Work Text:
Hiromi Higuruma used to fuck you anytime you had your hands on him.
Didn’t matter where, or why, nor did it matter that court was in an hour or that you hadn’t even made it out of your skirt.
“Come here,” he’d mutter, voice low, already pulling you onto his lap.
And you’d go, because you belonged there. Giggling, teasing, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you straddled him and felt the outline of his cock already pressing through his trousers.
“You’re insatiable, Hiro,” you’d whisper.
“You started it,” he’d growl.
God, your husband was your entire world.
Once, in his office, you’d sat on his desk, skirt bunched around your hips, and opened your knees just enough to drive him insane.
He stood there for a moment. You remember the sound he made—a sharp inhale, like he was trying not to lose it. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”
“Are you gonna sue me?” You wink.
His mouth was on you before you finished the sentence.
No warnings, or patience. His fingers just digging into your hips like he didn’t know how to be gentle anymore.
He groaned, fucking into you fast and shallow, the edge of the desk biting into the backs of your thighs. All you could do was wrap your thighs around his waist and let him smother your moans with his kiss.
“Good fucking girl,” he’d gasp, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “You feel so fucking good—can’t think straight—shit—stay just like that—”
You came so hard you nearly knocked over his case files on his desk.
The front door opened softer than usual.
You were in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing nothing but one of his old dress shirts—unbuttoned to your navel, sleeves rolled, the hem skimming the tops of your thighs. You’d lit the candles on the dining table an hour ago; the miso-glazed salmon was keeping warm in the oven, his favorite lemon tea chilling in the fridge. You’d even put on the red lipstick he liked, the one that left faint marks when you kissed his throat.
You hadn’t expected him until 9pm at the earliest. The verdict had come down late, he’d texted. Celebration drinks with the team, probably. You were used to it by now.
But then you heard his footsteps—quicker, lighter than his usual tired shuffle—and your heart tripped.
He appeared in the doorway.
Suit jacket already off, tie loosened to the point of dangling, top two buttons undone. His hair was mussed like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times in court. His eyes—God, his eyes—were bright.
“Hiro?” you breathed.
He crossed the kitchen in three strides, cupped your face with both hands, and kissed you. A little messy, a little deep, his tongue found yours immediately, tasting of victory and faint whiskey and him. You made a small, surprised sound against his mouth; he swallowed it, backing you up until your hips hit the edge of the counter.
“Case is done,” he rasped between kisses, voice rough from hours of closing arguments. “Not guilty. Whole thing wrapped at seven. I didn’t stay for drinks. I just—fuck, I needed to come home to you.”
Your hands were already in his hair, tugging. “You’re early.”
“I couldn’t wait another second.” He lifted you onto the counter in one smooth motion, thighs parting around his hips. The shirt rode up; he groaned when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath. “You planned something.”
“Just dinner.” You smiled against his lips. “And dessert.”
His gaze dropped between your legs, dark and hungry. “I see that.”
“Bedroom?” You giggle.
He pulls you to the bedroom, and pushes you down, kissing down your throat, then back up to claim your mouth again. You tugged at his shirt until buttons popped; he helped, shrugging it off, skin warm against yours when he pressed you back into the pillows.
You rolled so you were on top—straddling his hips, grinding down once against the hard bulge straining his trousers. He hissed, head tipping back into the mattress, hands gripping your waist.
“Fuck, baby…”
You smiled, peppering teasing kisses down his chest while your hips kept rocking lazily against him. He was breathing harder already, fingers flexing on your hips like he was trying not to flip you over and take control.
But tonight you wanted something else.
You slid higher—slow, deliberate—until your knees bracketed his shoulders. The shirt fell open completely as you rose onto your knees above him, fabric framing your breasts, brushing his forehead as you hovered just over his face.
His eyes locked on yours—dark, blazing, lips already parted. His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, thumbs stroking encouraging circles, but he didn’t pull you down yet. Just watched, breathing hot and uneven against your slick folds.
You reached down, brushed your fingers through his hair, tugging gently to tilt his face exactly where you wanted.
