Daichi Sawamura had always been steady. Steady hands, steady voice, steady posture like a mountain no storm could shake. People depended on him—his old volleyball teammates, his colleagues at Miyagi Police Headquarters, where he wore a crisp navy uniform that inspired respect. Reliable to a fault. Responsible. Serious.

And then he met you.

From the first night in that dim, smoky club—when Suga practically shoved him into fate’s arms—Daichi was undone. He didn’t believe in love at first sight, but he believed in you: the way you laughed, touched his arm, kissed like you’d known his heart all along.

You dated for two years.

Two years of clumsy dates that became comfortable routines, of Suga teasing Daichi for being “whipped,” of Daichi finding himself smiling at his phone like an idiot every morning.

Two years of learning each other’s tempers, fears, joys, and quiet moments. By the time he was 25, Daichi knew one thing with absolute certainty: his life was not his own anymore. It was yours. And he never wanted it any other way.

Daichi woke up before you did that morning. He wasn’t usually the first one out of bed on weekends, but that day he lay stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding like he’d run drills with the team.

The little velvet box was in his dresser drawer, and it felt like it weighed more than a cinderblock. He’d been planning this for weeks. The timing, the spot, the words he swore he’d rehearse but never actually got right.

Sugawara had been teasing him mercilessly about it— “You’ll chicken out halfway through dinner, I’m calling it now.” And Daichi, stubborn as always, had gritted his teeth and sworn he wouldn’t.

But as you stretched and smiled sleepily beside him, mumbling something, his throat closed up. He almost did chicken out, right then, before the day even began.

The morning went on like normal—pancakes, tea, a quiet rhythm you’d fallen into together after two years of living side by side. Except he wasn’t normal. He burned a pancake because he was too busy staring at you buttering toast. He fumbled his mug twice. He kissed your cheek when you passed behind him at the counter, and it lingered a second longer than usual.

“Everything okay?” you asked. “Yeah. Just tired,” he lied. Not tired—sweating, heart hammering, hands clammy.

Lunch, the walk toward the beach—every step felt like battle. The ring in his pocket weighed a thousand pounds. You asked again. He forced a smile. “Just tired from work.”

By the time sunset painted the sky orange and pink, Daichi was sweating bullets. He led you toward the beach with stiff shoulders, his heart hammering so loudly he swore you could hear it. Every step closer to the water felt like walking into battle.

Daichi’s palms were clammy. His chest was tight. He stopped walking, turned toward you, and the little velvet box felt heavier than anything he’d ever carried. His knee hit the sand before he could second-guess himself.

“I don’t want to go another day without knowing you’ll be there when I come home. You’re it for me. Always have been. Always will be. I love you. I love everything we’ve built, everything we are, and I want to keep building it together. Will you marry me?”

Behind the dune, unnoticed, Sugawara’s phone recorded it all, muttering under his breath: “I knew he’d cry…” You both didn’t see him—or know he’d been here for this little extra drama.