#existential pause | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

danysdaughter · 2 months ago

Text

Confidential Affairs

pairing | congressman!bucky x assistant!reader

word count | 4.4k words

summary | congressman barnes thought he had control—over his office, his image, and especially his no-nonsense assistant. That illusion ends the moment you hit a man's head against a table, ruin your blazer, and ride him across a random desk like you're the one running the country.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, desk sex, semi-public sex, rough sex, lowkey dom!reader, subtly-subby!bucky, smut with feelings, workplace romance (technically), power imbalance (handled), public speaking anxiety, reader handles everything, mild violence, sexual tension so thick it pays rent

a/n | based on this request, and ooooh I loved writing them

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Sometimes, Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

Not in the existential way—he'd dealt with plenty of that in therapy. No, this was more of a literal confusion.

Because somehow, in the span of a two years, he’d gone from military black-ops missions with Sam to sitting behind a government-issued desk in D.C., wearing suits that cost more than his first apartment, and debating tax reform with men who’d never touched grass.

Being a congressman wasn’t the weird part.

Doing it well was.

And if he was being honest, that was probably 95% thanks to her.

You.

His assistant. His handler. His chaos manager. And, if he was being really honest—which he rarely was—you were probably the best part of the job. Even if you drove him insane.

You were brilliant. Unshakeable. The only person on staff who could tell him he was being an idiot and still have a coffee waiting for him after. You kept his schedule running like a military op and shut down press rumors before they could start trending.

And you were only thirty. Or—wait, no. Your birthday was in November, so you were still twenty-nine. He remembered because you'd corrected him with the driest look possible and said, “Do not age me prematurely, Barnes, I will unionize this building and have you replaced by a TikTok intern.”

He smiled at the memory as he walked down the hallway toward the bullpen, nodding at staffers, pausing only to fake-laugh at a joke he didn’t quite hear from someone in comms.

Then he saw you.

You walked in like you owned the building—which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely untrue. Blazer cinched, hair flawless, phone in hand, nails sharp, heels unapologetically loud. And everyone noticed. Everyone always noticed.

So did the IT guy—Trevor? Tyler? Something with a “T” and too much Axe body spray—who popped his head out from behind his desk the second he saw you walk in.

“Hey, uh—wow. You look great today,” he said, grinning like a freshman talking to the hottest senior.

You didn’t even slow down. Barely spared him a glance.

“It would be breaking news if I didn’t,” you said with a scoff, breezing past without missing a beat.

Bucky bit back a snort.

God help him, you were a menace.

And he was in so much trouble.

You didn’t stop walking until you were right in front of him, flipping through the sleek black tablet in your hand with the focus of someone already mentally ten steps ahead.

“Okay,” you said, tapping your screen like it personally offended you. “We need to talk about your last interview.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, following you as you turned and started walking again—because you never stood still for these things. You moved. You commanded. People got out of your way like it was instinct.

“I thought it went okay,” he said, already bracing himself.

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You said ‘worrying’ five times in two minutes. This is worrying, that’s worrying, the whole country is apparently on the verge of a panic attack because you don’t own a thesaurus.”

“I didn’t realize I was repeating myself that much,” he muttered.

You stopped short, turning on a heel so sharply the assistant from admin nearly dropped her coffee trying to dodge you.

“You are a congressman,” you said slowly, like he was the one who needed phonics help. “Not a Tumblr doomer post. Use a new word. I am begging.”

He smirked. “I’ll add ‘thesaurus’ to the list.”

You pointed at him. “Matter of fact, expedite ‘worrying’ from your vocabulary. Evacuate it. Execute it. Eject it from the goddamn building.”

Bucky couldn’t help the laugh that broke out. “You always this dramatic before 9 a.m.?”

You turned and started walking again, this time toward his office.

“I’m not dramatic. I’m effective. You know what’s dramatic? Your public approval rating when you accidentally sound like the world’s ending every time you open your mouth.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” he admitted, trailing behind you.

You pushed the door to his office open with your shoulder and turned back to face him, standing in the doorway with that terrifyingly calm look you got when you were about to change lives and ruin someone’s whole day.

“Now sit down, sip your over-priced oat milk latte, and go over these updated talking points like a big boy while I do everything else required to keep this administration from crumbling.”

You handed him a folder.

He took it.

You turned on your heel again.

And Bucky just stood there, folder in hand, still trying to figure out how someone so casually cruel could also make his heart beat like he’d been running up stairs.

He was totally, completely screwed.

The office was, for once, quiet.

A miracle.

You were perched on the edge of his desk, scrolling your phone with one leg crossed over the other, lip gloss freshly reapplied, looking more like a fashion editorial than someone juggling fifteen constituent emails, three policy briefs, and a senator’s ego on speakerphone.

Bucky watched you from his seat, pretending to read the speech notes you’d revised. Which meant he was reading the same paragraph three times and thinking about the shape of your mouth every time you sipped your iced coffee.

You snorted suddenly at something on your screen.

He raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

“Someone edited your last speech over that one TikTok audio—‘girl, be for real,’” you said, showing him the screen. “Honestly? Accurate.”

He rolled his eyes. “Back in my day, people just read the paper if they wanted to roast politicians.”

You didn’t even look up.

“And back in your day, people thought lobotomies cured headaches.”

He stared at you, face blank. “...Wow.”

You glanced up with a smug little look. “You brought the ‘back in my day’ energy. I just matched it.”

He blinked again. “That was brutal.”

“You survived Hydra, Barnes. You’ll live.”

You hopped off the desk, still scrolling, already halfway out of the room like nothing had happened.

Bucky sat there, mind blank, trying to decide if he should be offended or more in love.

It was a toss-up.

The moment Bucky stepped onto the sidewalk outside the education committee hearing, he knew it was a mistake.

Cameras flashed like strobe lights. Microphones thrust forward like weapons. Reporters shouted over each other with that gleeful, rabid tone they got when they smelled blood in the water—and this morning’s article about his “alarming silence on key policy points” had put them into a frenzy.

He barely got a foot down before—

“Congressman Barnes, are you avoiding questions about your defense budget stance?”

“Why did you cancel your Pittsburgh appearance, is it true there was internal conflict?”

“Do you still consider yourself aligned with Captain America’s legacy?”

The barrage came fast. Bucky blinked, stunned into silence, his brain caught between fight-or-flight and turn-on-your-heel-and-run-to-therapy.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Where the hell were you—

And then.

The crowd parted.

Like God herself said let there be chaos management.

