You were sprawled on the couch, knees up, a bowl of popcorn balanced on your lap and the TV casting that familiar warm glow across the living room. Keigo had insisted on a “nostalgia marathon” — his old debut clips, fan edits, and the embarrassing interviews he’d begged whoever uploaded them to take down. You’d been merciless, riffing on every bad haircut and over-enthusiastic smile while he muttered theatrical defenses from beside you.

“Look at you,” you snorted, pointing at eighteen-year-old Keigo strutting onto some variety show. “Who taught you to pose like that? The mirror?” “Survival tactics,” he grumbled, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. “And insults don’t age well, love.”

The next clip rolled: him waving on stage under a headline—Japan’s Rising Hero—then laughing with kids at a charity event, still a little too eager for the camera. You paused it, daringly, and threw a kernel of popcorn at him. It hit his nose. He blinked, then grinned, then leaned in for a peck that made you laugh.

Autoplay betrayed you both after that. The screen fuzzed, shifted, and suddenly a grainy home video lit up the room. Title in awkward handwriting: Dear Future Husband.

Your stomach did an immediate flip. You reached for the remote like you could yank the past back under the rug, but Keigo’s hand was quicker. He clamped the remote between his fingers with a triumphant, “Nope,” and shushed you with a look that said he was having this.

Onscreen, teenage you — fifteen, maybe sixteen — sat cross-legged on a bed surrounded by posters and soft lighting. Your voice was anxious and adorable in a way that made your heart both ache and laugh.

“Hi… I don’t really think I’ll get married. It seems gross. Nobody would want me anyway. But if you exist, future boyfriend — don’t expect me to be all mushy. I’ll probably forget anniversaries and burn dinner, but I’ll be there when it counts.”

The clip stuttered and then cut to you again, slightly older now. You blinked with seventeen-year-old certainty.

“I guess I changed my mind a little. Maybe being married isn’t that gross. I saw Hawks once when he debuted—he looked… really cool. So maybe my future husband does exist. If he does, I hope he doesn’t give up on me.”

You clapped both palms over your face. “Oh my god. I am literally going to die.”

Keigo sat very, very still for three delicious seconds. He let the silence stretch like elastic, watching you with soft, amused eyes. Then he burst, not unkindly — more like someone who had found a private treasure.

“Wait,” he said, voice gleeful. He reached over, snagging your hands and prying them down. “Did you—did you really say ‘Hawks’?” His grin was nearly feral now. “You said my name, babe. You literally mentioned me.”

“My name?” you sputtered, heat flaring up your neck as vivid embarrassment and something warmer curled in your chest. “I—no, I didn’t—”

“You did,” he insisted, leaning back on his elbows and turning the TV toward him so he could rewatch the clip. “You said ‘I saw Hawks when he debuted.’” He pointed at the screen like a proud parent, delighted at proof. “You manifested me, Mrs. Takami.”

The teasing didn’t stop, but it eased into the comfortable cadence of married life. Keigo replayed the clip a couple more times, each pass prompting another round of jokes about “proof” and “manifestation.” You shoved him, he pretended to be wounded, and then he leaned in and murmured, right against your temple, “You were always mine, huh?”