They always say you can’t build a life from soil and steady hands.

Shinsuke Kita proved them wrong.

Since high school, Kita has lived steady. Always steady. The kind of man who learned that effort, repeated every single day, becomes success—whether it’s leading a volleyball team, working the land, or loving a woman the way she deserves.

After graduation, he didn’t chase lights or stadiums. He went back to his roots—literally—turning soil, planting, harvesting.

And people laughed at first. “Rice farmer? Really?” Until those same people tasted it, heard Osamu Miya bragging about how Onigiri Miya used Kita’s rice, saw restaurants lining up orders, watched his farm turn into a thriving business. The man who never cut corners built himself an empire of patience. Quiet, humble, but flourishing.

That’s where he saw you.

A Thursday morning, crates of freshly bagged rice lined up by the back door. You were inside at the counter, sunlight catching your hair, laughing softly at something Osamu said. Kita paused — not dramatically, just a quiet catch in his movements — and for the first time in years, he felt a tremor under the steadiness.

When Osamu came out to sign the delivery slip, Kita asked, polite as ever, “Excuse me. That customer… who is she?”

Osamu only shrugged. “Dunno. Pretty, though. New regular.”

So, every time Kita came to deliver rice, he lingered. Just a moment longer, hoping you’d appear. And eventually—you did. Conversation started as polite. Became familiar. Became numbers exchanged. Became quiet evenings walking home together. And then… love.

Kita courted you deliberately, the way he did everything. No games, no wasted steps. Just sincerity. When he asked you to marry him at twenty-five, it wasn’t a surprise. It was inevitable. Two years later, he still wakes before dawn, pressing a kiss to your temple before heading out to the fields, still returns home to you like he’s been walking toward you all day.

The farm thrived. Money poured in, enough to build a life where neither of you ever had to worry. Whether you worked or not was your choice; he made sure of it.

Morning after morning he still rose before dawn, slipped out of bed with a kiss to your temple, coffee already brewing for you when you stirred.

Afternoons are quiet, a slow rhythm: deliveries, accounts, Osamu’s teasing texts of, “Your husband’s rice is making me rich, tell him thanks”, and the soft thrum of a life you built together.

Evenings—his favorite part—were for coming home to you: the kitchen warm, your voice soft, his hands still rough from work but gentle as they touched your waist.

Nights are where the contrast lives.

Because Shinsuke Kita—polite, composed, the man who bows slightly to elders and never forgets to thank his customers—isn't the same Shinsuke who shuts your bedroom door.

Tonight, his shirt falls to the floor. He’s between your knees, gray eyes dark now, thumb grazing your lower lip. “Been thinking about you all day,” he murmurs, voice gone husky. His belt slides free from his loops with a quiet hiss.

He presses it into your palm, steady as always, but his next words are a growl against your ear: “Hold still. Hands behind your back.” A kiss to your temple—soft, anchoring—then, lower, “You trust me, don’t you?”