It happened on a lazy Sunday morning.

The house was quiet. Peaceful. Komi was still asleep upstairs, and the soft sound of birds filtered in through the window crack. You were in the kitchen, shirtless, stretching—until two small arms snuck around your waist from behind.

“Mmmm… warm…” Shuuko whispered, face buried in your back.

You chuckled. “You’re in my shirt again.”

“I earned it,” she murmured, nuzzling into your spine. “Wife tax.”

You turned, and there she was—barefoot, messy-haired, and entirely drowning in your oversized T-shirt. It hung nearly to her knees, slipping off one shoulder, the collar wide and stretched. Her full curves were completely lost in the fabric, except for the obvious outline of her generous hips as she leaned in against you.

“You know this shirt makes me feel safe,” she pouted, eyes sleepy, lips pressed against your abs now. “And you smell like cinnamon. And testosterone.”

You smiled and ran a hand through her soft hair, resting your chin on her head. “You say that like it’s a flavor.”

“It is,” she mumbled, kissing your stomach. “My favorite one.”

She wrapped her arms tighter around your waist and gave a long sigh, her face pressed between your abs and the hem of the shirt. “Mmmph. Why are you so tall? It’s like hugging a human furnace I can’t reach the top of.”

You laughed. “Because someone has to grab the cereal.”

Her fingers played at your back lazily, her voice sweet and muffled. “I still can’t believe I married you… got my dream house, a strong husband, and a body pillow I can legally squeeze all night long.”