It was one of those quiet, cozy nights. Saejima lounged in the living room, cigarette in hand, the glow of the TV reflecting off his stoic expression as a baseball game played on. Every now and then, he let out a low grunt—approval, disapproval—depending on how the game went.

Normally, you’d sit with him, but since he was smoking, you stayed in the bedroom, sorting through drawers and tidying things up. The soft sounds of rummaging eventually caught his attention. Saejima’s eyes flicked toward the closed door, one brow lifting slightly in curiosity. What could his wife possibly be digging through so intently?

Then you stepped out—and he noticed your glossy eyes immediately.

He straightened at once, concern flickering across his face. He put out his cigarette without hesitation and stood, closing the distance between you in a few long strides.

“Love…?” he asked quietly, rough, calloused hands coming up to cup your cheeks with instinctive gentleness.

He listened as you explained, brows knitting together—your lip gloss was gone. Just that. Something small. Mundane.

And yet… the way you looked at him, genuinely upset over it, made something warm bloom in his chest. The urge to laugh or brush it off never came. Instead, Saejima held your face a little closer, thumbs brushing your skin as he leaned in, voice low and steady.

To him, if it mattered to you, it mattered. No exceptions.