katsulia - Tumblr blog

katsulia · 3 years ago

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be here.

→ ceo!kuroo tetsuro x female!reader

→ synopsis: all little girls have dreamed of their future fairytale wedding - to the average woman, marriage is a sacred ink imprinted on one's soul. but to kuroo tetsuro, and (y/n) (l/n), their marriage is one of convenience and vested interests. so, how is a wife who is adamant about making this marriage work going to fare living with a husband who isn't hesitant to burn it to ashes?

→ genre: ceo au, post-timeskip, major angst, 18+

→ warnings: +18; heating/infidelity, toxic relationship, arranged marriage, major angst, profanity, mentions of sex, divorce, depressive tendencies

→ navigation: prologue + one + two + three + four + five + six + seven + eight + nine + ten + eleven + twelve + thirteen + fourteen + fifteen +sixteen + seventeen + eighteen + nineteen + twenty + epilogue

→ notes: hey guys, it’s ya girl i’m finally back on this platform since the second semester here at my uni is almost over!

···

It began in a glittering party not lacking in champagne, foie gras, and VIPs who couldn't care less about this anniversary party of the (L/N) group if it weren't for Mr. (L/N)'s important announcement.'God knows what it is,' An arrogant-sounding woman in the crowd snickered to her friends, downing her glass of champagne heartily. 'But if it has something to do with the (L/N) group, it must be something big.'

Your family was one of Tokyo's leading companies; your sixty-three-floor headquarters in Minato ward is enough to crush rival companies' dreams to even go head to head with the prestigious (L/N) Group of Companies, a fast-pace company that is none too hesitant to invest in many endeavors from automobile manufacturing to big pharma, or food services. For your family, the sky was the limit when it comes to market expansion thereby attributing to the group's whopping net worth of 7 billion USD. For decades, the premier institution of your family has been left unrivaled, until the emergence of a new, intriguing company that specialized in athletic apparel, real estate, and stock trading.

Your father and the other elders in your family had begun to show signs of trepidation regarding this potential rival. Given that both the (L/N) Group and the Kuroo group fall within the top ten companies that were featured in the Japan Times just last month. You take a sip of your wine, looking around the room. All the prime business leaders of Japan are in this event hall, all wanting to witness what your family plans to do next.

Suddenly, a woman in a muted rose gown sits next to you. You look over your shoulder and frown at her. The woman merely looks at you, her lips quivering into a small smile. "You're still not going to tell me what's going on?" You sigh at your older sister, Sam, a proud real estate broker who had managed to close a lot of property deals here in Japan and in other locations such as the US, EU and the UK.If anything, Sam was the quiet child of the two sisters in the current generation of the (L/N) family running the corporation.

She was a shy child, veering out of the spotlight as much as she can, preferring instead to let her little sister run the show, and dazzle the press. To Sam, having the world's eyes on her was her biggest nightmare, choosing instead to dedicate herself to her growing little family of four. Although the elders in your family were displeased with her decision to decline a senior executive position in the (L/N) Group, your father paid no heed to her decision. A wary look painted your father's features in his top-level office the day Sam had decided to sell her shares in the company to you.

Mr. (L/N), the patriarch of the longstanding company, the boss to over hundreds of thousands of local and international based workers, merely leaned back against his leather armchair, and asked the harrowing question to his eldest, "Will this make you happy?"

For all your life, that's just how you picture your father - a simple, family man who would risk everything if it meant putting a smile on his daughter's faces. After your mother had painfully left her two daughters in the care of a distraught father who was near breaking point after a long divorce proceeding with his wife, he dedicated his entire life to you and your sister. After the divorce had been finalized, your mother disappeared without a trace, probably anxious to start her new life without her family. To this day, your father never got over the pain his ex-wife had unjustly inflicted on him; it makes your blood boil thinking how your mother is probably living her best life as she pleases while her family has been thrown into complete and utter turmoil.

During one of your father's drinking sprees in the late midnight, as you laid a blanket over his fatigued body, tears pricked your eyes when you had caught a glimpse of his diary - apparently, his psychiatrist advised him to pick up the hobby of journaling his thoughts to allow him to rationally process his emotions. There, written in his ever messy penmanship, "The youngest, my (Y/N) is my pride, the future of this family and the company, the eldest, my Sam, is my joy and the pearl of our world."

"It's a surprise," Your sister clapped your shoulder playfully. "Dad told me not to tell you," She pinched your cheek, earning a groan from you. She giggled when you swat her hand away like a kitten with its laser toy.

"Speaking of Dad, where is he?" You squirmed in your seat, your eyes darting around the room. You frown when you don't see any sign of the man of the hour. You were just about to stand up to look for the events manager to check on the program schedule when the doors of the function room opened to reveal a most distinguished young man.He had to be, judging from how the room went so silent you could hear a pin drop to the marble floor.

"Isn't that Morisuke Yaku?" People talk among themselves. "Yeah, I think he's one of the Kuroo group's executives." You tense up when the sandy blonde haired-man clad in a signature Givenchy suit recognizes you. His eyes light up instantly, and he makes his way over to you, weaving through the crowd with purpose.

A dazzling smile meets you with an affectionate and familiar peck on the cheek, "Hey, (Y/N)," He greets you with a tight hug. "I didn't expect to see you around here, it's been a while! How have things been?"

"Hi, Yaku," You grin at your longtime friend from high school. You pull away to meet his eyes, "I've been doing alright," You say politely to which Yaku laughs at your brief remark, your eyebrows furrowed together when you notice his cufflink with the signature engraving of the Kuroo Group of Companies. "So, I see, you've been working with the Kuoo Group, how are things over at your side of the park?"

Yaku goes on about his career with your rival company, noting how his boss uses a sledgehammer strategy in the market, hence the company's fast-growing numbers and incoming profit. You lose yourself as he chatters away.

'What are they doing here?' You think to yourself, it was unheard of for the Kuroo Group of Companies to make a public appearance at a social event much to the annoyance of the other business leaders in Japan. In your world not attending social events of other companies especially if your company is invited is like building a brick wall between yourself and other companies in the market - this very act can make your corporation look aloof, and in extreme cases, pompous.

You were just about to reply to Yaku's inquiry regarding the Russian stock market when the jazz band's tunes halt to an abrupt stop and people rush to their seats. "I'd better go," You apologize to Yaku when you notice Sam tapping you on the shoulder, gesturing for you to take your seat.

"No worries," Yaku nods at you, suddenly taking on a formal tone. "I'll see you around," He turns on his heel walking over to the other end of the hall to find his seat. You shrug at your sister who was looking at you with a noticeably confused expression, before taking a seat yourself.

The host for the event takes the podium and begins to read off his script. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of the (L/N) family, I would like to thank you for taking the time to celebrate this momentous event with us."

You look over at your sister who has noticeably grown a little tense as compared to her bubbly disposition earlier. You clap politely, and thank a few of your tablemates who congratulate you on the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of your family's corporation.

After imparting the brief history of the (L/N) group, the emcee then turns his head towards the side of the stage where you see your father and a strangely familiar-looking man beside him who he appears to be in a cordial conversation with. "May we please call on Mr. (L/N), the CEO of this very successful corporate empire to share a few words.”

Your father's attention is snapped back to focus. And with a final handshake to the mysterious man, he proudly climbs the stage. A sea of applause meets him when he reaches the platform. You clap alongside Sam. "Now, I'm sure you're probably wondering," Your father wraps up his opening speech, transitioning to his long-awaited announcement. "What exciting announcement does old man (L/N) have in store for us today, such that he sent out hundreds of invitations. Well," He glances at your figure, a happy and yet, an apologetic smile on his face.

He pauses for a short while to collect himself, as he feels his heart all but burst out of his chest. He looks at you again, gesturing with a slight nod, as if he were begging you to help him through his speech, of his head for you to join him on stage. You feel your sister's cold hands take yours. "I'm sorry," She whispers, in a solemn act of confession, much to your confusion. You couldn't begin to fathom what was going on.

You stand up from your seat, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room bear into your soul. Each careful step you take is met with a following gaze, watching you carefully take another shaky step forward. You begin to realize that this announcement was about you, and whatever it was that stopped your father's speech dead in its tracks and made your usual happy-go-lucky sister make a perplexing confession. The blinding lights of the stage do nothing to pacify you, every clink of your heel was an arrow to your heart.

You reach the top of the stage to join your father, who looked as if he had committed a heinous crime. "Papa, what's going on?" You link a finger with his, your voice a small whisper.

Your father's chest rises with a sharp intake of breath, holding your hand like you were the last person in the world. "Trust me, my (Y/N), this will work out for the best," His shoulders slump in absolute crushing defeat. The passing moment of seeing the man you looked up to your whole life struggle to contain himself, heaving each breath with added anxiety was probably the most painful thing you could ever witness. Your father holds his head high in front of the waiting crowd, his voice seemingly imitating the silent crash of the waves against the rocky shore - silent, serene. You watch him put on a broken smile, one that you've had to see many times in your troubled childhood. "I am delighted to let you all know that the (L/N) group will be taking a leap forward in its operations. Starting next week, the (L/N) Group and the Kuroo Group of Companies will be meeting to discuss a viable merger."

You felt your world crash when gasps of shock and horror ring around the function hall. You felt as though you had been thrown into a lightless abyss. In worry, you step forward to reach for your father's hand. Before you could even process what was going on, you feel your hand being crushed by an apologetic yet gentle grip. "Papa, what is this?" You are at a complete loss for words.

What he says next almost made you believe that this reality was not real - you were only straddling between waking and dreaming. You are rushed with a feeling of helplessness at the shocking revelation. There was a complete and understandable reason as to why Sam had been so reluctant to tell you about this event, why your father had not been admitting you to his office, why his secretary had punched in a new lock at his C-suite office preventing you from seeing your father without an appointment. You reckoned that your father had only been swamped by work, as per usual, and probably didn’t want anyone barging in when he’s working, but apparently, it made sense that he was seeing other C-suite executives in his top-floor office. And the sight of a few of the Kuroo Group of Companies executives rushing around your Minato ward office lobby with a bunch of gifts such as expensive watches, prime real estate property deeds in tow; this was a usual practice in your line of work, for weeks now, the two companies have met each other diplomatically, seemingly having a back and forth conversation about the future of the two companies.

"In addition to this, we would like to happily announce that my youngest daughter, (Y/N)," He beckons for you to step forward but you are frozen to your spot, your feet nailed to the ground. "Will be getting married to the VP for operations of the Kuroo Group of Companies."

You watch Sam rush out of the room, painful tears dripping down her face. It was a horrible sight to behold - the crowd of people clapping, gossip rushing around the room, your sister running away from you, your father on the verge of an emotional breakdown. You knew this scene very well - it was the same as that night when your mother had yelled at you wishing that her children had never been born. Suddenly, everything was making sense - the gifts, the frequent visits from the Kuroo Group of companies, the long meetings that your father had that stretched on until midnight.

