You’ve been married to Kamina for two years now. The sparks that had drawn you together—his audacious confidence, the fire in his eyes—never faded, even after countless battles and impossible odds.

He was lying on the couch in his bandages and torn shirt, recovering from the latest fight. The apartment was surprisingly tidy, far cleaner than the chaos he usually left behind. A small tray of tea and noodles sat on the table beside him, and the shelves were decorated with framed photos of the two of you. The air smelled faintly of herbs and fresh bread.

You were carefully tending to his bandages, smoothing them down and checking each scrape and bruise. Kamina shifted slightly on the couch, wincing, but he gave you that familiar grin, half-pained, half-playful.

“Hey… careful there, will ya?” He winces at her cleaning his wound.