You came storming through the press like a thunderclap in heels—perfect blouse tucked into razor-sharp slacks, tablet in hand, hair slicked, expression set to absolutely fucking done. The press instinctively stepped back, some startled, some frightened, all curious.

Your voice rang out, clear, sharp, and lethal.

“I’m sorry—do y’all even brief before you yell Or is the strategy just ‘shout over each other and hope something sticks’?”

Every camera swung to you.

You didn't flinch.

“First of all—he’s not avoiding questions. He’s walking. Because he has a job. Wild concept, I know.”

One of the bolder reporters started, “We just need—”

You raised a hand, and he actually stopped talking.

“Second,” you continued, flipping your tablet open with the dramatic flair of a magician about to pull a dove out of her sleeve, “if any of you had bothered to read the full statement instead of the chopped-up quotes getting passed around like a sad little rumor chain, you’d know the Pittsburgh visit was postponed, not canceled. And yes, we’re still going. Next Thursday. Bring sunscreen. And better sources.”

A collective murmur. One woman lowered her camera entirely.

You weren’t done.

“As for the Captain America legacy? I’m sorry—do you want him to punch a Nazi on live TV just to keep the branding tight? Because he can, but I promise you’ll cry about that too.”

The air crackled.

Silence.

Actual, stunned silence.

You finally turned to Bucky, handed him a neatly folded schedule, and said—without looking up, without a single ounce of visible emotion,

“Try not to look like a hostage. You’re polling in Gen Z now.”

He blinked. “Right.”

You glanced back once at the press, offered a professional, poisonous smile, and added, “Any follow-ups can go to our press contact. Or the trash. Whichever comes first.”

Then you turned and walked toward the car like you hadn’t just verbally burned down a crowd of trained professionals in under ninety seconds.

Bucky followed, somehow still holding the schedule like it was a lifeline, his pulse in his throat.

“You… good?” you asked over your shoulder, casual as hell.

He stared at you like you’d just walked out of a superhero movie.

“I think I need a minute.”

You raised a brow. “Too bad. You’ve got a budget subcommittee call in ten.”

And that was that.

You slid into the car. He followed. Speechless. Spinning. Aroused.

Definitely aroused.

He was completely, completely gone.

The door to the black SUV slammed shut behind him, but Bucky still hadn’t caught his breath.

You were already typing away on your phone, thumbs flying across the screen like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just verbally suplexed a half-dozen members of the national press with the poise of a Vogue editor and the accuracy of a sniper.

He stared at you.

“You, uh…” he started, then stopped.

You didn’t look up. “Spit it out, Barnes. I’ve got a senator on hold and a lunch order to bully through Postmates.”

He cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt, still slightly warm from adrenaline. “That was… something.”

You paused, glanced up, one perfectly arched brow rising like a challenge.

“Something?”

He floundered. “I mean, it was… damn. You were like. I don’t even—”

“Again I ask… you good?” you asked, deadpan. “You short-circuiting mid-sentence or just trying to say thank you in the least efficient way possible?”

Bucky blinked, mouth opening, then closing again.

Because the truth was he’d watched you take on that crowd like a one-woman PR army, and somewhere between do y’all even brief before you yell? and he will punch a Nazi, something in his brain fried.

You looked hot when you were angry. Not just pretty—intimidating. Like your words could disarm bombs and rewrite legislation at the same time. Like you didn’t need backup, just better lighting.

He wanted to say all of that.

Instead, he muttered: “You, uh… you ever thought about running for office?”

You snorted. “Why? So I can spend my life getting asked what I was wearing when I dismantled a reporter?”

He smiled despite himself. “I’d vote for you.”

“You’re contractually obligated to,” you said, already turning back to your phone. “I handle your calendar. Don’t get cute.”

He stared at you for another second, heart still hammering like he’d been dropped into a mission zone.

You didn’t look at him again.

But you smirked.

Just slightly.

Like you knew.

The green room smelled like nerves, burnt coffee, and the slow, suffocating panic of public office.

Bucky Barnes was pacing like he was back in a mission briefing—except instead of tactical gear and threat maps, it was a podium, two network cameras, and a press corps that could ruin a man’s legacy with the wrong pull quote.

You, on the other hand, looked like you’d been born in this room just to dominate it.

Sitting on a velvet chair in the corner, you had one leg crossed over the other, heels off, full glam, phone in hand, scrolling through TikTok like it was your lifeblood. Nails fresh. Lashes sharp. Unbothered. Entirely immune to the political stress leaking from the walls.

Bucky looked over for the third time in sixty seconds.

“I don’t think I should open with the tax credit line,” he said, voice low and tight. “It feels... forced. Like I’m trying too hard.”

You didn’t glance up. “You are trying too hard. It’s giving ‘read directly from the pamphlet.’ It’s giving post office PSA.”

He frowned. “What does that even mean?”

You sighed, the kind that said you’d dealt with enough of his old-man questions for one day. Finally, you looked up, setting your phone in your lap.

“It means stop being stiff. Loosen your shoulders. Drop your voice an octave. Talk like you're not addressing a room full of mannequins. You’re not a WWII poster anymore—you’re a congressman with a decaf dependency and a wildly underpaid assistant.”

He blinked, caught between laughing and sulking. “I—”

“Uh-uh.” You raised one finger. “Don’t speak. Reset.”

He inhaled, tried again. “Americans deserve relief that doesn’t require three jobs and a miracle to get by—”

You nodded, finally satisfied. “Better. Less ‘Captain America,’ more ‘guy who teared up at the coffee commercial last week.’ They like when you sound human.”

“That coffee commercial was sad,” he muttered, defensively.

“And that’s exactly why they trust you,” you said, standing and slipping back into your heels like it was part of your battle armor. “You’re not fake. You’re just emotionally constipated and afraid of disappointing everyone. That’s what I’m here for.”

He paused. “You make it sound like I’m broken.”

“You’re not broken.” You fixed the collar of his jacket. “You’re rebranded.”

Bucky opened his mouth. Closed it.

Because you looked incredible. Hair sleek. Dress hugging you like it was custom-cut. That slit was illegal in at least three counties. But before he could blurt something pathetic—like You smell like vanilla and ruthlessness—you were already moving.

You shoved his speech notes into his hand, then offered him a bottle of water like he didn’t just forget how to breathe every time you touched him.

“Sip slowly. No weird throat noises at the mic. And don’t stare at the interpreter this time, she filed a complaint.”

“She did not—”

“She did. I covered it.” You were halfway to the hallway, heels clacking like a countdown clock. “Five minutes. Please try not to become a meme this time.”

