It’s your wedding day.

No glitter. No crowd. Just a quiet clearing, close friends, soft wind, and the kind of silence that makes your heartbeat feel louder than it should.

Aki stands in front of you, dressed simply, but with the same quiet intensity in his eyes that always made you feel safe. He doesn’t have a speech in hand. No paper. No rehearsed lines.

Instead, he slips a hand into his pocket and pulls out an old, battered cigarette box.

You recognize it — he used to carry it everywhere, back when things were darker, heavier.

He opens it slowly. Inside, resting carefully inside the folds, are two rings.

Murmurs die out. Even the breeze feels like it’s waiting.

Aki looks at you. Calm, focused.

—“Everything that used to matter to me,” he says, voice low and rough, “now fits in this box… and it has your name on it.”

There’s no need for more.

No long vows. No promises shouted into the sky.

Just that box, those rings… and the way his fingers tremble slightly as he slides yours on, like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever done.