A pair of two men make their way up the stage. You couldn’t process your thoughts when the older gentleman collected your hands into his tight, and grateful grip. You instantly recognize the man to be the current chief executive officer of the Kuroo group, he was a familiar face, the glean in his warm eyes instantly recognizable from your childhood. You have seen him many times in your family estate, walking alongside your father in the gardens, laughing and drinking together. “(Y/N), my dear, it’s so nice to see you. You were only a little girl when we last met,” Your future father-in-law grins at you.

“Mr. Kuroo, I - uh - it’s a pleasure,” You stutter, not quite knowing what to say. Luckily, he steps in to continue the awkward conversation.

“Please, just call me Dad,” He encourages you to immediately embrace your new role as his daughter-in-law, the wife to his son, and the future mother to any children you were to have with his son, a yet another familiar face from when you were young. “We’re family now.”

“Alright, dad,” You force a smile in his direction. If anything, the fact that your future father-in-law was a kind and gracious man was of great comfort to you in this troubling time. Your father spots his buddy, and pulls him in a cordial handshake. From behind the party of the two lifelong friends chatting away with one another, your father sparing a regretful glance in your direction every now and then, you see your future husband, a towering young man, with raven black hair, piercing eyes, and a permanent smirk or frown on his face depending on his mood for the day.

He was infamous around the various business corners around the world - a ruthless, young man who was fully committed to his rise to power and wealth, the heir of the Kuroo Group of Companies, the only company that was ever able to strike fear into the hearts of the (L/N) Group’s top executives. You frown when you see him take a step in your direction, smirking at you. He strides towards you with calculating but not threatening steps. When he reaches you, he puts his hand out to kiss your knuckles like any gentleman of high society would - much to the delight of the onlookers around you. “Hi, (Y/N),” He says.

That’s right, of course your future husband had to be your childhood best friend. “Hi, Tetsuro.” You notice how ever different he was compared to the last time you saw him. Of course, he’s grown into a tall, and proud young man but his eyes were different - they were colder, more fatigued when compared to how lively his chocolate brown eyes were, how they seemed that they could tell a story without a thousand word vocabulary.

His eyes search the room for something, but you don’t bother to ask. You figured it must be the shock registering in your minds. Suddenly, you train your eyes to the other side of the stage and you find Sam who was looking calmer unlike a while ago, she was next to her two children and her husband, Sakusa. She waves in your direction, her other hand on her chest, a habit she picked up when you were young whenever she was sad. You frown sadly at her and mouth, ‘Don’t worry.’ which was quite hilarious considering that you didn’t know if you were saying that to comfort yourself or your sister.

“Now, if we can just invite the happy couple with their families to take center stage to have their picture taken,” The emcee smiles, after one of your spokespersons wraps up with his speech about how the two companies are more than elated to learn of our wedding. You could tell that he was uncomfortable spouting complete untruths about yours and Tetsuro’s love for one another, when steps off the stage, beads of sweat on his forehead since apparently, he had just written that speech this morning.

Sam joins you onstage, standing next to your father, while you stand next to your fiancé, a strained smile on your face while you wait for the official photographer. Your father chokes back a tear when he leans in, “I’m so sorry.”

Despite your reservations about the wedding that apparently is scheduled for next week, you forgivingly pat a hand on your father’s back. “I’m alright, Papa,” You console him, letting him know you could never be angry with him.

The photographer counts from three before a bright flash hits your eyes. She signals for another shot this time directing you. “A bit closer now, (Y/N) and Tetsuro, great!” She smiles when she sees Tetsuro’s hand find itself on the small of your waist from behind. You tense up, but almost immediately stop yourself from looking uncomfortable. And with a final count and a final flash, the photographer claps her hands together in satisfaction. “Congratulations, you two!”

The dinner goes by smoothly with a few more well-wishers sauntering over to your family’s table, after a few toasts for you and your groom. And now, you find yourself sitting in the backseat of Tetsuro’s car, driving away from the hotel in a different car from when you came in. You feel a rush of frost when Tetsuro removes his hand from your waist, inching over to his side of the backseat, looking out at the window boredly watching the city lights rush by.

“Should we head to your penthouse, Mr. Kuroo?” The driver up front asks, to which Kuroo replies.

“No, we’ll be staying at my mansion in Denenchofu for tonight,” He says with a scowl, the mere thought of leaving his luxurious penthouse apartment in Roponggi irking him. He looks over at you, watching you play with your hands, completely lost in thought. “Your father mentioned that Sam will be over tomorrow with your things, for now, I’ve got a few spare clothes you could use.”

You’re immediately struck by the odd nature of his cold reminder. You have heard that Tetsuro had long since moved out of his family estate years ago, and that he had purchased a sprawling mansion in Denenchofu for himself. From what you understood, Tetsuro had since long been living alone. “You shouldn’t have,” You say, mindlessly, and he hums, confused. “You know, bought stuff for me.”

A chill runs down your spine when his voice comes out in a bite, “I didn’t.”

You cast your eyes down at his short answer. “I see, and,” You gulp. “About the preparations for the wedding, my dad mentioned it earlier, I was wondering if you could come with me to the event planner’s office tomorrow.”

“I can’t,” He simply says, and you sink into your seat. “I’ve got something coming up tomorrow.”

“Oh, uh - sure,” You tell him. Of course you were foolish enough to think that he’d open up to you immediately about the wedding, considering you’ve only just met one another for the first time in eight years. The last time you had even seen Kuroo was during your high school graduation before he set off for Spain to pursue his degree and MBA. In fact, if you remember correctly, this is his first year home since his stint in the New York branch of his family’s company. So, it would make sense that he’s a bit ill at ease.

The car ride was agonizingly silent. Before you long, you are met by the facade of his home. It was just as you envisioned it to be - a two-story brand spanking industrial type mansion, with gray wells, and a brown accented roof. The outside leading to the garage and foyer of the house is dotted with a little rock garden. It very much was suitable for a man like Tetsuro who was raised and gifted with the finer things in life. He steps out of the car, and opens your door for you before addressing the driver, “You can park at my property in Roppongi Hills for the time being.”

With a final nod, the driver pulls out of the parkway and drives off, leaving you two alone. Tetsuro groans slightly and opens the door, striding into the foyer. “Alright,” He guides you up the stairs in a hurry. Pointing to the direction of the east hallway of the home, he begins to lay down the rules for you, “This will be your side of the house, your room is at the end of the hall. And this,” He points to the west side of the house. “Is my side. So long as you stay out of my way, we’ll be fine.”

You blink at him in awe, you aren’t even married yet and he’s already showing his true thoughts on the matter - he doesn’t care about your marriage, he only cares about securing the merger. And, certainly, he wasn’t even the least bit interested in you or what you feel or think - he is displeased about this arrangement and he will make absolutely no effort to conceal it. Instead of exploding with rage like you would have done if the circumstances were different, you let your understanding nature get the better of you.

“I know you aren’t too happy about this marriage. And I get it, the idea of being tied down in my early twenties is horrible even for me. But we should try to make this work, Tetsuro, for both our sakes,” You try to reason with him.

He scoffs at you incredulously. “Let me get one thing clear, (Y/N),” He lets his back rest on the wall of the hallway, his arms crossed in front of him. This was not the same man you had reconnected with earlier in the hotel ballroom, nor is he the same boy you remember from your childhood. “You could try to make this marriage a little easier for the both of us, but you have no authority over me nor right to tell me to give a damn about this whole setup,” He yawns, turning his back to you and makes a beeline for his room, shutting the door with a loud bang.

“Good night,” Your voice comes out softly, before turning around yourself to head to your room. You enter the dark room, turning on the lights. The room is instantly illuminated, and you look around. For some reason, in comparison to the monochromatic vibe of the home, this room was dotted with a few houseplants and abstract paintings. The floor was different too, instead of the granite flooring you found all over the home, this one was made out of hardwood.

Sighing, you trudge towards the closet, you could no longer bear the tightness of your gown. When you opened the door to the walk-in closet, a breath hitches in your throat, the whole wardrobe is fully stocked with the essentials - including loungewear. You grimace when you notice the pastel pinks and extravagantly feminine nature of the outfits in the room, but you pay no attention to it, grabbing instead a plain white pair of silk pajamas.

You couldn’t put your finger on it, but something about this choice of wear was oddly familiar - too familiar that it almost seemed uncanny. You fell asleep that night on your king-sized bed, with a pit in your stomach, realizing the gravity of the situation you had been thrown in. You have been sentenced to a loveless arranged marriage to a man who harbors no amount of miniscule love or affection towards you.

It certainly didn’t help matters that when you had gotten up to use the ensuite bathroom, you were met by a few framed pictures of your future husband with a woman of white-blonde hair and foreign features smiling at the camera - if you weren’t mistaken, the woman’s identity happens to be Alisa Haiba, a Russian-Japanese model in Tokyo - in what appears to be, a honeymoon-like getaway in the tropics judging from how the picture depicted them to be in a passionate and playful kiss with one another at the beach.

status: on-going

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katsulia · 3 years ago

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commas of care,

↳ CHAPTER I. DAWN

kita shinsuke x reader, 15.1k

SUMMARY: Kita used to dream about being free. But now, he’s 28, years into a career and married to someone he doesn’t know.

series masterlist

a/n: only making this series three chapters to fit the daylight theme is a current struggle of mine so i think they're gonna end up being super long each sorry T_T but i hope you enjoy!

‘My mother said I could be anything I wanted — but I chose to live.’

— o. vuong

When Shinsuke was a young child, his mother had stroked his head gently, kissed his cheeks goodnight and cooed, we are the weavers of the world, my love.

It was like music to his ears when she said it. Like they were royalty and the world was their empire to conquer; as if their purpose was to weave the history of the world with their very own hands.

Then, he grew up and found out that it was the tagline of his family’s successful business. We are the weavers of the world, bold and bright and seen by everyone who walked into their company’s headquarters in Tokyo.

A bold declaration, he had originally thought, but a dream halfway there. Formed, still on its way to becoming, and nurtured under his parent’s hands.

In a way, it was his parents’ first child. His brother, even if Shinsuke was technically an only child. People say that the first born always gets the most attention, and he had quickly found this to be true. The problem was that the first born was only an idea with no hands nor body, so Shinsuke had to be its hands and body.

He used to have this dream, back when he was younger that this brother, this dream, would grow its own hands and body, so it could stop using his.

He used to say, I’ll live this life too. I’ll have my own dream and use my own hands and body to build something that’s mine and mine alone. Maybe not now, but later when I’m free.

Shinsuke’s lost count of how many times he said that, how many times he promised his younger self freedom that he could never claim. He’s probably said it more times than he’s ever said no to his mother, something he was never good at because he wanted to be a good son and follow the pretty path that she had forged for him with her hands. As a teenager, he convinced himself that he didn’t know how to say no. But now, as an adult, he’s still bad at it — and for that, he has no excuse.

The sole heir of a business empire with the name Kita shouldn’t act this powerless, but what can he do? A child rewarded for obedience will become an adult that only knows how to please.

That’s how he finds himself in this predicament— engaged and married to a woman he barely knows within the span of three months. A time frame that befits whirlwind romances, not an arranged marriage between two strangers. He can count your interactions together on one hands, conversations summarized to:

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

“I do.”