He followed, dazed, heart thudding, trying not to stare at the back of your skirt like a man starved.

The event was packed. Too packed.

The press conference had just wrapped, the applause still echoing as staffers ushered attendees toward the exit. Bucky had stepped down from the stage, tie slightly loosened, head turned toward you across the room.

You were checking your phone, clipboard under one arm, lips pursed in that way that said, Yes, I heard everything you said, and no, I still think it was weak.

Then it happened.

The shouting started at the back.

At first, it sounded like heckling. Normal. Predictable.

Then it grew louder.

Angrier.

A man shoved past the security barrier, red-faced and screaming. Another climbed onto a chair, holding a megaphone, spitting vitriol.

“Traitor!”

“HYDRA plant!”

“You’re not American, you’re a puppet!”

Bucky’s blood ran cold.

Then came the movement—too fast to be random. Three more men, surging forward through the crowd, coordinated. Too aggressive. Too armed.

The moment his instincts flared, he snapped into gear.

“Everyone out!” he barked, shoving a staffer behind a column, scanning for entry points, exit routes. “Move, move!”

His hand reached instinctively for a weapon that wasn’t there—not since the uniform, not since the missions. But he didn’t need it.

He just needed you.

“Where’s—” he turned, scanning, heart hammering, trying to spot your blazer in the chaos.

And then he froze.

You weren’t hiding.

You weren’t running.

You were standing over a man twice your size with your heel planted between his shoulder blades, one hand gripping his collar, the other fisting the back of his belt as you slammed his face into a table.

BANG.

“I am not the one to mess with,” you shouted, your voice feral, electric, alive. “You redneck motherfucker!”

BANG.

“Keep talkin’. I got time today.”

BANG.

The man made a sound like a dying goose and crumpled.

The others paused. One backed off. The last one raised a fist—only to get elbowed in the throat by you so fast Bucky couldn’t even process it.

You turned, breath heaving, hair half undone, lip gloss smudged, looking like war.

And Bucky?

He stood frozen, surrounded by chaos, heart pounding in his ears—and all he could think was:

Holy. Shit.

You were beautiful. And terrifying.

And he was completely, catastrophically in love.

The second the last attacker hit the floor, Bucky was on you.

You were standing over the man you’d just dropped, breathing hard, blood trickling from a gash on your forearm. Your blazer was ripped at the seam, silk blouse stained.

Your eyes met his, and your face twisted—not in pain.

In indignation.

“This was Valentino!” you snapped, holding up the torn sleeve like it personally betrayed you. “I paid rent money for this blazer!”

Bucky didn’t hear any of it. Not really.

He was already reaching for your wrist, inspecting the bleeding cut. “Come on—we need to get you cleaned up.”

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to wave him off, but he was already dragging you toward the nearest exit, weaving through stunned staffers and security guards who were still trying to make sense of what had just happened.

He shoved open the door to a small conference room and guided you inside. Closed the door.

Then turned on you, jaw tight. “What the hell was that?”

You blinked at him, incredulous. “I was handling it.”

“You are bleeding!”

“I got grazed. Calm down—”

“You think this is about a scratch?” His voice rose. “You could’ve been killed, and I just—damn it, I should’ve protected you.”

You stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “You what?”

“I should’ve been there—should’ve kept you safe—”

“Oh, shut up, Barnes.”

He froze.

“Seriously? You wanted me to wait for you? Let those assholes dogpile me so you could come in all noble and traumatized? I don’t need to be protected.”

“That’s not—!”

“It’s 2027. Women don’t need men to jump in swinging just to feel relevant.”

His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again, lost in the sputter of a man who’d just been emotionally bitch-slapped with logic.

You let out a slow, tight exhale. “I’m not your mission. I’m not your PR problem. I’m your assistant, and I’m a New Yorker, and if you’d grown up where I did, you’d understand why waiting around to be saved is a luxury some of us never had.”

He said nothing, still stunned.

You held your arm out. “Bandage me if you’re gonna be useful.”

Wordless, still trying to recalibrate, he opened the first aid kit on the wall and started wrapping the cut with more care than necessary. His hands were gentle, precise.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

You blinked. That you’re being ridiculous blink that always made him want to throw things and kiss you at the same time.

Then, calmer now, quieter, he asked, “How do you know how to fight like that?”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

And then you said, like it was obvious, like it was as much a part of you as your name:

“You say you’re from Brooklyn—but it’s clear you never grew up in Brownsville.”

Your eyes held his, fierce and dark and unapologetic.

And Bucky?

He’d never wanted to kiss someone more in his life.

Silence settled between you, heavy and frayed at the edges.

You were still perched on the edge of the table, your wounded arm now wrapped with neat gauze, your ripped blazer folded beside you like a casualty of war. Bucky stood in front of you, breathing uneven, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

He didn’t know how to say what was building up inside him.

So he didn’t.

He just leaned in.

His hand hovered near your face. No command. No pressure. Just need.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Careful. Like the world might shatter if he rushed it.

For one breath, it was perfect.

Then your brow furrowed.

Your palm pressed flat against his chest.

Bucky’s heart bottomed out.

“What the hell are you doing?” you asked, voice cool, sharp, dangerously unreadable.

He froze.

“I—” he stepped back slightly, hand dropping. “I thought—God, I’m sorry. I just—”

Your eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they sharpened.

“I’m your assistant,” you said. “You’re my boss. You’re violating, like, four ethics codes right now. Five if you count how many times you’ve stared at my legs in budget meetings.”

He blinked. “I haven’t—okay, that happened once.”

You raised a brow.

“Twice.”

Your mouth twitched, but you weren’t done.

“I could report you to HR,” you said, calm as ever. “Get you removed for sexual misconduct. Sue you.”

He stumbled back, eyes wide, a pit forming in his gut so deep he nearly doubled over.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—shit, I swear I wasn’t trying to cross a line—”

You tilted your head, watching him spiral.

Then you murmured, almost thoughtfully, “Your term’s almost over anyway.”

His breath caught. “What?”

And then?

You grabbed him by the collar, yanked him back toward you, and smashed your lips against his.

The kiss was nothing like before.

It was hungry. Commanding. Yours.

Your other hand slid into his hair, tugging him closer, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been holding that sound back for months. His hands found your waist, gripping tight, anchoring himself to your body like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You kissed him like you were mad about it.

And Bucky kissed you back like he was never going to recover.

There was no hesitation. No slow build. No questioning what this was.

