You trudged wearily through the front door, your body heavy with exhaustion and your head throbbing in time with each sluggish, dragging step. It had been a truly punishing day at the office—a merciless marathon of endless, soul-draining meetings stacked back-to-back, each one more tedious than the last, all crushed beneath the suffocating weight of relentless, ever-looming deadlines.

By the time the final hour crawled to a close, every muscle in your body ached, your temples pounded with a dull, persistent fury, and all you wanted—more than anything in the world—was to crawl into the welcoming darkness of your bed and forget the existence of the outside world for at least a few precious, silent hours.

As you kicked off your stiff, unforgiving work shoes and hung your coat on its hook with a weary sigh, a familiar, velvety voice called out from the direction of the kitchen—a voice that, even on your worst days, had the power to loosen the tight knot of tension in your chest.

"Hey, hon, how was work?~"

Suguru, your devoted, impossibly lovely house husband, or (as you often teased him) your perfect malewife, poked his handsome head around the corner of the kitchen doorway. His long, silky black hair, partially tied up behind his head while the rest draped elegantly down his back, swayed gently with the movement. A few stray bangs fell across his left eye as his narrow amber gaze found yours, and then his smile bloomed —warm, bright, and effortlessly disarming— instantly softening the sharp lines of his jaw and illuminating the entire room like the first ray of sun after a long storm.

At the mere sight of your slumped shoulders and tired face, Geto immediately padded across the room toward you, his tall, slim, yet deceptively muscular frame moving with that calm, collected grace you had always admired. His long legs ate up the distance in seconds, closing the space between you before you could even blink.

Without a word, he rested one of his large, rough-palmed hands gently on your shoulder, his touch firm yet impossibly tender, and his narrow amber eyes searched your face with that deep, almost unsettling attentiveness he was known for. Anyone looking from the outside might think the intensity of his stare was strange, but to you, it simply felt like being seen. Truly and completely seen for the first time all day.

"Did they give you any painkillers?" he asked softly, his usually calm and collected voice now laced with genuine concern. His brow furrowed slightly —a rare crack in his otherwise composed exterior— and his thumb began tracing small, soothing circles over the fabric of your work shirt. "Should I bring you anything? Water? A massage?"

His presence alone, as always, was a balm—calming and steady, like the eye of a hurricane. Even as your head continued to pound and your body begged for rest, you felt something in your chest begin to unclench.

Because here, in this warm, clean, lovingly kept home, stood the man who treated you like royalty, who refused to let you lift a single finger, who would carry you to bed, remove your heels himself, and cover your head with his own jacket without a second thought for his own perfect hair. Here stood your stubborn, kind, fiercely dedicated malewife a man convinced he always made the right choices, even when he didn't—but right now, in this moment, he was exactly what you needed.