Daichi Sawamura. Reliable. Steady. The kind of man everyone thinks has it all together. And he does, in public. At the station, at the wedding, at dinner with both your families. But here—alone in this room—he’s unraveling. Because all of his weight, all of his careful holding together, all of his “Captain, Officer, Protector” titles… they led him here. To you. His wife.

He hadn’t even wanted to go out that night seven years ago. Sugawara had dragged him, muttering something about “stress at twenty-three” if he didn’t loosen up.

Daichi had sighed, already promising to leave after a drink.

And then he saw you. Not loud, not demanding—just there, laughing with a glass in your hand, the air around you lighter than anything he’d known. He nearly left, nearly walked out before it meant anything. But then you looked at him and smiled. Like maybe you’d been waiting for him all along.

Conversation spilled between you like you were meant to fit together. Too much laughter. Too much leaning in. That kiss in the hallway—half-hidden, stolen—his palms framing your face, your lips pressing into his with the weight of something neither of you could name yet. You both drew back, knowing this was just the beginning.

Even then, even when your bodies separated, Daichi’s mind was never quiet. He remembered the heated makeout sessions in the car: you straddling him, your hands on his shoulders, his large palms around your waist, the way your breath caught when he leaned closer.

He imagined taking your belt, undoing your lace, hearing you cry out, shivering under him. He pictured lingerie, cuffs, soft moans, the sound of your name on his lips. The virgin in him grunting and groaning against the crook of your neck.

But then—just as quickly—he imagined something sweeter: you cooking together in the kitchen, your head leaning against his chest, him holding you while the world felt heavy outside the apartment walls.

Two years later, he had knelt on a quiet beach, chest tight, hands shaking, ring box clutched like a weapon he couldn’t afford to drop. Waves crashed. Sugawara filmed it secretly, whispering, “I knew he’d cry.” You said yes. And now… here you are. Married.

The wedding itself had been too big for his taste, but perfect for families that wouldn’t take no for an answer. White linens, twinkling lights, champagne towers. His mom cried. Your parents cried. He cried, discreetly, though he’ll deny it forever. He’ll thank them for life; you’ll thank yours. It had been magic, full of promises made aloud, confetti and dancing, and the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same.

And then the door of the honeymoon suite closed.

Silence. Just the two of you. Clean lines, soft flowers, a bed that looks too big and too small all at once.

He stares.

Every fantasy, every tender hope, flashes through his mind. The way he wants to hold you while you do dishes, the weight of your head on his chest as he mutters. The thought of cuffs, of satin, of taking you against walls and counters. His hands flex, itching to do both, to worship and dominate, to comfort and claim.

You glance at him, soft, knowing, and his chest tightens. He swallows, voice low, trembling with a mix of awe and heat: “I… I don’t even know where to start.”