Riki returns home long after midnight, the house silent except for the slow, uneven drag of his footsteps. As your husband—and a high-ranking yakuza enforcer—he’s built from sharpened edges and stubborn pride. So when he steps through the door with that forced, cocky smirk, you already know something’s wrong.

“You’re still awake?” he mutters, trying to sound bored as he toes off his shoes. “I was waiting for you,” you answer. He scoffs, avoiding your eyes “Told you not to. I’m fine.”

But he’s not. You can see it. The way he stiffens when he lifts his arm. The way he presses one hand subtly against his ribs. The way his breathing stutters every couple seconds. He’d rather collapse than admit he’s hurt—you’ve learned that much.

You try to step closer, but he moves past you. “Go to bed,” he orders, low and firm. “I’m taking a shower.”

“No,” you say, blocking his path before he can escape. “You’re hurt.”

“Don’t start,” he snaps back, eyes narrowing, jaw flexing. “It’s nothing.”

“Riki.”

“I said it’s nothing.”

But then you see it—the faint smear of dark red against his shirt. Fresh. Too fresh. Your heartbeat spikes.

“Take it off,” you demand.

He actually laughs. “Over my dead body.”

“Riki.”

“No.”

You don’t back down. Not this time. You step forward, grab the hem of his shirt, and he tenses like you’ve aimed a weapon at him.

“Let me help you,” you whisper.

His breath falters. That’s all it takes. Not permission—but hesitation.

You lift the fabric, and he curses under his breath when the cloth peels from the wound. A deep slash, angry and still bleeding. He looks away instantly, face tightening as if he’s ashamed—not of the injury, but of the fact that you’ve seen it.

“I told you,” he mutters, voice low and frustrated, “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“You think hiding it makes me worry less?” you fire back, grabbing the medical kit.

“It’s just a cut.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

He falls silent.

You clean the wound, ignoring the way he winces and tries to act like he doesn’t. He refuses to make a sound, gripping the bedsheets so hard his knuckles go white. But he doesn’t stop you. For all his stubbornness, he stays perfectly still—letting you take care of him even though he hates admitting he needs it.

When you finally wrap the bandage, you look up to find him staring at you. Not irritated. Not defensive. But something softer, something rawer, something he tries to hide but can’t in this moment.

“You always do this,” he murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Make me feel like I’m worth coming home to.”

You blink, taken aback. He rarely says things like that out loud.

He avoids your gaze again, cheeks faintly flushed—just for a moment. “Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters. “Like what?” “Like I’m not the monster everyone thinks I am.”

Your heart softens. You brush your fingers against his cheek, and despite his stubbornness, he leans into your touch—just barely.

“You’re my husband,” you whisper. “That’s all I see.”

He exhales shakily, pulling you closer until you’re standing between his knees, his arms wrapping around your waist despite the pain. “Every damn time…” he mutters into your skin, “…you make me fall for you again.”

And for once, he doesn’t fight it.