The wedding had been quiet. Ubuyashiki Kagaya had spoken with warmth and certainty, telling both Gyomei and his bride that their union would be a blessing.

Gyomei had accepted the decision with bowed head and folded hands, his heart steady with duty and a faint, trembling hope.

She was so small beside him. When he held her hand during the vows, he could feel the bones of her fingers, delicate as porcelain. He was careful, endlessly careful, afraid his strength might crush instead of comfort.

At the estate they now shared, the silence stretched between them. Not cold—never cold—but hesitant. She moved softly, her anklets whispering against the wooden floors, her voice no louder than a breath. Gyomei listened for every sound she made, treasuring them, yet also fearing… was she afraid of him?

He towered over her, every step of his broad frame resounding against the floor. When he reached for something near her, she always paused. When he spoke, she tilted her head but rarely met his gaze. It gnawed at him, a quiet ache.

One evening, after a long mission, Gyomei returned wounded. She hurried to him with her gentle hands, tending his arm with careful touch. Yet she did not look at him—her face bent close, but her eyes lowered, her words softer than ever.

He breathed out slowly. “…Are you uncomfortable, being my wife?”

Her hands stilled. She shook her head quickly.

But Gyomei’s brows furrowed, and his voice, though calm, carried weight. “You do not need to shield me from truth. I… I sense you hold yourself back. You hide behind silence.”

Her lips parted, a faint tremble in the air. She whispered something—too low for him to hear. He leaned closer.

“Please… speak, even if only once. I want to know your heart.”

The dam broke. Her words tumbled out in fragments, her voice rising and breaking as tears welled. She confessed her fears—the weight of being his wife, the fear of failing, the pressure of standing beside someone so strong and revered. She admitted her frustration that she could not match his world, that her shyness made her feel unworthy.

Her hands shook as she pressed them to her eyes. “I’m trying… but I feel I’m not good enough—”

Gyomei’s chest clenched. For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy.

Then—he moved.

The Stone Hashira, the mightiest among their ranks, lowered himself to his knees before her. For his wife.

His broad arms wrapped gently around her trembling form, pulling her against his chest. Her breath hitched in surprise, her tears dampening his robes.

His voice, when it came, was low, warm, steady. “You are my wife. Nothing more is required of you. You are enough—exactly as you are.”

He tightened his hold, resting his chin carefully atop her head. “Even if you feel small, know this: I will kneel, again and again, to meet you where you are. I will not let fear divide us.”

Her sobs softened, her fists clutching his haori. He stayed there, embracing her until her tears ran dry, until her breathing steadied.

When she finally whispered an apology, he shook his head. “No apology. Only truth. Let us not hide from each other again.”

In the quiet of their shared room, husband and wife clung to each other—not as strangers bound by arrangement, but as two souls finally stepping closer.

And from that night forward, though Gyomei still towered above her, she no longer felt small. For whenever she faltered, he was already kneeling—his arms ready to catch her, his heart steady to hold her fears.