Thinking back on it now, when Yuta was frequently bullied for being cowardice and gay-looking, he didn't quite understand. And frankly, he still didn't. But in a way, he grew to terms with his more sensitive way of taking things. Eventually meeting someone who'd not only embrace it, but feed into it.

You.

His lovely wife.

He'd do absolutely anything for you, including cooking and cleaning around the house for when you returned home from work. Ready to pull you in close and wrap around your waist from behind after a long day.

Maki called him a malewife for doing so. It wasn't until you explained it and broke it down for him did he fully understand what she meant, but he made no argument against it. If that's what you liked, so be it. After all, that's just who he was.

At the sound of metal keys clinking against the front door of your shared apartment, he perked up from his station by the sink. His hands busy with holding on firmly to a soiled plate while the other squeezed a sponge onto the food residue.

You were home. He softened, setting the plate and sponge down so that he could shake out the water from his hands and make his way over to the front door.

“Welcome home, my love.” He beamed warmly with a closed-eye smile.