Fukuda Y/N. The youngest daughter of Fukuda Goro, the main shareholder and power behind one of the most powerful conglomerates in Japan, with strongholds in both the entertainment and tech industries. An artist who doesn’t have any interest in her father’s booming business.

His wife. The woman he’s supposed to live the rest of his life with. Shinsuke probably shouldn’t say that. There is no supposed. You are the woman he’ll be with for the rest of his life.

It’s a reality he has to live with and is trying hard not to think about. Another thing he couldn’t say no to. Another thing he has to give up (love, a blurrier dream he’s vaguely thought of having but a dream nonetheless).

He thinks this may be the last thing he’ll say yes to, but only because there isn’t much of anything left for him to give. This is the end of the line.

This may be the end of the line for him too. Not now, maybe later, he used to say. 28 years old, years into a career and married to someone he doesn’t know. There is no later; there is only now, and he just has to live with that.

And he’s not even angry. He’s just resigned. And with time, maybe he’ll be able to love it.

He just needs time. At least, that’s his justification for why he hasn’t spent that much time with you yet.

After all, there’s so much time in the future— he doesn’t think there’s any real rush to build a relationship with a stranger.

Kita has a daily routine that he rarely strays from.

He’s an early riser who likes to start his days with a morning run. After exercising, he takes a shower and gets dressed for work. When he’s in a good mood, he’ll even consider sparing some time for himself to make breakfast (which mind you, is a simple omelette and cut up fruits). The rest of his day is spent at work.

There really isn’t much to be said about his work. What he does varies every day; what’s consistent is that it takes up most of his day and edges almost always into the night. There’s just too much to be done.

Once he gets home, he’s usually so tired and bleary eyed from looking at numerous documents and attending meetings that he usually takes a quick shower then passes out on his bed.

Surprisingly, Kita hasn’t seen much interruption from his daily routine, which he realizes is noteworthy considering he’s a couple weeks into his marriage. His wife—you, he should say—has been quiet for the most part. Kita thinks that a ghost would have made more noise.

In the beginning, Kita had given you a brief tour of his home when you moved in after the wedding. He showed you the kitchen, the living room, the at-home gym (which you didn’t seem too interested in), and the separate bedroom that would permanently be yours.

Feel free to decorate however you’d like, Kita had said politely. You had politely nodded in return and went inside your room and started unpacking.

And after that? Well, Kita had to go to work, and figured, if you were old enough to get married, you would be old enough to take care of yourself.

(If Kita was being honest, he would admit that he’d been avoiding you too, that he’d been a little relieved at not seeing you for a while.)

Though now, as Kita chops some onions and bell peppers for his omelette, he wonders what you’ve been doing. Have you also been living life pretending like the wedding never happened?

It must be harder for you, considering the fact that you’re the one who had to move in with Kita. It’s a nice place, classy and modern, but he’s sure it’s not home for you.

But then again, it’s not like you’re trapped here. You could easily go out and visit your parents or friends. Kita doesn’t think you’ve been lonely.

Have you?

Kita frowns at the thought.

He wonders what you have been eating. He’s barely here during the day, but he doesn’t remember ever seeing any dishes sitting in the sink nor does he see anything new in the fridge. Have you just been eating takeout then?

He racks his head to think of what he knows about your eating preferences, but the only thing he can remember is your mother jokingly apologising to him by saying, I’m sorry, sweetie, my baby is a picky eater. At that time, Kita had just smiled mildly, unsure of how else to react. It sounded like a warning at first, but now he’s wondering if maybe her words held an underlying message.

He pauses chopping vegetables as something uncomfortable settles at the pit of his stomach. He washes his hands and names that uncomfortable feeling as guilt.

He doesn’t know much about you. He definitely knows more things about your family than you himself. But you’d met a handful of times throughout the marriage arrangement process and Kita’s impression of you had been good.

You had a kind face, offset by sharp eyes and a surprisingly sweet voice. You were charming when spoken to and had even looked bright when Kita saw you talking to your own parents. But you seemed more muted and quieter when he had spoken to you. Close with your family and closed off with strangers.

And now, you were living with a stranger.

Said stranger should probably do something about this. Considering the past couple of weeks that have passed without said stranger doing anything, said stranger should probably do something about it now.

He stares at his vegetables and sighs. In any case, he figures it’s probably polite to ask your brand new wife if she’d like some breakfast too. It’s as good of a place as any to start.

He climbs the stairs to where your rooms are located and walks down the hallway to where your room is. His hand briefly hesitates at his side, before pushing through and knocking on the door. Clearly, he calls out, “Y/N? Are you awake?”

He presses his ear against the door and tries to hear if there’s any movement—but nothing. He falters again, wondering if this is a sign he should just go on and let their situation be.

He doesn’t think he’s tried hard enough though, so he goes ahead, carefully turning the door knob and slowly peeking his head inside the room.

What strikes at him first is the vibrant colour filling the room. When he had told you to decorate freely, he didn’t imagine it would be to this extent.

There’s so much going on. Walls covered in artwork, plants sitting on shelves, and amidst all that was a tall bookshelf filled from top to bottom with a wide variety of books.

Kita tends to lean towards a more minimalist type of design, liking neutral palettes and clean lines. But there’s something to be said about the richness and personality brought into this room by no other than the person he finds still asleep in bed.

He doesn't want to shake you awake, but he should at least ask the question and get an answer, right?

“Y/N,” He call-whispers, “Y/N?”

You stir but only slightly, and Kita thinks that maybe it would be okay to tap you on the shoulder. So he does, and you slowly open your eyes, blinking fast before closing your eyes again.

Kita is glad nobody else is here to witness him struggling to wake up his wife.

Before he can pat your shoulder again, you mutter, “Weird dream.”

Kita clears his throat, “Y/N?”

You finally, finally open your eyes, maybe seeing him for the first time, “Kita-san? What are you doing here?”

“Um,” Kita starts, “I was making breakfast and was wondering if you’d like some—” Kita thinks the only thing you would like right now is to go back to bed, “I’m making some omelette?”

“Eggs?” you ask, rubbing your eyes, twisting your body to sit up.

“Yeah, eggs.” Kita affirms.

“That would be nice,” you say, though you look like you’re in the middle of questioning your existence. Kita too is regretting his existence. “I’ll come down in a bit.”

Moments later, Kita finds himself in his kitchen whisking twice as many eggs as usual, while you sit by the breakfast bar overlooking the kitchen. You yawn, hand coming up to cover your mouth, before resting your chin on the palm of your hands.

Kita guesses you’re not much of a morning person. He glances towards his coffee maker and wishes he had made more than his usual serving of one. In any case, he can make more, so he offers, “Would you like some coffee?”

You blink, remnants of sleep clinging to you like a blanket over your shoulders, “Oh, I don’t really drink coffee.”

“What do you usually drink in the morning?” Kita asks. He thinks he might have an open container of milk, but he can’t remember when he last saw it. He for sure don’t have any juice, but there’s some oranges that he could quickly juice—

“Tea,” you say, “I drink tea, usually. With a spoonful of honey mixed in.”

Kita opens a cabinet and frowns when he sees a small box of green tea and no honey bear bottle to be seen. He turns to you, apologetic, “I only have this kind and sugar, do you still want it?”

You nod, “Yes, that’s fine.”

“Okay, I’ll get some hot water ready first.” Kita busies himself by pouring water in a mug and then putting it in the microwave for a minute and a half. As he waits for the timer to go off, he tells you, “Sorry, there’s not much. I typically just ask our housekeeper to get what I need—”

“It’s okay,” you wave his concerns away, “I usually wake up too late to have breakfast anyway, and I like walking to this coffee shop nearby to buy it.”

Still, Kita feels a tiny bit guilty, especially at how awkward this all feels. He can’t help but blame your ...speedy engagement. The wedding had been thrown together quickly and it was all a blur in Kita’s head. He knows it was a highly publicised event, but it felt like he was playing a part in a play or a movie. Smiling when he needed to, talking to distant relatives, trying to not to flinch at the cameras. It was exhausting, and his only memento from it was a ring and a brand new wife.

This is his own home and forgive him, but he did not want to play the part.

This awkwardness is the price of that, he guesses.

The microwave beeps, and Kita takes the hot cup of water out. He rips open the packet of tea, dunking the tea bag in the water and watching the water slowly turn a light yellow-brown. He opens a cabinet by the stove and grabs a couple sugar cubes, throwing it into the brewing tea. He stirs and stirs until the sugar is all dissolved and sets the cup in front of you.

“Here you go,” Kita says, “Hope it’s a good enough stand-in for your usual.”

“Really, it’s fine,” you say again, giving him a reassuring smile. Kita wonders if this is how their marriage will be: one person apologising and the other reassuring. An odd little thing where one offers an inch and the other refuses. You hold the mug in your hand and you look down at it with a softer smile, slow and sweet like the honey Kita wishes he had. “Thank you for making it.”

It’s a little quiet after that. Kita forges on and makes an omelette with practised ease, while you let yourself be woken up by tea you sip.

When the first omelette is done, he places it on a simple white ceramic plate and gives it to you. “You want some ketchup?”

“Yes, please,” you say, so Kita gets that for you and utensils too while he’s at it. He gets a lovely, thank you, in return.

He watches you squeeze the ketchup bottle and draw a little smiley face on the side of your plate. Interesting, Kita thinks. He thought you would be the type of person to drizzle it all over. You look up and are surprised to have met his eyes, “Oh, are you waiting for me to try it?”

Kita scratches his head, the question making him feel even more awkward, “Er, yes. Just want to make sure it’s good.”

“Okay, okay,” you say, picking a tiny piece off and dipping it in the ketchup, before eating it. You chew with thought and Kita only releases the breath he’s been holding when you give an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Kita gives you a smile back, very pleased with your reaction, and then finally sets off to make his own omelette.

It’s still a little bit quiet after that, and he finds that though it’s not uncomfortable, he wants to fill it with something more than the clanging of utensils on ceramic and eggs cooking on top of a pan. “Is that all your art on the walls of your bedroom?” Kita asks, partly to break the silence and partly because he’s actually curious.

You finish chewing before answering, “Some of them are my friends’ and some are from other artists I’m a fan of. I don’t have any of mine displayed here.” you look up in thought, “I have a couple in my studio and my dad has one in his office. My brother said he wanted one.”

“Are you making one for him?” Kita asks, trying to maintain eye contact while also flipping his omelette.

You see his trouble, “I told him I’ll only make it if he pays me the market price.”

It pulls a sharp laugh out of him that surprises the both of you.

Kita covers his mouth briefly (and subtly he hopes). “Sorry,” he says, busying himself by transferring his omelette to a plate. “Your brother was really intimidating when I met him. It just seemed so funny to picture him being told that.”

“Don’t be intimidated by him, he’s just a loser,” you sound extremely amused. "I'm the cooler one."

Kita thinks you’re probably the only one who can get away with telling such a big CEO that. When you continue, you just sound fond though, “He says he’s going to sell this drawing I made as a kid to my fans in retaliation.”

Kita smiles, “It must be nice having an older sibling.”

“It was alright,” you shrug. “Very happy he was born first though. What about you, Kita-san? Isn’t being an only child much better?”

