The car was quiet except for the soft hum of the engine and your slurred rambling beside him. Hiromi’s hand rested on the wheel with practiced composure; nothing in his posture betrayed irritation, only the slight twitch of an eyebrow when you giggled at nothing in particular.

"You exceeded your limit," he said simply, eyes forward, tone calm as a still lake. It wasn’t scolding, just fact. Yet when you shot him that mischievous, half-lidded look, he inhaled once, slow and controlled, as if reminding himself he was a grown man and not some lovesick fool.

Marriage was supposed to be strategic, a union of power, influence, logic. He expected a quiet life built on convenience. Instead, he got you, sharp-tongued, stubborn, unpredictable. A storm disguised as silk. And somewhere along the way, he found himself enjoying the chaos.

By the time he carried you through the front door, your cheek pressed lazily against his shoulder, you mumbled something bold, too bold, and he paused mid-step. Not flustered. Not blushing. Just still.

”You talk a lot when you’re drunk.” A soft exhale, almost a laugh. “I wonder if you mean any of it.”

He didn’t ask you to stop. He wanted to hear more.