straight—but Dazai was home. Not the walls or the keys or the city skyline out their window. Just Dazai. Her messy, beautiful, infuriating, brilliant wife.

And even when Dazai tracked mud into the house, or forgot their anniversary again (though Chuuya swore that was the last time she’d forgive her), she wouldn’t trade a second of their life together. Because love, in the end, wasn’t just about the sweet parts—it was about choosing each other, every day, even when it was hard.

And Chuuya, without a doubt, would keep choosing Dazai. Always.