Kita slices his omelette into pieces and gives only a brief answer, “It’s very much like being the first born. So...it’s alright, I guess.”

“I see…” you say, leaning back into your seat and then you both get lulled back into silence again. Kita is thankful when you change the topic to something else, “Do you usually wake up this early?”

“Yes,” Kita says, “I like to get up early, get a workout in, before doing some work.”

You look at him in horror, “You work on the weekends?”

He knows it’s not completely normal, that his friends are also appalled by his work schedule, but he has never felt as judged as he did now in front of you, “Yes. There’s a lot of stuff that needs to get done.”

“So you’re going to work today?” you ask, like you still can’t believe it.

“Yes,” Kita confirms, “I have a work dinner with some investors tonight, which is why I need to do some work today too. I need to prepare for it.”

“Wow,” you say, impressed, but it doesn’t sound like it’s the good kind of impressed.

It is what it is, so he focuses on eating instead. For once, he doesn’t mind the awkward silence. He clears his plate fast and gulps down his coffee, which has cooled down unlike the embarrassment he feels.

I’m an adult and I’ve been doing this for years, he thinks as he places his plate in the sink, why am I suddenly embarrassed by my own choices?

When he turns to you, he sees that you’re only half way through your omelette. It would be weird if he just left you here, right? He holds back a sigh realising he can’t quite escape this one. He’ll just have to sip his coffee in silence until you’re done eating too.

You eat like a little bird. Kita wonders if you’re the type of person who would enjoy those tasting courses, where you get ten different dishes, but the portions are all smaller than a baby’s fist.

“I read this article written about you once,” you say suddenly and Kita almost chokes on his coffee, “You’ve read articles about me?”

“Oh, should I not have told you?” you smile, “Okay, pretend I didn’t say that.”

Kita stammers, “You can’t just say that and then take it back. What did you read?”

Kita knows he’s been on the news, but they’re mostly business-related, he thinks. Still, he can’t be too sure of what’s out there. He suddenly regrets declining all those meetings with his Head of Communications to monitor the press he’s getting.

You wave your hand, “They only said positive things, actually. Just that you work really hard and now I guess that’s true. Which….” your voice goes low and careful, “isn’t a knock or anything. Haven’t heard of a company heir who works hard in years. I’m just amazed at how hard you work.”

The reassurance comes as a surprise too, which means all Kita can do is shake it off, slightly pleased and slightly embarrassed again.

You talk a little bit more after that, more on things unrelated to work or families which both weigh heavy. A fact Kita shouldn’t be surprised at. This arranged marriage is of the influence of both, after all.

Though he thinks neither of you seem to be bitter at each other about that. After Kita gets past the awkwardness, he realises you’re nice and easy to talk to. A surprising addition to his morning routine that sweetens the coffee he drinks.

Later when you’re finished eating and Kita is washing the dishes, he decides that you’re too nice for Kita to have been ignoring you this whole time. Maybe that’s what makes him say it. Or maybe it’s just the way you made a home out of your room, decorating it to your heart’s content, coupled with the way the rest of the house looks, untouched.

But say it he does, “If you want to redecorate the rest of the condo, you can. I realise that everything’s up to my taste and I have zero idea of what you like, so if you want to change things up a little—just so you can feel more comfortable, feel free.”

Your eyes widen, “Like the whole place?”

“I mean,” Kita busies himself with the dishes, embarrassed at the way all of that just came stumbling out. Clumsy. “Just let me know before you do anything drastic. I come home so late that I might think I entered the wrong house if you do it without telling me.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” you cheer, excitedly going over to him to give him a quick hug. You let go too fast for Kita to even think about returning it.

It’s fine, Kita thinks, his hands were also wet. He couldn’t have hugged you even if it lasted longer than the second that it did. You chatters on, “It’s your place, so I didn’t want to be presumptuous. And I wasn’t sure how married you were to the style—”

“We’re married,” Kita softly reminds, looking at his own wedding ring covered in suds, “It’s your place now too.”

You sigh and when you speak, your words sound like they are buoyed by air, “You’re right. But still—it doesn’t change the fact that this is arranged and that we’re two strangers in each other’s spaces. You have your boundaries, as do I.”

“That’s kind of you,” Kita says, because it is. People of their kind came in every colour of entitled. You could have put up more of a fuss. You could have demanded for more. You could have been so cold, but you’re so warm—Kita still feels it from where you hugged him.

“It’s not kind,” you correct from behind him, “It’s just basic respect. One that you’ve extended to me from the very beginning. You know what’s kind?”

Kita doesn’t understand how his avoidant behaviour has been interpreted as respectful, but he will not correct you on that. Kita turns and is met with your teasing smile, “What?”

“Sharing your breakfast with me,” you say, and at that Kita is ready to say the same thing. That it’s just basic respect to offer food, especially to someone who he’s been living with for the past couple of weeks, someone he’s married to. You make another comment before Kita can say that though, “Also, I was looking around in the cupboards. It’s pretty bare. Do you only eat eggs in the morning?”

“I like eggs,” Kita frowns.

Your mouth presses into a thin line, “What about pancakes? Or waffles? French toast?”

Kita feels like he’s about to get made fun of but responds anyway, “Sweets aren’t good for you in the morning.”

“But do you like them?” you prod.

“It’s a lot of work and it’s kind of wasteful to make them just for myself,” Kita says, though at your narrowed eyes, he adds, “But I do like them.”

You sigh, dramatic in your relief, “Oh thank god. I was about to divorce you and cite irreconcilable differences.”

“Divorce just because of that?” Kita gapes at you.

“If you learn anything about me today, husband,” you say, putting a finger up, “it should be this: my love for sweets knows no bounds.”

“I’ll make sure to never forget,” Kita jokes, ignoring the way something in him stirs at hearing you calling him your husband.

And although Kita had joked about it, a part of him is filing the information away, the same way he has been doing about all the things he’s learning about you today. So far this is what he has:

You are an artist and that reflects in your taste in decor;

You eat food in such small bites, it probably takes you ages to finish eating;

You love sweets, enough to criticise Kita’s own taste in breakfast foods;

Based on these three things alone, Kita feels that both of your parents may have put together two completely different people and thrown them into a marriage, all for economic gain. And yet—in spite of all of that, he feels oddly positive for the first time about this marriage.

And it’s for this one last thing Kita’s learned about you today:

Despite what you say, you’re kind.

It turns out you’re also a woman of action.

Not too long after your conversation, you’re quick to send him pictures of furniture or decor that you wanted to have in the house—our house, Kita should say.

The first time Kita receives a message of the sort from you, it was a large Birds of Paradise plant you wanted installed in the living room. Kita didn’t see anything wrong with it, thinks it’ll probably liven up the house and purify the air, and so he gives you the go ahead.

The second request comes a couple days later with a picture of a red patterned rug that came with a long message about its background, place of origin, how it was handmade by a family in Russia that specialised in textiles, etc. He reads through it and realises all he really cares about is that it’s beautiful. He gives you the green light.

The third request comes only a couple hours later and this time, it was about the shoe case by the door. The one they currently had was too small to contain your shoe collection too. It’s a fair complaint, Kita thinks, and the storage cabinets you had sent were white and sleek and would look nice by their door. Kita gives you his approval for that too.

And it seems like you’re either super bored or super invested in remaking the house, for the requests keep on coming. While Kita likes seeing what you want to add and appreciates how you asks for consent every time, he soon realises a couple things:

He’s been saying yes to every single one of your requests. He finds that he likes your taste even if it doesn’t necessarily align with his more minimalist preferences. And because he trusts your style, he’s certain that he’ll keep saying yes to any of your future furniture change requests.

It also means this other thing, one that was becoming more evident every time he came back to the house and saw the changes coming to life. He realises that he doesn’t really have a strong attachment to how his house had looked before. He feels no loss at seeing the old furniture gone. How could he, when he was barely there?

And so, he tells you to go ahead and stop asking him, which still prompts you to double-check and make sure he’s really okay with it. He even finds it somewhere in him to joke: it will be a nice surprise for me to come home to.

It is nice to come home to, though it’s not something he truly appreciates until he’s about to make breakfast during the weekend. He’s gathering his ingredients and is about to ask you if you wanted breakfast too, when he finally pauses for a moment to stand in the living room.

The first thing he notices is that it’s warm. The colours, he means.

The white walls from before were now covered in framed art, the cold marble floor in rugs, and the plants—the plants were green and brown and housed in wooden rattan baskets. Some hang from the ceiling. Some sitting by the window sills.

He isn’t completely surprised by the presence of everything new, but it’s the first time he’s seeing them in the light. Not in a rush to leave, not in a rush to sleep.

It’s beautiful. Not unlike your room.

He should tell you he likes it. Compliments to the interior designer and all that. It’s with that thought that brings him back to his original goal of waking you up.

He climbs up the stairs and knocks on your door. Hearing no response, he quietly opens the door and peeks in, discovering that you were still fast asleep. Just exactly like last time.

Kita clears his throat and calls out, “Y/N?”

When you don't stir, he calls out again, this time louder, “Y/N? Do you want breakfast?”

At the word breakfast, your eyes open suddenly. It reminds Kita of those creepy horror movies where someone you hope doesn’t wake up wakes up and catches you watching him. Not that that was the case here. It was just sudden, that’s all.

“Breakfast?” you mutter, groggily rubbing your eyes.

“Yes,” Kita repeats, “Did you want some of the omelette I was making?”

“Omelette…” you trail off, before sitting up in a rush, looking more alive than you did a second ago, “Wait! Did you start making it already?”

Kita shakes his head, watching as you pull a cardigan off a chair and put it on. Your hair looked unbrushed and some strands were even sticking up.

“I,” you say, fixing your hair, “bought something for breakfast. Can I just wash my face and brush my teeth really quick?”

Kita nods, “Sure. I’ll meet you downstairs?”

“Yeah.”

When you’re finally gathered together in the kitchen, Kita watches as you pull out something from a cupboard under their countertops.

“Is that a fox—?”

“It’s a waffle maker!” you show him excitedly, opening it up to reveal a fox mold. “Isn’t it cute? This way, we can try making waffles, right? And it’ll be easier because there will be two of us making it, right?”

Kita briefly glances over at the eggs and vegetables he had previously set out for his usual breakfast omelette. Then, he glances back at the shining eyes staring at him filled with so much hope.

Kita scratches his neck, “I don’t actually know how to make waffles. I don’t know if we have the ingredients at all.”

“We do have all the ingredients,” you say, full of confidence. “I asked our housekeeper to add the ingredients to your usual grocery list. And I have a recipe, so we can easily follow that.”

Kita blinks, “You did?”

“Yes,” you say, patting yourself on the back, “I thought of everything already. So… can we make waffles for breakfast?”

How is Kita supposed to say no when you made it all come together so easily? How is he supposed to say no to those eyes?

So he makes the goddamn fox waffles—which isn’t as angry as it sounds.

Though he certainly feels something akin to rage as he watches you concentrate putting the batter in the fox mold, how your brows furrowed as you close the waffle maker, and the subsequent delight on your face when you open the waffle maker and the cutesy-cartoonish face of a fox in waffle form smiles at you.