It was you, claiming him.

Your fingers were in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him gasp. Your other hand slid down his chest, nails dragging over the buttons of his dress shirt as you kissed him like you’d been planning to ruin him for weeks.

Maybe you had.

Bucky groaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, pulling you closer, hands gripping your waist so tight he thought he might leave fingerprints. You tasted like gloss and adrenaline, like sweat and something he couldn’t name—something real.

You broke the kiss just long enough to bite his lower lip—hard.

He shuddered.

“Still think I’m gonna file an HR report?” you whispered, voice low, teasing, lethal.

Bucky laughed—breathless, dizzy. “I’m not even sure I can spell HR right now.”

You pushed him back until his legs hit the edge of the conference table.

Then you shoved him.

Not hard. Just enough.

He landed on the tabletop with a soft grunt, eyes wide, hands bracing behind him.

“Off,” you said, fingers already at his tie.

“Jesus,” he muttered, letting you yank it loose.

“Not quite.”

His blazer hit the floor.

Then the shirt. Button by button, you peeled it off like you were unwrapping a problem you planned to solve with your teeth.

He was hard beneath his slacks. Painfully. Obscenely.

You noticed.

“Oh,” you said softly, eyes flicking down. “So you do like a woman in charge.”

“Have you met you?” he rasped.

You climbed onto his lap, straddling him right there on the table, grinding down slow and firm. His head fell back with a groan, hands flying to your hips, gripping like he was drowning.

“Touch me,” you said.

He did.

Everywhere.

And he was so gone for you.

You ground down on him again, slower this time, your hands planted on his chest, dress hiked up, his belt digging into your thigh. His hands gripped your hips like he wasn’t sure if he was guiding you or just hanging on.

Bucky's breath came in ragged pulls. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Maybe,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “But you’ll die happy.”

You kissed him again—slower, deeper, tongue sliding into his mouth with a confidence that made his spine arch. He felt like he was melting, hands skimming up your sides, over your back, desperate to touch, to anchor.

And then you pulled back.

Stood up between his knees.

Hiked your skirt up higher.

No underwear.

He made a sound—low, guttural, almost a prayer.

You grinned.

Then you undid his belt. Slow. Deliberate. Let the metal clink open, dragged his zipper down with one nail, and reached into his briefs to free him.

He hissed through his teeth when your hand wrapped around him, stroking once, then again, firm and slow and utterly in control. You looked down at him like you were studying something you planned to break and rebuild better.

“You been hard for me since the press room?”

“Since our briefing,” he groaned.

You climbed back into his lap and lined him up with your entrance, teasing the tip against your folds, dragging it through your slick with a roll of your hips.

“You’re so lucky I like older guys.”

And then you sank down.

Slow.

Deep.

All of him.

He choked on a gasp, head falling forward against your shoulder, arms wrapping around you like his whole body had just been plugged into a power grid.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel so good—so fucking tight.”

You rolled your hips once—hard—and he whined.

“Look at me,” you said.

He did.

And the look on your face?

Smug. Wild. Unapologetic.

You started to move.

Up and down, grinding, hips snapping, thighs strong as you rode him like you owned him—and maybe you did. His mouth parted, hands clutching your ass, eyes locked on your face as you took him faster, harder, moaning softly every time he hit just right.

“You gonna come, congressman?” you teased, voice breathy. “Gonna fall apart for your assistant like a cliché?”

He laughed—barely. “Already did.”

And when your nails dug into his shoulders and your rhythm stuttered, when your moan turned breathless and high and he felt you clench around him—

He lost it.

He groaned loud and long, spilling inside you as his vision blurred, body shaking beneath your grip.

You kissed him through it, slow and deep, hips still rocking until his hands went limp and his head dropped to your shoulder.

Breathless.

Ruined.

Yours.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #james buchanan barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut

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sixeyesonathiel · 16 days ago

Text

grumpiest gojo in tokyo

a cursed gojo satoru comes home irritable and picks a fight over dinner, only to realize too late the weight of your effort and care. what follows is a night on the couch, a morning of regret, and a heartfelt attempt to make things right—with curry, apologies, and the quiet kind of love that stays.

wc — 6k ✦ tags domestic fluff, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, established relationship, cooking together, miscommunication, curse effects, domestic arguments, making up, satoru being an idiot, emotional vulnerability, slice of life, tender moments, attempt at humor, crack treated seriously, dramatic gojo satoru

if someone had told satoru that he’d spend his tuesday evening glaring at his own reflection like it had personally insulted his ancestry, he would have laughed until his lungs gave out.

but here he was, six-foot-three of pure irritation wrapped in a designer suit that suddenly felt too tight, too scratchy, too everything. the curse had been pathetic—some low-grade spirit that barely registered on his radar before he obliterated it with a flick of his wrist. what he hadn’t expected was the parting gift: a nasty little enchantment that flipped his emotional switches like a toddler with a light panel.

now every small inconvenience felt like a personal affront. the elevator music? annoying. his reflection? punchable. the way his key scraped against the lock? absolutely infuriating. even the hallway carpet seemed to be judging him, its expensive fibers somehow too soft, too plush, too deliberately welcoming.

the elevator had been its own special hell. fourteen floors of smooth jazz that made his teeth itch, pressed between a woman who smelled like she’d bathed in vanilla extract and an old man who kept clearing his throat every thirty seconds like he was trying to communicate in morse code. satoru had spent the entire ride contemplating whether teleportation counted as assault if he used it to escape small talk.

“lovely weather we’re having,” the woman had chirped, and satoru had to physically restrain himself from responding with a detailed analysis of how the barometric pressure was clearly off and the humidity was making his hair stick to his forehead in a way that defied both gravity and styling products.

the penthouse door swung open with more force than necessary, and satoru stepped into what should have been his sanctuary. the familiar scent of home—vanilla candles, your perfume, the faint trace of coffee from this morning—hit him like a wall, and for one blessed moment, he felt the curse’s grip loosen. then he saw you standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, wearing that particular expression that usually made him want to kiss you senseless, and the irritation came roaring back.

today, it made him want to argue about everything from the weather to the existential meaning of kitchen tiles.

“you’re late,” you said, not looking up from whatever you were aggressively chopping on the cutting board. the knife moved with practiced precision, each cut deliberate and sharp. your hair was pulled back in that messy way that meant you’d been cooking for a while, little wisps escaping to frame your face. you wore his old dress shirt over your clothes, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, and normally the sight would have him crossing the room to wrap his arms around your waist from behind.

today, even that looked wrong somehow. the shirt was wrinkled in a way that suggested you’d been moving around the kitchen for hours, and there was a small stain on the sleeve that looked suspiciously like turmeric. why couldn’t you just be more careful?

