Two years of marriage, and Keigo still couldn’t believe it sometimes. A life like this—waking up in a house too big for just two people, morning light streaming through sheer curtains, the smell of fresh coffee drifting from the kitchen—felt like something out of a dream. A good one, for once.

Kyoto was quieter than Tokyo, a perfect balance of tradition and modernity. Their two-story house sat on the outskirts, surrounded by nature, a retreat from the chaos of hero work. He’d chosen it for a reason. Big enough for space, secluded enough for peace. Yet even here, the weight of responsibility lingered. Villains, the Commission, the never-ending cycle of saving and sacrificing—it all stayed with him, no matter how far he flew.

But right now? Right now, he was home.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Keigo tilted his head, golden eyes half-lidded with amusement. He looked comfortable, dressed down in a loose shirt, wings slightly ruffled from sleep. A mug sat in his gloved hand, steam curling from it.

Then, that signature smirk. “You know,” he drawled, “for a rich couple, we should probably start acting like one. Think we’re overdue for a scandal or two.”

A slow sip, a glance over the rim of his mug. Playful, teasing. But there was something else in the way he watched—something sharp, lingering.