“Crazy,” you shake your head, “How can something be so cute?”

Yeah, Kita agrees, hands tightening to fists by his side, how can something be so cute?

Unfortunately for him, this begins the end of his omelette breakfast routine. Sure, Kita could simply insist on having his way, that you don’t have to cook and eat breakfast together. But he’s honestly not too fussed about it. It’s surprisingly nice eating breakfast with someone.

And eating breakfast with you is especially nice.

He doesn’t know if it’s just because you’re more comfortable with him now or if you’ve always been like this, but you’re so much more talkative than he initially thought. You ask so many questions. And maybe Kita is more comfortable now too, because he finds himself less awkward and more open to answering these questions.

You ask him about things like his university experience, favourite colour, and what country he’d like to visit (British, beige, Greece).

Kita doesn’t remember the last time he’s been asked such silly things and answering them feels like a rediscovery of himself in itself.

Kita asks you questions too, things like burgers vs. pizza, favourite season, and your favourite movie (burgers, fall, Kimi no nawa).

Hanging out with you feels so much like that moment when you’re with someone new and you’re pleasantly surprised at how well you’re getting along together. Kita thinks they might even become good friends someday.

As Kita is throwing the trash in the bin, he’s reminded again of a question he’s been meaning to ask you. He figures now is a good time to ask.

“I’ve been wondering,” Kita starts, and from the corner of his eyes, he can see you leaning in interest. “What do you usually do for dinner?”

“Oh,” you say, pausing. You lean back into your seat with a shrug, “I usually just go over to my friends’ for dinner.”

Kita raises a brow, “You don’t cook? Or get takeout?”

“I can cook,” you say, and your mouth twists for the oncoming but, “I just don’t want to. It’s always too much for one person to manage and eat. And it’s more fun to eat with my friends.”

Kita feels something heavy settle in him with those words. He stares at you, tracing patterns on the wooden surface of the dining table. Your lashes cast shadows on your cheek, and there’s a dark, quiet thing that lives in your expression—one that Kita is barely getting acquainted with.

“I see,” Kita says, unsure of what else to say.

“Yeah,” you lightly laugh, “I guess now that I think about it. I rarely ever eat here.”

Kita nods, struggling to say something, anything to not let the lovely mood of this morning sour.

Your eyes flicker towards him, before flitting away again as you say, “I don’t really like eating alone.”

He can read between the lines. Kita is never home for dinner. He comes home way too late on the weekdays, and on the weekends, he’s out having work-related dinners with potential business partners.

“You could invite your friends over,” Kita says, hoping it helps. “That way you wouldn’t have to eat alone nor would you have to leave the house.”

“That’s true, I could do that…'' you nod, looking like you’re holding your breath. “Or—”

“Or?”

“You could also come home for dinner,” you say.

“You want me to?” Kita asks, wondering if he’s heard you correctly.

“Yes,” you insists, though you hurriedly follows it up, “Not that I’m demanding you or anything, I understand that you have a lot of work to do, and that it might not be feasible—”

“It’s okay,” Kita says, though his mind is still stuck on the fact that you want him home for dinner. The idea of it fills him completely. He finds himself saying yes, without thinking too much about the why’s, “I can do it. I can eat here and then finish any work I have after.”

You frown, “Are you sure? I don’t want to be bothersome— “

Kita shakes his head, “You’re not. I wouldn’t do anything that I didn’t want to.”

That seems to finally put you at ease, a pleased smile growing on your face, “Okay, good. I’m glad.”

There’s something in him that lights up at fulfilling your request, which has him ready to lament the fact that he’s a people pleaser to the core.

But there’s something to be said about being wanted this way, which is wholly different from what’s typically required from him. This isn’t about a deadline at work. This isn’t to fulfil some new milestone of his parent’s dream.

This is about you wanting his company for dinner.

And it just so happens that Kita enjoys your company too. It feels less like he’s fulfilling a request and more like he’s getting an opportunity to get more of these bright little moments shared over food.

Considering his life: he has his routine; he has his friends; he has this blessed life full of material wealth; and all of it paints a perfect picture of contentment. In that regard, he has everything he should want and enough money to buy him the freedom of doing anything he wants to.

Despite that, his life is carefully crafted, guided by grey lines of what he should and shouldn’t do. This invitation to dinner falls into something he should certainly do, which is to spend more time with his wife.

But it doesn’t feel that way. It just feels like something he wants to do.

Nevertheless, going home for dinner shouldn’t feel like such a big deal.

But it does and he blames his office for it.

Atsumu, his executive assistant, is the first to make a big deal out of it. At first, Atsumu doesn’t even believe him when he says he doesn’t need him to order Kita dinner.

“Did you set up a dinner meeting out of the blue?” Atsumu asks, fingers moving fast on his keyboard as he checks his schedule. “I don’t see anything here.”

“No,” Kita clarifies, “I’m eating dinner at home.”

Atsumu looks like Kita just told him that the Earth was flat and then his expression clears, “Ah, were you going to work at home instead? A change of scenery is a good idea, boss—”

“No,” Kita says, getting slightly annoyed, “I’m eating dinner with my wife.”

Atsumui’s fingers have stopped typing and he’s now squinting at him, “You haven’t been kidnapped and replaced, right?”

“No,” Kita says, tone taking a hint of finality. He knows he should just walk away and act unphased, but he falters, “It’s not a big deal, okay?”

Atsumu raises his hands in surrender, “Sure, boss. It’s not a big deal,” though his tone clearly suggests it is.

He doesn’t even want to tell him that he’s planning on doing this from now on.

Nobody else says anything about it throughout the day, but he gets a lot of stares. He loves his team and he shares a much more friendlier relationship with them than a typical division head would, but he needs people to mind their own business. He knows word gets around here quick, but why should his evening plans be the gossip of the day?

Even the guards on his way out are surprised when they see him walk out.

Okay, Kita knows he works late, but going home once to eat dinner with his wife should not be garnering this much attention.

His annoyance melts away as he drives home though, his mind drifting off to dinner.

You had texted him earlier to ask what he wanted and Kita had said that he didn’t really mind anything. You responded back saying, pick a menu anyway, so Kita, who often thought of home cooked dinners as impersonal, said, I don’t know. Something Japanese. Soup maybe?

You sent him the rolling eyes emoji and said, i’ll figure it out.

He’s glad he knows you a little better now. You’re an expressive texter who is very enthusiastic about your emoji usage, which is how Kita knows you’re simply being playful and not really annoyed about how vague he’s being about dinner.

It’s hard for him to decide. Atsumu usually picks out his dinner menu for the night, and he doesn’t know what you typically like to eat.

He frowns at the thought as he parks the car in his assigned parking spot. He makes a mental note to ask you later.

When he steps into the condo, he’s hit by the savoury smell of food, though he can’t quite pinpoint what’s giving off that smell. All he knows is that it smells good.

“Kita-san?” your voice comes as you skid to a stop by the entryway. Your hair’s a mess and you’ve got a big stain on the white shirt you’re wearing, which also matches the stain on your house slippers.

“Hey,” Kita greets as he takes off his shoes to switch to his own house slippers. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you answer firmly, though your expression looks worried when you turn to look at the kitchen. “Dinner is also okay.”

Kita eyes the stain again and asks, “Were you cooking?”

You shake your head, “Nope. I am a terrible cook. Shame on my mother for that, who is also a terrible cook, by the way. Which I guess you’ll also learn when she forces us to have dinner at my house. Anyway,” you huff, your hair fluffing up into the air, “I got us something better. I asked my house’s chef to make us something. And I got this stain because I accidentally spilled some of the soup on me when I was transferring it over into the pot.”

You clap your hands, “Are you hungry? Did you want to shower and get changed first? I can keep the food hot on the stove if you want to do that first. But I’m also kind of hungry—”

You’re nervous, Kita realises. You ramble when you’re nervous. It’s something he notes and files away to a part of his brain that’s slowly getting covered with post-it notes on little you-isms.

“Well, if you’re hungry,” Kita cuts in with his best smile, “Let me just put my stuff down and I’ll help you set up. I’m pretty hungry too.”

Something in you settles and the worry parts like clouds giving way for your bright smile to beam through. “Okay, let’s do it.”

You wait for him by the foot of the stairs as he drops off his blazer, takes off his tie, and tucks his briefcase in his room. And when he’s done, you gather together in the kitchen and Kita finally sees what’s for dinner tonight.

“Oh!” Kita says, pleased, “Is this some sort of tofu soup? I love soup.”

He grabs the pot by its handles and brings it over to the table, while you stand by the fridge to take out different tupperwares filled with side dishes. “You do?” you ask, “Do you like it with beef or seafood?”

“I actually like it with gyoza the most,” Kita says.

“I like it with gyoza too,” you walk over, excited at the discovery. As you’re setting down the different containers, Kita helps you out by opening them one by one. “Do you like it mixed in with the soup already or—”

“To the side to be dipped in?” Kita laughs, when you nod with so much enthusiasm, “It’s better that way, because then it doesn’t get soggy.”

You smile, looking very much pleased at the mutual discovery. “There’s some hope for you, husband. Your eggs for breakfast habits really made me worry for a bit, but you have some taste.”

Kita lets the comment slide, focusing instead on getting some of the broth with his spoon and cautiously taking a sip. He sighs at the taste, “This is good.”

“Worth-coming-home-for-dinner type of good?” you cheekily ask, as you start eating as well.

Kita glances at you, but your eyes are already focused on something else. Kita doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with being honest, “Well, yes. Homemade food is unbeatable versus take out.”

You hum, sipping soup before you responds, “Yes, that’s true. Though I think the magic of coming home for dinner is getting to eat with people.” You points to the hot pot of soft tofu soup, “There’s multiple benefits, I think, first, I can’t really finish a pot of anything. So that usually means I have to eat leftovers again and again. But with you here, we can finish this together and then! I can eat something else tomorrow.”

“Well, if you usually don’t eat here anyway, wouldn’t you eat something different with someone else?” Kita asks.

“I’d bring the food to my friend’s house,” you say, “They like free food anyway. I usually pay when I eat with them. Although, if somebody else ate from this pot already…” you trail off, “They really wouldn’t eat it.”

“You could just not tell them,” Kita says, which you gasp dramatically at. “What a sneaky answer. As expected from my corporate husband.”

Husband, there’s that word again that makes him feel like he’s getting heartburn of some sort. He reaches for some water and tries not to obviously down it.

Kita is clearly not subtle enough, because you unflinchingly comment on it right after, “Is it weird being called husband?”

“It’s...not weird,” Kita tries to say, but when you raise a brow, he sighs, “It’s a little weird, if I’m being honest. But I don’t think it’s a bad weird? Just something to get used to, I guess.” He does wonder if he should be this honest, but he figures honesty is a good place to start in building a relationship with someone.

How can you even be friends if all Kita does is lie and placate, right?

You nod slowly, chewing your food even slower. All that being said about honesty, it still makes Kita apprehensive to hear what you have to say about it.

When you stay quiet, Kita prods, “What about you? Is this weird for you at all? You’re a bit younger than me, did you expect to be married this early?”