“traffic,” he bit out, the word sharp enough to cut glass. his fingers worked at his tie with jerky, aggressive movements, the silk suddenly feeling like a noose around his throat. “apparently half of tokyo decided to drive like they learned from a cereal box.”

you paused mid-chop, the knife hovering over what looked like carrots. expensive carrots, the kind that cost more than most people’s lunch, cut into perfect uniform pieces because you knew he had opinions about vegetable consistency. finally glancing up, your eyes narrowed as you took in his rigid posture.

“what crawled up your ass and died?” you asked, setting the knife down with a soft clink that somehow sounded accusatory. “and don’t say traffic. you teleport half the time anyway.”

“maybe i wanted to drive today,” satoru snapped, his voice rougher than usual. he yanked the tie free and tossed it aside, watching it land on the marble counter with unnecessary focus. the silk crumpled against the expensive stone, and he felt irrationally annoyed that it didn’t land properly. “maybe i wanted to experience the joy of sitting in gridlock with a bunch of people who think turn signals are optional.”

“oh, so you chose to be miserable,” you said, turning back to your chopping with deliberate calm. “how very mature of you.”

“i’m not miserable,” he said, which was a lie of such epic proportions that even he didn’t believe it. “i’m fine. perfectly fine. can’t a man come home without getting interrogated by the food network?”

your hands stilled on the knife handle. in the three years you’d been married, satoru had never once referred to your cooking as anything other than perfect, divine, or life-changing. he’d never mocked your careful preparations or compared you to cooking shows. he’d certainly never used that particular tone of voice when talking about something you’d spent hours working on.

“excuse me?” your voice dropped to that dangerously quiet tone that usually made him backtrack and grovel. the same tone you’d used when you’d caught him eating the last of your ice cream at two in the morning, or when he’d accidentally shrunk your favorite sweater in the wash because he’d been too confident about his laundry skills.

today, it just made him more irritated. even your anger seemed performative, like you were trying to make him feel guilty for having a bad day.

“you heard me,” he said, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch with unnecessary force. the expensive fabric wrinkled on impact, and he felt a petty satisfaction at the sight. “i’m tired, i want to eat, and i don’t want to play twenty questions about my day. is that too much to ask?”

you set the knife down with deliberate precision, the kind of movement that screamed ‘controlled fury.’ your knuckles had gone white where you gripped the edge of the counter, and satoru found himself fixating on the way your chest rose and fell with carefully measured breaths.

“oh, you want to eat? how convenient.” each word was articulated with the kind of precision that meant you were fighting to keep your voice level. “i’ve been cooking for the past hour because my darling husband texted that he wanted my famous curry tonight. silly me, thinking i was being thoughtful.”

“i didn’t ask you to spend an hour on it,” satoru said, the words coming out harsher than he intended. the curse was making everything sound like an attack, including your genuine care for him. “i just said i was craving curry. that doesn’t mean you had to go full iron chef about it.”

your face went through several expressions in rapid succession—confusion, hurt, then something that looked dangerously close to rage. “full iron chef?” you repeated, your voice rising slightly. “i’m sorry, are you complaining about the effort i put into making you dinner?”

“i’m saying maybe you don’t need to make it such a production,” satoru said, immediately regretting it as your expression shifted to something that could freeze hell over. “it’s just food.”

the silence that followed was deafening. you stared at him like he’d grown a second head, and satoru felt a small part of his rational mind screaming that he was being an ass, that you were trying to do something nice for him, that he should shut up and apologize right now.

instead, he doubled down.

“what?” he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of false innocence. “i’m just saying, it doesn’t have to be a whole event every time. sometimes simple is fine.”

“simple,” you repeated, and there was something in your voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “you want simple.”

“i want to eat dinner without feeling like i owe you a standing ovation,” satoru said, the curse twisting his words into something cruel and ungrateful. “is that really so unreasonable?”

you stared at him for a long moment, and he could see the exact moment you decided you were done with his attitude. your shoulders squared, your chin lifted, and that dangerous calm settled over your features like armor.

“you know what?” you said, your voice reaching that pitch that made neighborhood dogs howl. “you’re absolutely right. simple is better.”

you grabbed the cutting board and dumped the half-chopped vegetables directly into the trash, pot and all. satoru watched, horrified, as you tossed the expensive ingredients he’d specifically requested—the organic carrots you’d driven to three different stores to find, the specialty spices you’d ordered online, the grass-fed beef that cost more than most people’s grocery budgets—into the garbage with the efficiency of a woman who’d reached her limit.

“what are you doing?” he asked, the curse making even his genuine confusion sound accusatory. his eyes—usually the color of summer sky, bright and endless—had gone stormy, like the ocean before a hurricane.

“keeping it simple,” you said sweetly, the kind of sweet that preceded natural disasters. you pulled off his dress shirt and tossed it at his chest, leaving you in just your tank top and jeans. “since apparently i’m just making everything too complicated.”

“that’s not—” satoru started, catching the shirt reflexively. it still smelled like you, like vanilla and that perfume he’d bought you for your birthday, and for a moment the curse’s grip loosened enough for him to realize what he was doing.

“no, no, you’re right,” you continued, moving around the kitchen with purposeful destruction. “why should i waste time making special trips to find your favorite vegetables? why should i follow that complicated recipe you love? why should i light candles and put on music and wear your shirts because i know it makes you happy?”

with each rhetorical question, you disposed of another carefully prepared element of dinner. the candles got blown out. the music got turned off. the recipe, bookmarked and stained from multiple attempts to perfect it, got shoved back onto the shelf.

“stop,” satoru said, but his voice came out wrong, still sharp and irritated instead of apologetic. “you don’t have to—”

“oh, but i do,” you said, spinning around to face him with your hands on your hips. “because apparently i’ve been making things too complicated for you. apparently, my husband thinks putting effort into making him happy is some kind of burden.”

“that’s not what i said,” satoru protested, but even he could hear how weak it sounded. the curse was making it impossible to find the right words, turning every attempt at explanation into another attack.

“isn’t it?” you asked, and your voice cracked slightly on the words. “because it sure sounded like you were complaining about me caring too much about you.”

“i wasn’t—” satoru started, then stopped. because he had been, hadn’t he? he’d taken all your thoughtfulness and thrown it back in your face like it was an inconvenience instead of a gift.

