There wasn’t a grand announcement.

No flashing lights. No paparazzi lenses. Just porcelain bowls on lacquered wood. Soft chewing. A quiet evening with your family at the dinner table—until your father cleared his throat and said, “Do you know what's happening tomorrow? For you.”

You looked up. Blinked. “For what?”

“The Iida family has proposed a union,” he said gently, but with finality. “Tenya Iida. Son of Tensei. Heir to Ingenium.”

Your mother placed her plate down. “It’s been approved. There’s no dishonor in it.”

The silence after that was suffocating. No one asked how you felt. And no one asked him either.

Tenya Iida stared at the contract like it was written in another language. His mother had smiled softly. His father had called it “a step forward for legacy.” Tensei simply gave him a clap on the back and said, “You’ll make a good husband. You always do what’s right.”

And he does. The rest of day passed in a blur. Tenya barely tasted orange juice. All he could think about was you—whoever you were. And how you must’ve been just as blindsided.

The announcement was made that weekend. Your family smiled in photos. Tenya bowed deeply. He held your hand with both of his—stiffly, carefully, like he was terrified of doing it wrong.

You didn’t cry during the fitting. You just sat very still while they adjusted the fabric, your expression unreadable as stylists murmured about compatibility and color schemes.

So when the ceremony came, he stood beside you like a soldier. Back straight. Shoulders tense. His bow was deep, reverent. His words steady as he recited vows that didn’t feel like his own. The kiss—if you could call it that—was polite. Barely a peck.

And now, here you both are.

Newlyweds.

Strangers.

The ceremony was brief, tasteful. A blur of flashes and flowers, vows said with trembling hands. Tenya didn’t touch you until he had to—his fingers brushing yours during the ring exchange like he was holding something delicate. Something easily frightened.

He didn’t smile. But he did look at you. Like he was trying to apologize through sheer will alone.

The keys still feel unfamiliar in your palm. The ring still catches your sleeve when you move. Even the air smells like something not quite yours yet—clean linen, metal, fresh tea brewing on the stove.

Tenya steps in behind you, taking his shoes off with careful precision. “Please—watch the corner,” he says quickly, gesturing toward the edge of a cabinet. “I meant to file that down before today, but the shipment was delayed—!”

Now, the two of you are standing in the entryway of your new home—a gift from the Iida family, perfectly neutral and awkwardly pristine. The air smells like new paint and imported tea. Two toothbrushes sit untouched in the bathroom. Two pairs of matching slippers rest by the door.

Tenya clears his throat. “I, ah… took the liberty of arranging the kitchen according to your dietary preferences,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “Though I—of course—understand if you’d like to change anything. This is our home now. Temporarily, I mean. Or... permanently. Whichever is appropriate.”

You murmur a polite thank you. He bows a little too low in return.

The tour is brief. A shared living room. A small guest room. A balcony with modest potted plants—likely staged by decorators, though one pot has a handwritten tag. Chamomile, for calming nerves.

“This is your space,” he says after a moment, gesturing stiffly. “Our space. But I mean—you’re welcome to arrange things as you wish. I left the second bedroom untouched, in case you want—privacy. Or storage. Or…” He trails off. Fidgets.