“It all happened so fast, didn’t it?” you lean back in your seat, crossing your arms in front of your chest. Kita nods, though you aren't even looking at him. Just staring at a space far out of reach. “I was surprised. My parents have always given me a lot of space to do whatever I want as long as it makes me happy, and since I was the youngest child, I didn’t really think they’d offer this to me. Although a part of me has always expected it…”

You sigh, “Marriage feels like such a big word for what this is.”

Kita gets that. It’s like getting shoes that are too big. They can’t fill it.

“But at least, they let me choose who I got to marry, even if it’s from a pre-selected batch. That way, it feels a little bit like it’s a choice I made,” you smile, finally looking over at him. That smile quickly turns into a frown, though, “Oh, sorry, should I not tell you about stuff like this?”

He wonders what face he was making to inspire those words. Probably not a good one. Kita immediately schools his face into something reassuring, “No, it’s fine. I just thought your parents and my parents got together and decided on it.”

“Nah,” you thankfully don’t comment further and he accepts your words with a nod. You even make a half-hearted joke, “It was only half-forced.”

Kita clutches onto the joke and says, also half-hearted, “Well, I hope choosing me doesn’t disappoint you.”

“Well,” you say, airily, “It’s too early to tell, isn’t it?”

It feels like a challenge or maybe even an invitation, one that Kita feels compelled to take. But he’s not ready for it, not until he unpacks all the implications of you choosing him over all the other matches and not until he gets comfortable with the fact that he didn’t get the same choice.

For now, Kita tries to match your words, leaning back into his seat, and shrugs, “I guess only time will tell.”

When dinner is done, Kita offers to clean everything, since you already got dinner together. You protest, “I can do it! I didn’t really do much today, when I’m sure you’ve been busy with work all day.”

“It’s fine,” Kita waves you away, “This won’t take that long.” He notices the stain again on your shirt, “You should go and put that in the wash instead. If you wait too long, it might be hard to get that out.”

You pout, “You’re more stubborn than I thought you’d be. Fine.”

“Yes, I am,” Kita smiles. “Go on, I got this.”

He starts putting all the used dishes by the sink, getting ready to wash them all one by one. You linger for a little bit more and Kita sighs, putting his hands on his hips, “Do you not trust me?”

“It’s not that,” you say, looking a bit shy with your hands clasped together in front of you, “I guess… I just wanted to say thank you for coming home for dinner. I’m sure it was hard to move stuff around in your schedule, since you’re usually super busy around this time. I really, really appreciate it.”

Oh, Kita feels himself turn pink at that. He focuses instead on rolling his sleeves up, unable to look at you, “It’s nothing. You don’t have to thank me for this at all. The food was good and I think it’s good that we’re spending time getting to know each other.”

“Still,” you insist, “You didn’t have to. You could’ve said no. So, I’m still grateful. I think it was nice too. I’ll leave you to it, I’m sure you want to rest or finish other things you couldn’t today. Have a good night.”

Kita smiles softly and with a parting glance, says, “You too. Have a good night.”

You finally leave and Kita begins washing the dishes. He hasn’t had to clean this much in a while, but it’s not a lie when he told you it wasn’t a big deal. There’s also something nice about mindlessly doing the dishes.

He begins throwing the food scraps in the trash and opens the trash can up, so he can easily do it for all the dishes.

That’s when he notices that there’s more trash there than what he expected. There’s more thrown food there and an empty packet of tofu.

Did you cook yourself lunch?

He looks at the dish rack and notes that there’s more dishes drying there, like cutting boards, knives, and even pots.

Maybe your chef cooked here? Though it wouldn’t make sense considering you specifically said you got that stain from transferring the soup into the pot.

He opens up the fridge and notes that there’s more produce in there than he expected too. It really doesn’t make sense considering you never eat here—

Oh, Kita realises. The stain on your shirt and slippers. The numerous dishes. The food thrown away in the trash. The frazzled nervous look you wore when Kita first came home.

You must have tried to cook dinner.

The realisation stuns him until it sinks in fully and melts his brain. It hits him now, how nice you are to try to do this, how important you must have considered this dinner to make it special like this, and it only underscores his words of gratitude from earlier.

All Kita did was come home and eat.

It’s touching, and even if you failed at it, Kita appreciates it to the point he wants to say something. He knows he shouldn’t though. It might only embarrass you.

He’ll just have to do something differently, he resolves. He’ll have to try harder too.

The thing about trying harder is that Kita doesn't actually know where to start. It's terrible, he knows, that he doesn't even know the most basic things about you, but it is what it is. Problems don't get solved by dwelling in the past.

The great thing is he does know people who can help him figure out where to start. And they're here knocking on his office door.

"Come in," Kita calls out, relaxing against his chair, and smiles brightly when the Heads of their division's Communications and Creative Design departments (Aran and Suna, respectively) walk in.

"What's up, what's up," Suna says, in a matter so befitting his position, "What's this meeting for?"

"Is everything okay?" Aran says, taking a seat. "My secretary said it was high-priority, but couldn't tell me what the meeting was going to be about."

"Everything's fine," Kita says, gesturing for Suna to take a seat too. "I just need both of your help with something."

Aran crosses his arms in front of his chest and nods at him, "What do you need?"

"Anything, boss," Suna says, looking at him so earnestly.

Kita knew he could trust his friends. "Okay, I need you to tell me everything you know about Fukuda Y/N."

"Huh?" Aran's expression drops so fast it's almost comical, "Fukuda Y/N, your wife?"

Meanwhile, Suna is almost too giddy, "What do you want to know? This is great actually. I thought this was going to be a serious conversation, now I can waste a whole hour doing nothing."

"This is serious!" Kita turns his desktop monitor around to show the Google search page results for Fukuda Y/N. "This barely tells me anything important."

"Why are you searching for her like you would a fun fact on the internet? What did you think you'd find?" Aran criticises from the get go. "You know she's a relatively famous artist, right?"

"How famous?" Kita asks, pulling out his notebook.

"Are you taking notes..." Suna asks.

Kita shrugs, "I might as well. What if I forget?"

Suna looks doubtful, "Considering the intense look in your eyes right now, I think you're recording this memory in your brain in HD."

Aran clears his throat, "Anyway, pay attention. She's pretty famous among people our age, because this one actress became really interested in her work. If you look at Instagram, you'll see people tagging her account when they visit her work at a museum."

Kita pulls up his phone, "What's her account name? I need to see this."

"I'm offended on her behalf. How do you not follow your own wife on Instagram?" Suna grabs his phone and searches for you. "There," He says, handing the phone back. "Please don't accidentally like a photo, I think I'll die from embarrassment."

Kita rolls his eyes, "I know that. I'm not an idiot."

"Shinsuke," Aran says, "You write your captions like a Corporate account. Which is funny because your photos are so pure and cute."

"I do not write my captions like a Corporate account. You write your captions like a Corporate account," Kita retorts and ignores whatever more Aran has to say on the topic.

The first thing that stands out to him about your instagram account is the huge amount of followers you have. Aran wasn't kidding when he said you were pretty famous.

The second thing that stands out to him is that there really isn't that much of your art on your page. "I thought you said people were interested in her work. I don't really see much of it here?"

Suna shares a look with Aran, that telepathic one where Kita knows a full-blown conversation is happening just with their eyes. Suna sighs, turning back to him, "Well, Fukuda-san is also popular for another reason."

"What? Say it. Is it bad?" Kita asks.

"I don't think it's bad..." Aran trails off, "One might even say...you really lucked out."

"Spit it out," Kita demands, losing patience.

"She's hot," Suna says, plainly. He pulls up his own phone, where he opens the app and clicks on a post. "Look at her. She’s practically an influencer. Her outfits are always nice when she posts. She trended once because people connected that someone this good-looking was the same person making her art. I remember the top comments were like, wah, amazing, how can someone be good-looking, talented and rich," Suna imitates in a high-pitched voice, "whoever marries her will hit the jackpot."

"I guess that's you," Aran says, reaching over and patting his shoulder. "Congrats, you hit the jackpot."

Kita is scrolling through the posts and he can see what they're saying is true. He eyes this one post where you’re winking at the camera, while wearing a small headband with bunny ears. People are definitely not following you for the art. "This is....very informational but still not very helpful? I want to know important things."

"Like what?" Aran is unimpressed, "Are you saying finding out your wife is hot and internet-famous is not an important fact? Or do you not care because you’re already married to her—"

"I'm not really thinking about her looks. That's not my focus anyway, and I'm not interested in that." Kita stresses, "I want to have a good relationship with her. I really think that we could be good friends at the end of this."

"Oh," Suna scratches his cheek, "Are you not even considering the romantic possibility?"

"I am not presuming the possibility," Kita says instead. "It's an arranged marriage, not a love marriage. It's a partnership, but it doesn't mean we have to be cold to each other. I like her. She's nice."

Aran raises a brow at that, but doesn't comment on it. Instead he says, "Well, honestly. I don't think the best way to do this is by stalking her on the internet. Just continue spending time with her. I don't see how this is different from making a new friend."

"Except for the fact that they're married," Suna couldn't help but say. Aran swats at his shoulder, "Stop ruining my point!"

"I think that's the hard part," Kita confesses, "We haven't really been seeing each other much, because, you know, work. It's been better recently, but she did something nice the other night, and I really would just like to do something nice in return? But I wasn't sure what would be nice."

"Well, maybe just listen to what she says. Keep getting to know each other. You'll figure something out. You said it's been better recently, right?" Aran asks.

Kita nods, "Yeah."

"Then whatever thing you started doing, just keep doing it. You can be nice too, Shin." Aran smiles and ducks before Kita’s hand could hit him.

"I am nice!" Kita replies. "Anyway, that's helpful. I guess."

Suna says, "You're welcome? But I agree with Aran-kun. The best person to ask is the one who's already by your side. Let us know how it goes."

"I doubt he'll tell us," Aran snorts. They stand up and Aran throws an arm around Suna's shoulder, "But don't worry. If it's something big, the whole office gossip will get to us at some point. If anything, Atsumu will tell me if I bribe him."

"Get out," Kita rolls his eyes. If they stay any longer, Kita will keep rolling his eyes and then he'll have done it enough that they might consider falling out and onto the floor. "Meeting adjourned."

Before Suna leaves though, he gets the last word in, "Also, Kita-san. It's really embarrassing that you would search her up on Linkedin. First of all, she's not even a business person like us. Second of all, no—"

Aran pulls Suna out of the office, before Kita can consider throwing something at him. Aran gives him a sheepish smile and waves as he closes the door behind him.

Kita sighs, suddenly feeling tired after being harrassed by those two. Maybe he was wrong to ask them. Maybe his friends are untrustworthy creatures who only wish for his downfall.

He closes the Linkedin tab anyway (Suna is right, but he doesn't need the satisfaction of knowing that.)

He ends up following their advice though, because as much as they like to make fun of him, they are trustworthy creatures who only wish the best for him.

It’s not advice he can complain about either.

Kita doesn’t have the fondest memories of dinners at home, which was the only time his family ate together. His father often left early for work, while his mother got up late and when she woke, she’d often go out and socialise with her friends. Dinners were just dinners. That is to say, Kita was only there to eat food.