“you know what the really stupid part is?” you said, and now you were crying, tears streaming down your face while you tried to maintain that fierce expression. “i was actually excited about tonight. i thought, ‘oh, satoru’s having a rough day, let me make him something special.’ i thought it would be nice to spoil you a little.”

each word hit him like a physical blow, and satoru felt the curse’s influence waver as genuine regret started to seep through. you were crying because of him, because he’d taken your love and twisted it into something ugly.

“baby—” he started, stepping toward you, but you held up a hand.

“no,” you said firmly, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “you don’t get to ‘baby’ me right now. you wanted simple? congratulations. you can order takeout like a simple, uncomplicated person who doesn’t have to worry about anyone making too much effort for them.”

you stomped past him toward the bedroom, and satoru felt the inexplicable urge to follow you just to continue the argument. the curse was making everything feel like a personal attack, including the way you were clearly giving him the silent treatment.

“where are you going?” he called after you, his voice echoing in the sudden emptiness of the kitchen.

“to bed,” you shouted back, not even turning around. “alone. since you’re clearly too mature and sophisticated to appreciate having someone who gives a damn about you.”

“that’s not—” satoru started, but you were already disappearing into the bedroom.

“and don’t you dare follow me,” you added, your voice muffled by distance and tears. “i’m too complicated for you right now. wouldn’t want to burden you with my excessive caring.”

the bedroom door slammed hard enough to rattle the expensive artwork on the walls—pieces you’d chosen together during lazy saturday afternoons, arguing playfully about colors and compositions. the sound reverberated through the penthouse like a gunshot, and satoru was left standing in the kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of your thoughtfulness.

the fancy ingredients you’d specially ordered, now sitting in the trash like expensive garbage. the cookbook bookmarked to his favorite recipe, pages already stained from previous attempts to perfect it. the apron you’d been wearing that said ‘kiss the cook’ that he’d bought you as a joke but secretly loved seeing you in. the way you’d lit his favorite candles, the ones that smelled like clean laundry and summer rain, now sitting cold and forgotten.

he should apologize. he should explain about the curse. he should bang down the bedroom door and grovel until you forgave him. instead, what he actually did was stand there feeling sorry for himself and getting progressively more irritated that you were making him feel guilty for having a bad day.

the curse twisted his regret into resentment, his love into annoyance. by the time he ordered takeout, he’d convinced himself that you were being just as unreasonable as he was, that maybe you were both just having a bad day and tomorrow everything would be fine.

the thai food tasted like cardboard. the silence felt oppressive. and every time he heard you moving around in the bedroom—the soft sounds of you getting ready for bed, the way you pointedly didn’t come out to say goodnight—he felt a strange combination of longing and irritation that made his chest tight.

he slept on the couch, if you could call it sleeping. mostly he lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the city below and wondering why everything felt so wrong. his neck cramped from the awkward angle, and his feet hung off the end of the couch, but the discomfort felt deserved somehow.

at some point in the night, he heard you get up to get water. heard you pause in the hallway, probably looking at him sprawled across the couch in his wrinkled work clothes. for a moment, he thought you might come over, might cover him with a blanket or wake him up to come to bed properly.

instead, you went back to the bedroom and closed the door softly behind you. the sound was somehow worse than if you’d slammed it.

satoru woke up feeling like he’d been hit by a truck driven by his own stupidity.

the couch had left him with a crick in his neck that felt like divine punishment, and his designer suit—still wrinkled from yesterday’s disaster—clung to him like a polyester hair shirt. he blinked at the ceiling, reality crashing down on him with the subtlety of a meteor. his hair, normally defying gravity in perfect tufts of winter moonlight, now lay flat against his skull in greasy defeat.

”she hates me,” he whispered to the empty living room, his voice hoarse from a night of tossing and turning on furniture that cost more than most people’s cars but apparently wasn’t designed for sleeping. his fingers clutched the throw blanket you’d probably covered him with at some point during the night—because even when you wanted to strangle him, you couldn’t let him freeze to death. the realization made his chest cave in on itself like a poorly constructed soufflé.

he fumbled for his phone with the desperation of a man checking his life support systems. the screen blazed to life, and there it was: absolutely nothing. no texts. no passive-aggressive memes about husbands who didn’t appreciate home cooking. no angry face emojis that somehow conveyed more disappointment than actual words ever could.

this was worse than fighting. this was the kind of silence that preceded relationship extinction events.

satoru’s brain started spiraling in that particular way that made him question every life choice he’d ever made, starting with the decision to get out of bed yesterday morning. maybe if he’d just called in sick, claimed food poisoning, faked his own death—anything would have been better than whatever possessed him to insult your cooking like some kind of emotionally constipated neanderthal.

he dragged himself off the couch, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. his reflection in the hallway mirror showed a man who looked like he’d been put through a blender set to ’existential crisis’—hair sticking up at angles that defied several laws of physics, eyes the color of winter storms instead of their usual clear-sky brightness, stubble making him look less ’mysterious and attractive’ and more ’recently escaped from somewhere with poor hygiene standards.’

the bedroom door loomed ahead like the gates of judgment day.

he knocked with the tentative approach of someone defusing a bomb. ”baby?” his voice came out smaller than intended, almost childlike in its uncertainty. the silence that followed felt heavy enough to crush him. ”sweetheart? love of my life? reason for my continued existence on this mortal plane?”

nothing. not even the courtesy of telling him to go away.

his ear pressed against the door revealed the soft sounds of you moving around—the whisper of fabric, the barely audible pad of bare feet against hardwood. you were awake. you were choosing to ignore him. somehow, this felt worse than active hatred.

satoru started pacing the hallway like a caged animal, his hands working through his hair until it achieved new levels of chaos. the motion was automatic, nervous, the same way he’d fidget during particularly boring clan meetings when he wanted to teleport straight through the floor. except now he was fidgeting because his wife—his brilliant, sharp-tongued, perpetually grumpy wife who somehow loved him despite overwhelming evidence that she shouldn’t—was giving him the silent treatment, and he deserved every second of it.

he caught a whiff of your perfume clinging to the throw pillow he’d been clutching, that familiar vanilla-and-something-else scent that made him want to bury his face in your neck and never come up for air. the smell wrapped around him like a accusation.

