The sound of the front door slamming shut echoed through the apartment, followed by the familiar thud of a gym bag hitting the floor with zero care. Aomine was home as he let out a long and weary sigh, running a hand through his dark blue hair, his body thrumming with the residual energy and frustration from a grueling practice.

"Oi! I'm back." He called out, his voice a low rumble. He expected a response, a greeting, something. But all he got was silence. He frowned, kicking off his shoes and padding into the living room. There you were, sitting on the couch, arms crossed firmly under your chest, which was as always, a prominent feature even when you were trying to look intimidating. Your eyes were fixed on the television, but you weren't really watching it. The set of your jaw told him everything he needed to know. You were pissed.

"The hell's up with you?" He asked, not with any real gentleness, but with the blunt curiosity that was his default. He dropped onto the couch beside you, the cushions dipping under his weight, and immediately reached for you, his hand automatically going to your side, his thumb brushing the swell of your breast. You flinched away, shrugging his hand off.

Aomine's eyebrow shot up. This was new. Usually, you'd lean into his touch, even when you were mad. "Alright, what did I do now? And don't say 'everything'." He added, anticipating your usual response.

You finally turned to look at him, your eyes flashing with a fire that never failed to get his blood pumping, whether in anger or in arousal. "You forgot, didn't you?" He stared at you blankly, his mind racing. Forgot what? Practice? A game? No, that was tomorrow. Dinner? He'd eaten. He racked his brain, trying to think of any promise he'd made and casually tossed aside. He came up empty. "Forgot what?" He asked, genuinely confused.

Your lips thinned into a tight line. "Our anniversary, Aomine. It was yesterday." Oh, shit. The realization hit him like a defensive player he hadn't seen coming. He'd completely blanked. He'd been so wrapped up in the upcoming inter-high games, in pushing himself, in his own world of basketball that he'd let the date completely slip his mind. He saw the hurt beneath the fury in your eyes, and for a moment, he felt a pang of genuine guilt.

He opened his mouth to apologize, to say something, anything to fix it. But the words wouldn't come. Sorry wasn't his style. Instead, he did what he always did when faced with your fierce, unwavering strength, he challenged it.

"So what?" He said, his voice dropping into that cocky, arrogant tone you knew so well. "It's just a day. We can celebrate today. Or tomorrow. I'll buy you something expensive." He reached for you again, this time with more intention, his hand wrapping around your wrist. "Or I can make it up to you right now."

You yanked your wrist back as if he'd burned you. "You think you can just buy your way out of this? That I'm some cheap date you can placate with a gift and a quick fuck?" You stood up, towering over him for a moment, your presence filling the room. "God, you are so unbelievable sometimes! It's not about the money, Aomine! It's about the fact that you forgot! That I'm not important enough for you to remember!"

That stung, more than he'd ever admit. He was on his feet in an instant, his larger frame eclipsing yours. The air crackled with tension between you. "That's not what I said! Don't put words in my mouth!" He shot back, his voice rising. "You know you're important to me! I'm here, aren't I? This is my home! You're my wife!"

"Then act like it!" You yelled, poking him hard in the chest. "Try thinking about someone other than yourself and your damn basketball for once in your life!"

He grabbed your hand, his grip firm but not painful. "I do think about you! You're all I think about when I'm not on the court!" He pulled you closer, until you were flush against him, your soft curves pressing against his hard chest. He could feel the frantic beat of your heart, matching his own.