His father was the quiet type and only spoke about work. His mother was the talkative one, and the conversation was almost often about what their neighbour was doing or what one of her friends was doing. Later, when he was much older, he’d realise she was almost always talking about work too. Business. What was happening in the inner circles of their friends greatly affected business, and his mother took care to know the ins and outs of it all.

Sometimes, they would ask Kita how his studies were doing, which was a question he hated getting. They only wanted to hear one answer and that answer was: great. It was never about what he felt about it or what he did with his day. It was a status update; a quick check that he was keeping up with their standards.

When he stopped being a child and moved to the UK for university, he felt great relief at escaping those dinners. And even when he moved back home and got his own place, those dinners were rare.

Dinners with you are very much different from those dinners though. Just like breakfast with you, dinners with you are very nice.

Because of work, he doesn’t really get to help with preparing much of it (not that you do either, aside from heating it up), but he’s become the designated dinner menu chooser.

You always ask him what he wants to eat. He genuinely doesn’t care and is happy to eat whatever you want to eat, but you wouldn’t accept it when he told you that. You complained that you couldn’t decide either and if Kita didn't decide, you threatened, you would both eat air for dinner.

So Kita humours you. It’s a little time waster of an activity. He’s tempted to ask Atsumu for his typical dinner menu, but he finds that choosing it himself means that his anticipation for dinner increases.

Though the food is not the only thing he finds himself looking forward to.

You make dinner exciting. You always greet him enthusiastically when he gets home, and it makes such a big difference. He’s not used to someone waiting for him to get home. He’s not used to someone caring that he’s home.

It’s not just that. It’s also the fact that you both get to have meaningful conversations together during dinner. You, as he continuously learns, are someone that has a lot to say, but you’re surprisingly also a good listener. Like when you ask Kita about his day at work, you don’t look like you expect Kita to say a certain thing. You genuinely just want to know.

It makes him want to spend more time with you, to the point where he’s starting to dislike the fact that he keeps bringing work home. It’s something he’s never liked anyway, which is why he often just ate dinner at work and continued to work from there.

These days, you eat dinner together and go your separate ways. You, from what Kita can hear from his room, often watch something in the living room or go back to your room where he often hears soft music floating through the walls. Sometimes, when Kita grabs water from the kitchen while you’re watching a movie, he feels slightly tempted to join you.

You always look so comfortable curled up on the couch and the movie you’re watching tends to be something Kita would also watch. But Kita has to be responsible and go back to his room and do his work instead.

It has him thinking he should just finish his work at the office, so he has zero blockers preventing him from joining you (that is, if you want him to join?) He’ll have to work with Atsumu to rearrange some things. It also gives him a great idea of a good activity that you could do together. You could start a tv show together. You could do it during the weekends too.

It’s something he brings up later, during the weekend while you’re eating breakfast.

He starts with this, “Have you seen that drama, Our Beloved Summer?”

“I haven’t!” you say, perking up at the name, “But I was going to. I was watching this other show on Netflix instead, All of Us Are Dead? Have you seen that one?”

Kita shakes his head, “Nope, but I’ve seen it on my recommended list. Is it good?”

“It’s really good! You have to watch it,” you take a bite out of your pancakes, “I finished it last night, and it kind of ends on a cliffhanger? Kinda hate how I have to wait for season 2.”

“Okay, you make me want to watch it.” Kita says. And then, because it seems like the perfect pipeline for it, he asks, “But I’ve been wanting to watch Our Beloved Summer too, and I didn’t really have any plans today, so um, I was wondering if you wanted to watch it together?”

“Oh,” you look surprised by the invitation, but instead of looking excited, you just look apologetic, “I would love to, but I have plans today.”

Kita tries not to let his disappointment show, “Oh. That’s okay. We can start it some other time?”

“Yes,” you smile, “Maybe next weekend? Unless you have stuff going on next weekend, then maybe we should pick some other time.”

“No, I should be free too.” If Kita wasn’t free, he'd make himself free. “What are you doing today?”

“I’m doing a commission of sorts for a friend. They need something to auction for charity, so I need to start working on something,” you sigh, “It’s a little detailed and specific, so I’m thinking I should get a head start on it.”

You’re going to be pretty busy then. Kita holds back a sigh. “Are you going to be back for dinner?”

“Of course,” you say, without pause. “Don’t eat without me. Can we get pizza for tonight? I can pick it up if you order.”

“Just tell me your order,” Kita says. And that’s that.

Before the next weekend can get there though, he falls ill.

“Kita-san,” A soft voice comes filtering through the thick film of his dream.

“Shinsuke,” It comes again, this time with a gentle shake. “you’re going to be late for work.”

He feels like he’s made of lead, heavy and slow to stir. He can barely open his eyes. He aches.

But he’s never missed work and there’s so much he has to do and there’s deadlines—so he forces himself to sit up, feeling utterly weak. He belatedly realises it’s you who woke him up.

He’s really out of it.

“Kita-san,” you frown at his lack of speech, “You don’t look so good.”

Kita grimaces as he drags his legs off the bed and tries to pull himself up, “I’ll be okay.”

You press the back of your hand to your own forehead before pressing it against his. Your hand feels cool. A nice hand. “I think you’re sick,” you say, sounding troubled at the realisation. “You cannot go to work.”

“But,” Kita begins to protest, but pauses when his voice comes out raspy and brittle. you raise a brow, challenging him to continue. Kita pouts, a fact that he will later deny, “But I can’t miss work. Y/N, you know my position—”

“What kind of work will you accomplish in this state? How good is your review and input when you can barely get out of bed?” you say in a tone that barters no argument. He’s heard this tone before and it sickens him to realise that it��s a tone he’s heard only when you’re on Facetime with your golden retriever back home. When it’s misbehaving.

You sigh, patting his head, “I get it. Otosan has worked enough days sick for me to understand why. But you trust your team, right? They’re competent people. The company won’t crumble if you disappear for a day or two. Besides, what if you get them sick? Won’t you feel terrible?”

Logically, Kita knows you’re making so many good points, but it’s not that he doesn’t trust his team nor does he not care about their well-being. It’s just that—he feels guilty about skipping work.

He feels like he’s disappointing someone by not showing up, which he knows, he knows, doesn’t make sense. He’s the boss.

But you’re right. He’ll be worse off (and his work too) if he comes in sick.

This is why when you push him back to lie down, he makes no protest and just follows, only sighing when you murmur, “There you go. It’ll be okay.”

“I’ll call your assistant and let him know you can’t come in,” you say. You make sure he’s tucked properly under the covers and sit by his side, brushing his hair until he falls back asleep. He thinks he hears you sigh, but it could be the wind, it could be a dream.

When he comes to, he’s all alone in his room and he thinks that he may have dreamt it all. But he thinks he hears something downstairs, so he drags himself, blanket over his shoulders, to see what’s going on.

He catches you in the kitchen, alternating between squinting at your phone and stirring a pot. You immediately spot him and fix him with a stern gaze, “Um, what are you doing here?”

“What are you doing?” Kita asks, clutching his blanket tighter.

“I’m cooking.” you smile, going to him. Only then does he notice that you’re wearing the red apron Kita usually uses when he cooks. You press the back of your hand against his forehead and frown, “You’re still so warm. I couldn’t find any medicine besides pain killers here, so I went out and got some.”

“You did?” Kita could not believe his ears.

You tilt your head, looking mildly amused, “Yes? Why do you look so surprised? I’m pretty self-sufficient, you know?”

Kita blinks at his response. “Oh, that wasn’t what I meant.”

“Sure,” you tease, pushing him towards the couch in the living room.

Kita opens his mouth to further protest, when you push him down by the shoulders to sit on the couch, covering him in blankets until he’s sure he looks like the poor cousin of the Michelin man. You seem satisfied with your handy work, “Just stay here. I’ll give you medicine after we get something warm in you.”

Kita is left to watch you walk back to the kitchen. He’s too weak to protest and now that he’s sitting back down on something soft, it’s easy for him to lean against the cushions and even easier, to give in and close his eyes.

He doesn't know how long he spends on that couch, but when he comes to, it’s to you shaking him gently awake. “Time to eat.”

Kita groans. The lid of his eyes feel too heavy to open. He’s too tired to eat. “Later,” he mumbles.

“No, you have to eat now, even just a little,” you insist. Something soft strokes his cheek, and then a sigh—”Ah, my husband is more baby-like than he looks.”

“I’m not a baby,” Kita mutters, trying hard to shake the sleep out of his bones. In the end, he manages to sit up.

You do him the kindness of spoon-feeding him. You spoon porridge and even blow on it until it’s cool enough and then bring it right up to his mouth.

Maybe he is a baby. You even wipe his mouth and praise him for finishing the whole bowl of porridge. He finds himself feeling warm at the praise (later, he will feel utterly ridiculous about that).

You’re talkative as you pour the right amount of medicine in the measuring cup it came with. “I hate the taste of this. How can something say it’s cherry flavoured when cherries clearly taste nothing like it?”

It gets a smile, however brief, from him. He agrees with you though, the medicine tastes more bitter than anything else when he takes it, but it is what it is. It’ll help him feel better.

You put him to bed again eventually, and Kita manages to get out the words he didn’t get to say earlier.

He manages to grab a hold of your wrist, just before he gets too far. You turn to him, “Hm? Did you need anything?”

Kita shakes his head, “Earlier. I just wanted to say that you’re wrong. I wasn’t surprised that you were capable of going to a pharmacy for medicine.”

“No?” you ask, softly.

“I was just surprised that you’d do it for me,” Kita admits.

You frown, sitting back down on the bed, by his side. “Why wouldn’t I? We’re partners, right?” you joke, “I remember our marriage vows. In sickness and in health. I think that means we’re supposed to take care of each other.”

Kita shrugs, choosing instead to pick at a fraying thread on his blanket, “I don’t know. It’s just that nobody’s ever done this for me.”

“Your mother?” Kita shakes his head. She would never. She worried too much about her own health. She hated being sick. The indignity of it all, she once said.

“A caretaker?” you continue to ask, but Kita just says, “Nobody that wasn’t paid to do it.”

It’s silent for a moment, neither of you saying anything more. Kita wondered if you pitied him and was trying hard to find pretty words of condolences. It’s okay, Kita wants to say. I’m used to it. I’ve lived this way for years.

He feels a hand suddenly grab his own and it makes him look back up at you. There’s no judgement in your eyes, to Kita’s surprise. There’s no pity either. Just someone who looks like the words went through them.

“Well, I’m here now,” you say, voice low but clear. You squeeze his hand, “So I hope you can get used to it.”

He doesn’t recover until the weekend and he feels his stress pile up at the thought of the numerous things he must have missed and will need to catch up on once he’s back in shape.

He must have looked worried enough about it that you said something about it, “Thinking about work?”

Kita frowns, “How did you know?”

“I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this,” you smile, teasing, “But you’re an open book. I bet you’re terrible at poker.”

“I wouldn’t know, I don’t gamble,” Kita sullenly says. What do you mean that he’s an open book?

