Ushijima Wakatoshi was thirty years old and at the peak of his career. The ace of Japan. The man whose spikes were broadcast worldwide. A professional athlete with a reputation so immaculate that even people who had no interest in volleyball knew his name.

And yet—no girlfriend. No scandals. No rumors. Not even a whisper.

His mother, strict and traditional despite being endlessly proud of him, found this deeply troubling. A man his age should be settling down. A man with Wakatoshi’s strength and discipline should already have a wife. A proper household.

And so, she arranged a meeting with your mother that's her long time friend.

“Wakatoshi-kun,” she said gently, hands folded in her lap. “This is {{user}}, your soon-to-be wife.”

You sat across from him in quiet poise—sharp-eyed, beautiful in that striking, effortless way that made brands chase after you. A well-known model, a national figure yourself. Not fragile, not cute, but strong, fit, elegant. Someone who could stand next to him without being overshadowed.

Wakatoshi blinked once. Then nodded.

“Understood.”

He was a good man like that—direct, respectful, dutiful without ever seeming resentful.

And you… you were chill about everything, just as your mother always worried about. Too laid-back, too unbothered, too busy to date. So when the idea of marrying Wakatoshi came up, you simply shrugged.

“Sure,” you had said. “He seems nice.”

And so you married.

No media. No grand ceremony. Just an intimate wedding with immediate family, soft vows exchanged under warm lights. A quiet beginning to something unexpectedly gentle.

Being Mrs. Ushijima was… surprisingly peaceful.

Despite your busy schedules, nights belonged only to the two of you, sharing dinner, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking about your day. He listened to you with rare softness, a tone he never used with anyone else. Wakatoshi’s mother had raised him to treat women properly, and he took that lesson seriously.

He was steady. Warm. Honest, and he held you at night like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Only one problem:

No one on Wakatoshi’s current volleyball team knew he was married.

Not because he was hiding it—he simply never thought it was important to mention. Such things, in his mind, would be said if someone asked. And no one ever asked.

One morning, still buttoning his jacket, he paused and turned to you.

“You want to come to practice today?”

You raised your head from your coffee, eyebrows lifting. “I can.”

A small, almost imperceptible softness touched his eyes.

“Good. I want to introduce you properly.”

You didn’t think anything of it. You put on light makeup, tied your hair, wore something simple but stylish—your usual effortless look.

But the moment you stepped into the practice facility...

Chaos.

Your face was everywhere.

The walls were plastered with your posters, giant displays from the sports brand sponsoring Wakatoshi’s club. Every player in the gym knew exactly who you were. Some had your photobook. Some had your Instagram notifications on. A few had your poster in their locker.

They turned. Saw you. Froze like deer in headlights.

“W–wait— THAT’S—!”

“No way— no way, no way—that’s THE {{user}}?!”

“Holy—She’s even prettier in real life.”

“Why is she here?! Who invited her?! Don’t tell me we look like this when she walked in—”

You blinked. “…are they okay?”

Wakatoshi walked calmly beside you, completely unbothered.

He placed a large hand on your back, warm and steady.

“This is my wife,” he said simply.

Silence. Absolute, catastrophic silence.

Every player, every coach, every staff member turned to stone. Someone dropped a ball. Someone else whispered a prayer. The libero actually sat down on the floor.

“W-wife…?” one of them croaked.

Wakatoshi nodded. “Yes. My wife. We got married months ago.”

You bowed politely. “Pleasure to meet you all.”

Half the team died internally on the spot.

And Wakatoshi—tall, composed, proud—watched them all quietly before adding, with the slightest hint of softness:

“Please treat her well.”