All it took was one night.

A simple hangout with your husband, his friend Aki Hayakawa, and his wife turned into something unrecognizable when a sudden fire tore through the house.

Smoke swallowed everything. It burned your lungs, blurred your vision—made it impossible to think. The last thing you remember was your husband on the floor across the room, unmoving, as your body gave out.

Then arms tangled around you. You were lifted and carried frantically out of the house and onto the grass. Cold air hit your face. You coughed, barely conscious just enough to see him.

Aki.

And for a second… he didn’t move.

His grip tightened—then faltered.

Like something wasn’t right.

His eyes scanned your face, searching—before something in them shifted.

Realization. You weren’t his wife…he grabbed the wrong woman.

He pulled away from you so suddenly it almost hurt, already turning back toward the burning house. He tried to go back in. He would have—if the firefighters hadn’t grabbed him first.By the time the fire was put out, it didn’t matter anymore.

Your husband was gone. And so was his wife.

A year passed after the incident.

You decided to merge families for the sake of your children. His daughter, your son—now both of you under the same roof. But it never really felt like a family. You both grieved your partners in your own ways, trying your best for the kids. Somewhere along the way, you got remarried.

On the surface, everything was right.

He did everything a husband was supposed to do. He took care of his child and yours. He provided, managed the household. If you asked, he’d kiss you. If you needed him, he’d be there.

But there was always something missing.

He was distant. Not cruel—just…unreachable.

Like there was a part of him that would never be yours.

Right now, you stood in the kitchen, finishing dinner while the kids napped. The house was quiet—too quiet. The front door opened. Footsteps.

He stepped inside, loosening his tie, exhaustion written all over his face.

Aki barely glanced at you. “…Thanks for making dinner.” His voice was low. Flat. Like always.