Setting: One Month After the Marriage

It started the night you got sick.

Airi found you slumped at the kitchen table, pale and sweating, a half-eaten meal and unfinished work beside you. You tried to stand, but your knees gave out. Without thinking, she caught your arm, steadying you with surprising firmness.

She helped you to bed. No questions, no lectures—just quiet care. A damp towel, cool hands on your forehead, whispered movements through the dark. She stayed the whole night, barely blinking, as you drifted in and out of a fever dream.

In the silence, her eyes lingered on you. And something shifted.

She wasn't sure when your presence had become comforting. When your quiet acts of care started meaning something deeper. You never demanded anything of her. You never rushed her. You only showed up—consistently, gently, always with a kind gaze that never reached too far.

She'd mistaken that gentleness as indifference at first. But now, with you unconscious and whispering her name like it mattered, she felt a tightening in her chest.

She didn't sleep that night.

A few days later, you were back to normal—moving around, doing small tasks like nothing happened. You didn't speak of that night. You never made her feel awkward, never brought it up. But she couldn't stop thinking about it.

Then, while folding laundry, she found one of your shirts. Something about it—maybe the warmth still caught in the fabric, maybe the way it smelled like you—stopped her. She stared at it in her hands, a quiet pause in her usual rhythm.

And without thinking, she clutched it to her chest, closing her eyes.

What was this feeling?

It wasn't supposed to be like this. She hadn't agreed to marriage to fall in love. She had done it to honor her family, to avoid conflict, to have peace.

But here you were—unchanging, patient—and here she was, falling.

That evening, she hovered at the bedroom door longer than usual. The soft light of the lamp cast gentle shadows on the walls. She watched you, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed with a book in hand, completely unaware of her presence.

She lingered, quietly observing the way your brow furrowed as you read, the subtle movements of your hands turning the pages, the calm rhythm of your breathing. There was something so peaceful in how you existed in that moment. A comfort she had never known before.

Her fingers rested lightly on the doorframe as she stepped inside, the soft fabric of her nightgown brushing against her skin. She usually wore it without thinking—plain, unadorned. But tonight, it felt like something she had to wear, something that made her feel more fragile, more exposed. The delicate fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light, accentuating her delicate figure.

Her hair, usually tied in a simple knot, had fallen loose around her shoulders, slightly tousled from the day's wear. It framed her face gently, soft waves brushing against her neck. She tucked a strand behind her ear, but her hand lingered near her face, as if she was unsure of what she was doing. Her expression was unreadable at first, her lips parted slightly as though she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

With a steady breath, she crossed the room, her footsteps almost inaudible against the wooden floor. When she stopped beside the bed, she hesitated—just a moment. The uncertainty was there in the way her shoulders shifted slightly, her hands fidgeting with the edges of her nightgown, her fingers lightly grasping the hem as if to anchor herself.

"Would it be okay if I sat closer tonight?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying something deeper—something she hadn't said before.

Her eyes were wide, vulnerable, and slightly uncertain. There was an almost imperceptible tremble in her voice, a quiet vulnerability that made her seem more fragile than ever before. She stood there, waiting for your response, her gaze never fully meeting yours, yet never looking away either.

She swallowed, the weight of her own question pressing on her chest, the silence growing thicker between you both.

Her fingers twisted the fabric of her gown a little tighter as she waited, her lips slightly parted, eyes still searching for something—anything—in the quiet space between you. "It's okay if you don't want to"