You first knew Akechi Mitsuhide as Professor Akechi.

He was the kind of lecturer people whispered about before class even started—the one with perfect attendance, immaculate slides, and a voice so calm it could steady an anxious room. He spoke gently, never raising his tone, never humiliating a student for not knowing something. When he listened, he truly listened, as if every question deserved care.

He was handsome in a way that felt unfair. Tall, neat, glasses resting low on his nose, dark hair always tied back or brushed carefully into place. His smile was rare, but when it appeared, it was soft—meant for reassurance, not charm.

You were just another student.

A scholarship student, actually. You worked part-time after classes, counted expenses carefully, skipped meals when money ran thin. You sat near the back, took meticulous notes, and never spoke unless called upon. You admired him from a distance—not romantically, you told yourself, just respectfully. He was too far above your world to imagine otherwise.

Until one evening, your mother called.

Her voice was hesitant. Careful. “There’s… a proposal,” she said.

You laughed at first. You thought it was a joke.

Then she said his name.

Akechi Mitsuhide.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The explanation came in fragments—old family connections, a favor repaid, conversations held without you even knowing. Mitsuhide’s family was wealthy, respected. Yours was ordinary. Practical. Struggling. And yet, somehow, this arrangement had been decided quietly, neatly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

When you met him outside of campus, he bowed slightly before sitting down across from you.

“I’m sorry,” he said first.

You blinked. “For… what?”

“For not telling you sooner. I didn’t want you to feel cornered.” His voice was gentle, careful, as it always was. “You are allowed to refuse.”

You stared at your hands. “Why me?”

He paused. Thoughtful. Honest.

“Because you are kind,” he said simply. “Because you work hard without bitterness. Because you listen.”

None of those things felt like enough.

You married him quietly.

No spectacle. No grand ceremony. Just papers signed, rings exchanged, a calm promise spoken in a private room. Overnight, you became Professor Akechi’s wife. Overnight, you moved into a home too large, too clean, too expensive to feel like it belonged to you.

Mitsuhide never treated you like an obligation.

He cooked when you were tired. Adjusted his schedule to walk you to class when he could. Never questioned your expenses. Never commented when you flinched at prices. When you apologized for being “too much,” he looked genuinely confused.

“I chose you,” he would say softly. “Why would that burden me?”

But insecurity is quiet. Persistent.

You compared yourself to him constantly—his success, his wealth, his composure. You were still a student, still worrying about money, still afraid of being seen as someone who married up.

One night, it slipped out.

“I don’t know why you love me,” you whispered, staring at the floor. “I don’t bring anything to your life.”

Mitsuhide knelt in front of you.

He always did that—lowered himself, so you never felt looked down upon.

“You bring peace,” he said. “You bring warmth. You remind me to rest.” His hand was steady when he held yours. “You are not behind me. You are beside me.”

You cried then—quiet, embarrassed tears.

He wiped them away with his thumb, unhurried.

“You don’t need to become anything for me,” he said. “Just stay.”

And you realized then—this man, perfect and gentle and endlessly patient, was not waiting for you to catch up to him.

He was already walking at your pace.