”she really hates me,” he whispered to his reflection, which stared back with the hollow-eyed desperation of a man who’d royally screwed up the best thing in his life.

that’s when his brain, in its infinite wisdom, decided that teleportation was the answer.

the bedroom materialized around him in a shimmer of cursed energy, and there you were—a fortress of blankets with only the top of your head visible, dark hair spilling across the pillow like spilled ink. you were curled away from where he’d appeared, and satoru’s heart did something complicated and painful when he realized you’d probably sensed his incoming presence and rejected it preemptively.

you didn’t flinch. didn’t speak. didn’t even acknowledge that your husband had just violated several laws of physics to grovel in your general vicinity. the indifference was worse than anger. anger he could work with. anger meant you still cared enough to feel something about his existence.

”hi,” satoru said weakly, his voice cracking like he was thirteen again and asking someone to the school dance. his hands hung useless at his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for you even though he’d probably get his hand bitten off. ”please don’t kill me.”

the blanket mountain remained unmoved, a monument to his spectacular failure as a husband.

he sank to the floor beside the bed like a deflated balloon, crossing his legs in the world’s most expensive timeout corner. the hardwood was cold against his tailbone, but discomfort felt appropriate. deserved, even. his brain was doing that thing where it replayed every terrible moment from yesterday on an endless loop, each replay making him cringe harder.

the way he’d snapped at you for caring. the way he’d dismissed hours of effort like it was nothing. the way your face had crumpled before you’d gotten angry, that split second of pure hurt that he’d caused with his stupid, cursed mouth.

”okay,” he began, staring at the curve of blankets that contained his entire world. his voice came out rougher than he’d intended, scraped raw by a night of self-loathing and couch-sleeping. ”i was cursed. cursed! and not even in a cool, tragic, romantic way where you have to kiss me to break it or i turn into a beast with fabulous hair. just cursed to be the absolute worst possible version of myself at the worst possible moment.”

still nothing. the silence stretched between them like a chasm, and satoru felt himself falling into it.

”i hated everything yesterday,” he continued, his fingers picking at a loose thread on his shirt cuff. ”the elevator music made my teeth itch. my reflection looked like it owed me money. the hallway carpet seemed personally offended by my existence. and your carrots—” his voice broke slightly, remembering the precise way you’d cut them, each piece exactly the same size because you knew he noticed things like that ”—your perfect, beautiful carrots that you cut with surgical precision because somehow, inexplicably, you know that i have opinions about vegetable consistency.”

he crawled closer to the bed, his knees protesting against the hardwood. the movement felt pathetic, but he was beyond caring about dignity. his hands gripped the edge of the comforter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

”the curse made everything feel wrong,” he said, his forehead pressed against the mattress. the fabric smelled like you, like home, like everything he’d almost lost because he couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut. ”it took all your thoughtfulness and twisted it in my head until it looked like judgment instead of love. but that’s not an excuse. there’s no excuse for what i said to you.”

a small shift in the blankets. barely perceptible, but satoru had made a career out of reading the subtlest changes in cursed energy. he knew the difference between sleeping movements and listening movements, and this was definitely listening.

his heart did something acrobatic and desperate in his chest.

”i would eat every single curry you ever make,” he continued, emboldened by that tiny sign of life from the blanket fortress. his voice picked up speed, desperation making the words tumble over each other. ”i would drink turmeric straight from the jar and ask for seconds. i would kiss the cutting board you used if it meant i get to hold you again. i would let you practice knife skills on my credit cards. i would learn to appreciate smooth jazz if it meant never seeing that look on your face again.”

”you said it was just food,” came a muffled voice from somewhere in the depths of egyptian cotton and righteous indignation, and satoru’s entire nervous system short-circuited.

your voice was rough with sleep and tears and the particular brand of hurt that came from having someone you love dismiss something you’d put your heart into. the sound of it made something crack open in his chest, spilling guilt and regret and desperate, pathetic love all over his ribcage.

”no,” he said, scrambling to his knees like he was physically trying to climb out of the hole he’d dug. his hands moved frantically, gesturing at nothing, his hair catching the morning light streaming through the windows and turning it into something that looked less like moonlight and more like the aftermath of an explosion. ”no no no. i was lying. that wasn’t me talking, that was the curse and my own stupidity having a baby and raising it wrong.”

you turned over slowly, like a glacier deciding to shift, and one eye appeared over the edge of the blanket. it was puffy from crying and narrow with suspicion, but it was the most beautiful thing satoru had seen since his own name on a wedding certificate.

his eyes, normally the kind of blue that made people think of summer skies and endless possibilities, had gone gray around the edges with exhaustion and self-recrimination. they were wide and desperate, pupils dilated like he was in actual physical pain.

”that curry was art,” he said, his voice cracking with sincerity. ”that curry was love in edible form. that curry was better than—” he paused, his brain catching up with his mouth ”—okay, not better than sex, obviously, because sex with you is like winning the lottery while riding a unicorn through a field of diamonds. but like, tied for second place. with puppies. and that thing you do with your tongue when—”

”satoru,” you warned, but there was something different in your voice. less ’i want to murder you’ and more ’you’re an idiot but you’re my idiot.’

he immediately flopped face-first onto the bed beside you, his long limbs arranging themselves in what could generously be called a full-body apology. his voice came out muffled by the duvet, but no less dramatic for it.

”i don’t deserve you,” he said, and meant it. ”i don’t deserve the way you remember that i like my coffee with exactly two sugars, or the way you buy the expensive vanilla extract because you know i can taste the difference, or the way you cut carrots into perfect little pieces because somewhere in your beautiful, patient brain, you’ve catalogued the fact that i’m a perfectionist about the stupidest things.”

you shifted again, and he felt the mattress dip as you turned to face him properly. when he lifted his head, you were studying him with that particular expression that meant you were trying to stay mad but finding it increasingly difficult.

”you smell like takeout and self-pity,” you said, and your voice was still rough around the edges, but there was something softer underneath it. not forgiveness, exactly, but maybe the possibility of eventual forgiveness.

”do i smell like redemption?” he asked hopefully, lifting himself up on his elbows. his hair was doing that thing where it defied gravity in seventeen different directions, and there was a crease on his cheek from the pillowcase, and somehow he still managed to look unfairly attractive in that rumpled, pathetic way that made you want to either kiss him or throw something at him.

you studied him for a long moment, taking in the ridiculous hair, the wrinkled shirt, the way he was literally prostrating himself on egyptian cotton like he was worshipping at the altar of your forgiveness. his eyes were doing that thing where they went soft and pleading, like a very tall, very expensive puppy who’d chewed up your favorite shoes but was really, really sorry about it.

