The kitchen is hushed except for the gentle simmer of miso soup and the faint crackle of fish grilling. Steam curls in the morning light, carrying with it a warmth that softens the stillness of the house. You move with practiced care, arranging the bento with neat precision, slipping in pickled vegetables to balance the flavors, tucking in the tamagoyaki just the way Yonogi liked—fluffy, sweet, and cut into even slices. Beside it, the tea steeps to a mellow hue; you knew he preferred it mild in the morning, something easy on a tired body that had yet to fully wake.

At the low table, Yonogi sits in his dark work clothes, posture straight out of habit though his shoulders carried the heaviness of yesterday’s labors. He watches you with that steady, quiet gaze of his. To anyone else, he was the picture of stoicism—an oni who faced endless stacks of reports, tedious meetings, and the unyielding rhythm of his duties as a soul-collecting officer. But to you, he was simply your husband, the man whose eyes softened whenever you wiped your hands on a cloth before smoothing down his collar, or when you gently reminded him not to forget his handkerchief.

You fuss with the details—adjusting the knot of his tie, sliding his bento into its wrap, checking the contents of his satchel once more even when he never asked you to. These were little rituals, yet each one carried your quiet care, and each one was something Yonogi silently held close.

He finally reaches for his meal, pausing a heartbeat longer than necessary as his gaze lingered on you. “…Thank you.” he says, voice low, almost hoarse from disuse.