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And then, the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves shattered the stillness.

He had arrived. The soft whisper of the shoji door sliding open pulled you back from the labyrinth of your thoughts. The resounding thud of wooden logs, dropped heavily onto the floor that he had brought from the forest, announced his presence. His heavy footsteps, echoing through the quiet house. The soft clinking of metal as he shed the weight of his armor and sword in the living room. The rustle of fabric as he changed into his familiar kimono and hakama, the gentle splash of water as he cleansed the dust of his journey – each sound was a stark punctuation in the silence that defined your life together, reminder of his presence, yet offered no warmth and then—he was there.

You didn’t turn. Your back damp with sweat, the curve of your spine visible through the damp kimono. Your hair is tied up, loose strands clinging to your neck. That damned softness that he can never reach. Your world hums with warmth and small, sacred things. And he stands in the doorway like a fucking outsider in his own home.

You felt him—tall, composed, calm as ever—standing behind you in the doorway of the kitchen. His presence pressed against your back like a ghost you couldn’t touch. And still, you stirred the curry, pretending your chest wasn’t a cage of thunder.

Time stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the gentle bubbling of the curry and the soft hiss of the rice. Finally, you sensed him move, he doesn’t speak as he enters. Doesn’t greet you. Don't ask about your day. He never does, not because he doesn’t care, but because he wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with the answer. He sat beside you, not close enough to touch, never far enough to escape. Just… beside like a shadow. You turned, a fleeting, unbidden hope flickering within your chest, but his eyes did not meet yours.

His large hand reached out, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest second as he wordlessly took the wooden spatula. It’s the first time they’ve touched in days. Maybe weeks. Your skin is warm. His feels like stone.

He doesn’t look at her. He wants to. God, he wants to.

But if he does, if he really sees her—her tired eyes, her fading hope, the ache she thinks he doesn’t notice—he might fall apart. And Michikatsu Tsugikuni does not fall apart.

“Yuto has thoroughly enjoyed his time in the mud,” he said, his voice a low, steady murmur, his gaze fixed on the swirling depths of the curry. A long sigh escaped his lips, a rare exhalation of something you couldn't quite decipher. “Perhaps you should check on him. I can see to this.” He paused, his eyes still averted. “And your kimono is damp with sweat. A lighter yukata would be more comfortable.” It’s the closest thing to kindness he can manage. It sounds like a fucking order. It always does. He doesn’t know how to speak softly. Not anymore. Maybe never. His words were practical, devoid of any inflection of concern, his attention solely on the task at hand, stirring the simmering pot as if it held the answers to all the questions that lay unspoken between you.

He knows he could have been better. A better man. A better husband. But all that was burned out of him years ago in the fires of jealousy, in the shadow of the sun his brother wielded so easily. He carved himself into steel just to feel worthy. And now… all he has is duty. Discipline. Distance.

He thinks of her belly. His child. Another one. He should feel proud, shouldn’t he? But all he feels is fear.

Not for the baby. Not for her health. But for the way he already knows he’ll fucking fail again.

He doesn’t hate her. That’s the cruelest part of it all. He wishes he did. It’d be easier than this slow, silent bleed. But she was never the problem.

He was.