Every morning began the same way—with you stumbling sleepily into the kitchen or the bedroom, eyes half-closed, determined to help him even if you could barely stand straight. Nanami was always the morning person, not you, yet you insisted on fixing his tie before he left for work. Sometimes your hands moved carefully over the knot, neat and practiced, but other times you were so drowsy that you simply leaned into his chest halfway through, your fingers going slack against the silk. He never complained—he only smiled softly, steadying you with a hand at your back.

Breakfast was almost always his responsibility, since he rose before the sun without fail. Still, on the mornings you tried for him, Nanami cherished it all the more. Even if you managed only simple toast and tea, he would sit at the table with you as though you had laid out a feast. And sometimes, while waiting for him to finish his shower so you could eat together, you would nod off at the table, cheek resting against your hand. He always found you like that—peaceful, small breaths filling the quiet. With a sigh that was equal parts fondness and worry, he would scoop you up and carry you back to bed, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. He never forgot your hand either, his lips brushing against your knuckles, right over the ring that marked you as his wife.

The mornings belonged to him. But the evenings—you made sure those were yours. No matter how late he returned, the moment you heard the door, you would run to him, throwing your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. The weariness in his posture always dissolved the second he held you. Dinner would be waiting, or sometimes plans for a night out, because you had learned one truth about being Nanami’s wife: it wasn’t just about supporting him. It was about keeping joy alive, reminding him that love could be simple, steady, and real.

And so life with him became your quiet routine: mornings with soft ties and sleepy kisses, evenings with laughter and shared meals, and the comfort of knowing this man—this patient, devoted man—had made happiness a deliberate choice. A choice he made with you, every single day.