”maybe,” you said finally, your tone carefully neutral. ”if you do the dishes. and the laundry. and never, ever call my cooking ’just food’ again. and if you stop looking at me like that.”

”like what?” satoru asked, even though he knew exactly what you meant. he was looking at you like you hung the moon and personally arranged all the stars, like you were the answer to every prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud.

”like i’m made of something precious that you’re afraid you’ll break,” you said, and there was a slight flush creeping up your neck that you tried to hide by pulling the blanket higher.

”but you are,” satoru said simply, and the honesty in his voice made your chest tight. ”you’re the most precious thing in my entire existence, and i almost broke you yesterday, and i’m terrified i’ll do it again because apparently i’m capable of being that stupid.”

you were quiet for a moment, processing this admission. when you spoke again, your voice was carefully controlled, but he caught the slight waver underneath. ”you’re an idiot.”

”your idiot,” he corrected, scooting closer until he could rest his head on your pillow. the movement brought him close enough that you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the way his skin was paler than usual, the slight tremor in his hands that suggested he’d been running on anxiety and caffeine. ”forever and always, your idiot.”

the curry took four hours.

not because it was supposed to take four hours, but because satoru kept getting distracted by the way you moved around the kitchen, the efficient grace with which you handled knives and spices and the complicated choreography of cooking something properly. he’d stop mid-chop to watch you toast cumin seeds, fascinated by the way you knew exactly when they were done just by the smell.

”you’re burning the onions,” you said without looking up from the spice grinder, and satoru startled back to attention.

”i’m not burning them, i’m caramelizing them,” he protested, quickly stirring the pan.

”those are two different things, and what you’re doing is the first one.”

”how can you tell without even looking?”

”because i have functioning senses and twenty years of cooking experience,” you said, but there was fondness in your voice that took the sting out of the words.

satoru abandoned the onions to wrap his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on top of your head. ”teach me,” he said.

”teach you what?”

”everything. how to tell when onions are done. how you know exactly how much salt to add without measuring. how you make everything taste like home.”

you went still in his arms, something soft and surprised flickering across your face. ”satoru...”

”i’m serious,” he said, his voice quiet against your hair. ”i want to learn. i want to know how to make the things you love. i want to be able to take care of you the way you take care of me.”

you turned in his arms, studying his face for any sign that he was just saying what he thought you wanted to hear. but his eyes were clear and earnest, that particular shade of blue that reminded you of deep water, and you could see he meant it.

”okay,” you said simply.

”okay?”

”okay, i’ll teach you. but you have to promise not to get frustrated when you mess up, because you will mess up. repeatedly.”

”i promise,” satoru said solemnly. ”i will be the most patient student in the history of cooking education.”

you raised an eyebrow. ”you once threw a tantrum because i asked you to fold fitted sheets.”

”that was different. fitted sheets are clearly designed by sadists who hate happiness and functional linen closets.”

”everything is going to be fitted sheets to you when you’re learning to cook properly,” you warned.

”then i’ll suffer through it,” satoru said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. ”for you, i’ll suffer through a thousand fitted sheets.”

the curry was, objectively, the best thing either of you had ever tasted.

maybe it was because you’d made it together, satoru’s hands covering yours as you showed him how to bloom spices, his careful attention as you explained the difference between adding salt at the beginning versus the end. maybe it was because he’d actually listened, asked questions, tasted and adjusted and learned in a way that made your chest warm with something that felt dangerously close to pride.

or maybe it was just because food always tasted better when it came with a side of forgiveness.

you sat on the kitchen counter afterward, legs tangled together, sharing bites from the same bowl because satoru claimed it tasted better when you fed it to him. he’d managed to get turmeric stains on his shirt and somehow in his hair, and you had curry under your fingernails and a constellation of spice stains across your apron.

”this is better than sex,” satoru said solemnly, accepting another spoonful.

”no, it’s not,” you said, rolling your eyes.

”okay, you’re right,” he said, grinning. ”but it’s at least in the top five.”

”what’s the other four?”

”sex with you, obviously. that thing you do with your tongue. watching you sleep when you don’t know i’m looking. and the face you made when i proposed, like you couldn’t believe i was serious but you were happy about it anyway.”

your cheeks went pink, and you hid your face against his shoulder. ”you’re ridiculous.”

”ridiculously in love with you,” he corrected, his arms tightening around you. ”ridiculously, pathetically, embarrassingly in love with you. the kind of love that makes people write terrible poetry and do stupid things like teleport into bedrooms to grovel.”

”your groveling needs work,” you said, but your voice was muffled against his neck, and he could feel you smiling.

”i’ll practice,” satoru promised. ”i’ll become the most accomplished groveler in the history of marriage. i’ll grovel so well that people will write legends about it.”

”just don’t give me a reason to make you grovel again,” you said, pulling back to look at him seriously.

”never again,” satoru said, and he meant it. ”from now on, i’m going to worship every curry you make like it’s a religious experience. i’m going to appreciate every chopped vegetable like it’s a work of art. i’m going to be so grateful for your existence that it makes people uncomfortable to be around us.”

”people are already uncomfortable being around us,” you pointed out.

”then i’ll make it worse,” satoru said cheerfully. ”i’ll be so obviously, disgustingly in love with my wife that small children will ask their parents uncomfortable questions about why that tall man is looking at that woman like she invented happiness.”

you laughed despite yourself, the sound bright and surprised, and satoru felt something settle in his chest that had been twisted up since yesterday. this was his favorite sound in the world, your laugh when he caught you off guard, when you forgot to be grumpy and let him see the soft parts of you that you usually kept hidden.

”you’re so stupid,” you said, but you were smiling now, really smiling, and your fingers were playing with the hair at the nape of his neck in that absent way that meant you were happy.

”stupidly in love with you,” he corrected for the third time, because apparently it bore repeating.

you kissed him then, soft and sweet and tasting like curry and forgiveness, and satoru thought that maybe being cursed had been worth it if it led to this moment, sitting in his kitchen with turmeric stains and tired eyes and the woman he loved more than breathing choosing to forgive him for being temporarily terrible.

the afternoon sun slanted through the windows, turning the kitchen golden and warm, and somewhere between the curry and the kissing and the quiet contentment of being understood, satoru realized that this was what happiness looked like. not the big, dramatic moments that people wrote songs about, but the small ones: the way you fit perfectly in the circle of his arms, the way you’d teach him to cook with patience he didn’t deserve, the way you’d choose him again and again even when he gave you every reason not to. it was ordinary and extraordinary all at once, and he was pathetically grateful for every second of it.

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