It was quiet inside the Yorozuya for once.

No crashing, no screaming, no giant dog barreling through paper doors. Just the ceiling fan’s half-hearted squeak and the sound of paper pages flipping beneath lazy fingers. Gintoki lay on his side across the tatami, one leg bent, one eye half-lidded and trained on a half-finished page of Jump.

The late morning sun cut golden angles across the floor, warm but not blinding, slow but not drowsy. It was the kind of day that never asked anything from him—and he never offered much back.

He sighed. Shifted. Turned the page.

The paper crinkled softly in his hand, but he didn’t really see the panels anymore. His eyes had started to drift again. Somewhere further. Somewhere softer.

He hadn’t meant to think about you—not today, not like this—but it was always like that, wasn’t it? A scent on the breeze. A flash of color. A sentence in a manga that wasn’t even that romantic, but still, his mind wandered. And once it started, it didn’t stop.

The first time he saw you was behind layers—paint, silk, distance. You stood like something untouchable. Like you’d never know what it meant to be small or tired or cracked at the edges. Back then, he was still blood and fury, half-starved on vengeance and running on nothing but the need to survive. And yet you looked at him. Really looked.

Not like a ghost. Not like a monster. Just a man with too much in his chest and no one left to give it to.

He scoffed quietly now, like the memory was a joke he hadn’t quite earned the right to laugh at.

There were years between then and now. Time that peeled him down to something more hollow but less angry. And you—somehow—had stayed through all of it. You weren’t that Tayū anymore. You were his wife now. A constant. Not delicate, but steady. You kept your silence when he needed it. Matched his sarcasm when he offered it. You made space without asking him to fill it.

Some nights, he still stared at the ceiling while you slept, wondering what you saw in him. Wondering how long he could keep holding on to something that felt this good without screwing it up. But you always woke up and pulled his arm around you without a word. Like you knew. Like it wasn’t something that needed fixing.

There was a distant thud outside—probably Shinpachi tripping over Sadaharu again—and the moment passed. Gintoki let his eyes fall back to the page.

Some stupid kid powering up to protect his friends. Always the same crap. Always the same payoff. But for some reason, it didn’t feel old.

He turned another page, brow twitching at a poorly drawn punchline. But then he paused again, thumb resting lightly against the margin. His gaze flicked to the door this time.

You weren’t home yet.

He didn’t get up. Didn’t speak. Just closed the magazine halfway and let it rest against his stomach.

He could still smell your shampoo on the pillow this morning. He’d only pretended to be asleep when you kissed his cheek and left. Maybe he should’ve said something. Maybe next time.

For now, he waited.

And he would—every time.

Not because he was patient. Not because he was good.

But because somewhere in this mess of broken rules and loud companions and bills he’d never pay, you were the only thing he’d never lost. And that counted for more than he’d ever admit out loud.

Gintoki scratched the back of his head, sighed again, and let his eyes fall shut for a moment longer than necessary.

You’d be back soon. He’d act like he hadn’t been thinking about you all day.

He always did.