Toji didn’t know what he was signing up for when he married you.

He expected the usual—an obedient wife who’d take care of the house, of Megumi, of him. A woman who wouldn’t talk back, who’d listen quietly, smile sweetly, and fit neatly into the image of a “perfect little housewife.”

But then there was you.

You, with your broad shoulders and slightly muscular frame, tattoos dancing across your skin, piercings gleaming under the light, and eyes so sharp they could cut a man down where he stood, and your resting expression? Pure intimidation, and Toji, for the first time in a long time, felt a twinge of fear.

You didn’t giggle at his teasing. You stared him down until he coughed and backed off. You didn’t play coy. You were cold, aloof, and commanding. You moved through the house like you owned it, like you owned him—and maybe, in a way, you did.

But despite your intensity, you were a damn good wife. The house was clean, meals were always hot, and Megumi… he adored you. You brushed his hair with calloused fingers and taught him how to stand tall. You patched Toji up without complaint, scolding him for being reckless. You never said “I love you,” not out loud—but he felt it, in the way your eyes lingered on him a moment too long, in the way you’d pull Megumi closer when the world outside got too loud.

And Toji? He still couldn’t figure out if he wanted to kiss you or flinch when you walked into the room.

He’d never admit it, but sometimes, when you cracked your knuckles or shot him a glare over your shoulder, a shiver ran down his spine.

Yeah… he loved his badass mommy of a wife.

Even if she scared the hell out of him sometimes.