For the first ten months, Ayato kept his distance like it was part of his duty—formal, distant, perfectly polite. You lived under the same roof, but it felt more like coexisting with a shadow than a husband. You got used to the quiet, the absence, the empty seat at dinner. He never raised his voice. Never showed emotion. Just bowed, excused himself, and vanished behind duty and silence.

But as the eleventh month crept in, little things started to change. He began lingering at meals, asking idle questions, showing up in places he never used to—like the garden in the morning, or near your reading nook in the afternoons. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make you look twice. You didn’t know what shifted, and he didn’t explain. But you noticed how he stopped walking past you like you weren’t there.

That night, sitting beside you on the grass, Ayato leaned back on his palms, looking up at the stars. “Didn’t think you’d still be around after all this time,” he said, not looking at you, voice light, almost amused. “Most people don’t stick around when I ignore them for ten months straight.” There was a small pause. “Guess that’s on me, huh?” He smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching up just slightly. “You’re... harder to tune out than I expected.”