“Are you upset at being called an open book? I don’t think you’re that expressive, but it’s easy to tell when you’re worried or pleased about something.” you explain. “Back to my point, stop thinking about work! You’re just about recovered and this kind of stress is going to make you sick again.”

Kita sighs, “Well, it’s kind of hard to think about it when I’m not doing anything all day.”

You hum, “Then maybe we should take your mind off it. Didn’t we say we were going to watch Our Beloved Summer together?”

“You don’t have anything you need to do today?” Kita worries, “I feel like I should check my email at least or get an update—”

“No.” you say, grabbing his phone and hiding it. “You can check it on Monday when you go back to work. Also, no, I’m free, remember? I told you I was going to be last week.”

Kita shrugs, “Maybe your schedule changed, I don’t know.”

“It didn’t. I told everyone else I was busy, because I was going to hang out with you.” you stand up, missing the touched look on Kita’s face. You grab the plates and say, “I can clean these. Do you want to wait for me in the living room? You can set the show up on my Netflix account.”

“Okay,” Kita says, giving in. He shuffles over to the living room and wraps himself in a blanket and burrows himself on one side of the couch. He groans when he realises that the remote is far away. Maybe he’ll just wait for you to do it.

He leans his head against the cushions as he waits for you. He honestly feels okay now; he’s just tired, which must be the effect of his immune system trying to fight off the virus. He glances over to where you’re washing the dishes and hopes that in trying to take care of him, he didn’t pass it on. He’d feel so terrible.

You were so nice to do it, Kita thinks. He’s sure you had other things to do. Your own work and projects, which were probably all paused because you were home the whole time with Kita instead. He’s been trying to figure out a way to show his appreciation for you but he doesn’t even get anywhere with it. You're the one who’s doing something for him again.

You eventually join him and comment, “You look so cosy. I thought you were going to set up the tv.”

You sit on the other side of the couch, grabbing the remote and turning the tv on. Kita turns to you with a small pout, “The remote was so far away.”

You bite your lip, barely able to hold back a laugh. “You’re being so lazy right now, it’s funny. I didn’t know you were capable of it, Mr. Productivity. Is this the same man who gets up at six am to go for a run?”

Kita huffs, “It’s because I’m sick. I’m recovering.”

“Look at you not denying it now,” you laugh for real this time. You take him in, “Do you need anything? You took the medicine already, right?”

A hug maybe, Kita thinks but doesn’t dare say out loud. He shakes his head instead, “I’m fine.”

They start the show. He shifts, wishing he also had a pillow in his arms or something to lie his head on besides the cushions of their leather couch. “We should get a new couch,” he says, off hand.

“What’s wrong with this one?” you ask, looking more comfortable surrounded by all the couch pillows. “You picked this one, right?”

Kita yawns, “Yeah, but I rarely use it. It’s more stylish than comfortable. I want something that reclines. It’s not soft enough to lie down on.”

“I think it’s fine,” you laugh, “I binge watch stuff from here all the time. I’ve taken a nap here multiple times now.” Kita squints at you, “You look like the type who can fall asleep anywhere.”

“Nope,” you deny. “Anyway, are you just grumpy because you’re uncomfortable? I can donate a pillow.”

“It’s okay,” Kita says, turning back to the tv. “I’m fine—”

“What were you saying earlier?” you hum, “It’s not soft enough to lie down on? Just lie down and try it— “

“I’m not going to fit, you’re literally sitting there—”

“Then just put your head on my lap.” you offer, “Or you can put your feet up here, but I think it’ll be better if it’s the former rather than the latter. I’ll pat your head, you little baby.”

Kita stares at you. “Did you just call me a baby? I’m literally older than you.”

“That kind of posturing only works until university, you know?” you roll your eyes. You put a pillow on your lap and pat it, “Come on already. You could be comfortable by now.”

Maybe it’s because he’s already received so much from you in the past few days that he barely protests. This is just another thing to add onto the pile.

Maybe it’s just because he’s recovering and his defences are lowered and his brain isn’t thinking about all the reasons he shouldn’t do this.

Whatever it is, there’s just a part of him that wants to lie down on your lap and have your hands running through his hair and that part wins.

He crawls over to you, lying on his side so that he can face the tv. He sighs when he rests his head on the pillow and very nearly makes a satisfied sound when you start playing with his hair.

“Shinsuke?”

“Hmm?” Kita sleepily answers.

“Can I ask you a question?” you ask, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

He likes that you always give him an out. “What is it?”

The hand on his hair pauses and he nearly whines, but it continues and all is right. you carefully ask, “What’s your relationship like with your parents?”

Kita stills, before forcing himself to breathe out the tension in his body. “That’s a loaded question,” Kita says, staring blankly at the tv.

“Like I said, you don’t have to answer,” you reassured him, “You just rarely talk about them. And when you do, you always say… the most curious things…”

“Curious is a nice way to put it,” Kita lightly snorts, “Unfortunately, there’s not much to say. My father was a busy man married to his work, and my mother was a good wife who loved the company as much as he did. They worked hard to get the company where it is today.”

You hum to show you’re listening, but when he doesn’t continue, you follow up, “But what about you? I asked what your relationship with them was like and you didn’t even talk about that.”

Kita thinks for a moment, unsure of how much to say. He doesn’t want pity. He doesn’t want to be told advice on how to fix his relationship with his parents. He wants to just let it be.

“Shinsuke?” you ask. “You really don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. You can forget I asked—”

“It’s okay.” Here they are again. One person with their head bowed low and the other pulling them back. “I was just trying to figure out where to start and what to say.”

Kita sighs, his fingers curling against the pillow. He starts with the truth, “My relationship with them is exactly that. It’s centred around the company. Everything was for the company. Even me, their only son, was for the future greatness of the company. My mother was strict, just like any mom wishing for their child’s success, right?”

“...right,” you say, but you don’t sound like you believe it. It’s okay, because Kita doesn’t either.

He continues, “She wanted me to be on top for everything, so I spent a lot of time studying and being involved in all sorts of things. She had very high expectations for me, which I tried really hard to meet. And even when I met them, she would always focus on the future. Of what’s the next step, of what else could be done better. She never even told me she was proud of me—” He stops himself, because that’s not quite true either.

“I don’t know. I do think she just wanted the best for me. Or the best of me. And I guess looking at myself, I ended up in a pretty good place thanks to her. It’s not so bad—”

“You don’t have to make light of it,” you say, cutting him off, and Kita finally turns to you, expecting you to look pitying. But you just look earnest as you say, “You’re allowed to say it was bad, even if you’re in a good place now. It...doesn’t sound happy. It sounds super stressful—”

“It’s okay,” Kita says, because there’s nothing else to do but be okay with it. The past has already been lived. It’s done and he’s here and forward is the only way he can look. “It wasn’t so bad. I just had to do what she wanted.”

Your brows knit tighter, and Kita wants to press a finger between them. You don’t need to look this concerned over him. “Could you say no if you wanted to? What if you couldn’t meet her expectations?”

“I don’t know,” Kita exhales, “Never fucked around to find out. In a way, I think I just wanted to please her. I wanted to make her happy. She’s my mother and I love her, even if she wasn’t much of one. Even if she never said she was proud, she would be sweet for a moment when I met her expectations. She’d give some praise and it would be enough, you know?”

It would be better than nothing, is what goes unsaid.

“Then,” you swallow, then continue delicately, “Then this marriage…”

“It was also her idea,” Kita says, looking away, “I did expect it though. I was just about the right age, and she had been hinting about it for a while. She was very excited about you.”

“What about you?”

“Hm?”

“What did you think?”

“I think I was just surprised that you were pretty young. I know it’s a year, but twenty-seven feels very much like you should be going out and partying.”

You shrug, “One could say the same about twenty-eight.”

“True,” Kita smiles, “But most twenty-eight year olds don’t have a mother like mine.”

For a moment, you look like you have more to say, but whatever it is, Kita doesn’t get to hear it. He ends up turning back to the tv and realises he barely knows what’s happened with the whole episode. He doesn’t know how he got to the end, just like this. Which he guesses could be said about his life.

“I don’t like to dwell on it,” Kita nuzzles his face against the pillow. “I’m old and I mostly just see them at work with rare holiday appearances. Besides, I really did mean it when I said that I like where my life ended up at. I live in a nice condo away from them, and I got lucky enough to end up with a job that I’m passionate about. Though sometimes I wonder if I’d like something else more if I got the chance to explore it.”

Your finger grazes by the shell of his ear and he nearly shivers at the touch. Maybe he’s still sick after all. “It’s not too late to explore. All you do is work, work out, sleep, and eat. I’m not trying to be judgemental, but Shinsuke. You need hobbies. This is really sad.”

“It’s not that sad,” Kita defends his lifestyle, albeit half-heartedly. Sue him, he was tired. “That was also super judgemental, but since you’re taking care of me, I will let it pass. Like I said, I like it. I go out with my friends too, I’m just having a hard time coming up with things I do.”

“I’ve lived with you for a while now. Trust me when I say it’s dull.”

“I hang out with you too. Are you saying this is boring?” Kita pouts.

“We’re married,” you roll your eyes, “I’m obligated to say yes.”

Kita grabs your wrist, just so he can’t be distracted by the way it feels in his hair. “Y/N.”

“Shinsuke,” you smile, copying his tone.

“It’s hard for me to be mature right now, because you should definitely think hanging out with me is fun, because I think hanging out with you is fun. But also,” Kita bites his lip, “you should know that you’re never obligated to do anything for me.”

You look taken aback by his words, but easily recover, putting your hand against Kita’s forehead, “Oh. Maybe you’re still sick.”

“I mean it, though,” Kita frowns, which has you pinching his cheek, “Okay, okay, I got it. Noted.”

Kita is not placated, though. He turns back to the TV, half-sulking, “Well, if you think this is boring, what do you suggest we do?”

You laugh, touching his cheek and gently turning him back to face you. “I didn’t say it was boring at all. I like hanging out with you. Anyway, we were talking about you, remember? You need hobbies. Fun hobbies.”

“What do you suggest then?”

“You could paint with me! You could travel to places for non-business purposes. You could go to a concert or see a show. You can do other arts and crafts types of classes, like a ceramics making class,” you say passionately. It almost makes Kita smile at how heated you are about this.

“I don’t know,” Kita shrugs, casually stating his protest, “I can’t do those things. It’ll be weird for me to take ceramics classes by myself.”

“I’ll go with you,” you offer, and it feels like a door just opened in front of him.

“You would?” Kita asks, just to confirm, and he gets an eyeroll for his question. “Yes, I’ll go make vases with you. Just so you can figure out what hobbies you like.”

“Okay,” Kita easily gives in, which earns him a surprised glance. He’d been wondering what good bonding activities there were to do besides binge watching a drama and here you were presenting them all to him on a silver platter. Maybe sharing your childhood traumas is worth something after all. He shrugs, acting nonchalant, “It sounds like it would be fun.”

“Of course, it’ll be fun, Mr. I-think-hanging-out-with-you-is-fun,” you tease, finally turning back to the tv. “Have I ever let you down?”

Well, based on experience thus far, Kita can’t exactly argue with that.

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