“Missed your mouth,” you whispered, voice shaky with want.
He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating right through you. “Then come here.”
You lowered yourself slowly—teasing at first, letting your folds brush his lips, his tongue flicking out to taste. Then deeper. Until you were seated properly, his mouth open and eager beneath you.
His tongue flattened, broad and warm, lapping slow while the hot bridge of his nose settled right against your clit. You gasped, hips rocking forward instinctively, then back, dragging your swollen bud along that searing ridge.
“God—Hiro—”
He answered with a muffled growl, hands sliding to your ass, spreading you wider, pulling you down until you were smothering him just the way he liked. His nose dragged with every roll of your hips—hot and wet with your slick, catching your clit on every backward grind, the pressure so intense your thighs started trembling almost immediately.
You braced one hand on the headboard, the other in his hair, guiding him—grinding shamelessly while his tongue pushed inside you, then flicked up to circle your clit before letting his nose take over again.
“Fuck—feels so good,” you whimpered, voice breaking. “So fucking hot—right there, don’t stop—”
He hummed against you—vibration rolling straight through your core—then pressed his nose harder on purpose, bumping your clit in firm little nudges timed with your rhythm. You were dripping down his chin and he licked it up greedily, sucking your clit between his lips.
You rode him like that—slow, then faster—chasing the heat, the pressure, the way his breathing grew ragged through his nose even as he devoured you.
“Hiro—I’m close—” You whimper.
He tightened his grip, holding you down as your hips stuttered. “Cum on my face,” he rasped, words muffled and filthy. “Let me feel it—drench me, baby.”
You shattered with a broken cry—clit pulsing hard against the searing heat of his nose, your cunt fluttering while his tongue chased every tremor. He didn’t let up, kept his nose pressed firm until you were shaking and whimpering. Only then did he ease you down—slow, careful—until you collapsed onto his chest, panting, forehead pressed to his shoulder.
You climb off him, only to admire his face: lips swollen, chin glistening. You leaned down, kissed him slow and deep—tasting yourself on his tongue.
“I love you,” you whispered.
He cupped your face, thumb brushing your cheek.
It used to be so good.
You had sex almost every day of the week. On the couch; against the door, in the kitchen while dinner went cold. You used to wake up sore and satisfied and sore again. And every time he looked at you, it was with that same hunger in his eyes.
Like he couldn’t believe you were his! Like…he didn’t know what he did to deserve you, but he wasn’t going to stop touching you long enough to find out.
Being married to Hiromi Higuruma was a dream.
—
But four years into your marriage, he’s become a workaholic, and you could feel that you were both drifting apart.
You still think about the happy days in your marriage: How much he wanted you, how seen you felt.
You wonder where it went? What part of him buried it…and what part of you stopped asking.
You were curled against his back last night, wearing one of his old shirts. You pressed a kiss to the dip between his shoulder blades.
“I miss you, Hiro.” you whispered.
He hummed. It wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t like someone who missed you back.
He’s at work now. You’re in bed, alone, the sheets cold.
Your hands touch your stomach, before it trails down lower…between your thighs. You're warm and slick already. You’re restless and sexually frustrated.
But the ache isn’t just physical.
It’s the yearning of him. His voice. His weight. His hands. His cock. His attention. His affection. His time.
You close your eyes and chase the memory.
—
You were on his desk.
Skirt pushed up, panties shoved to the side, knees open wide. His office door was locked but your heart was pounding like someone might still walk in.
“You’re going to make me late,” he’d said, kneeling between your legs.
“You like it,” you teased, voice already shaking.
“I do, sweetheart.” His mouth was hot, and his tongue relentless. His hands gripped your thighs like they belonged to him, because they did.
You moaned and tugged his hair and told him you’d scream his name if he didn’t fuck you right now.
He stood. Undid his belt with one hand, and pushed his cock in, fast, smooth, deep.
“That what you needed?” he growled.
You could barely answer. You nodded, eyes glassy, clenching around him so tight he cursed under his breath.
“Tight little thing,” he muttered, fucking you rougher. “Always so greedy for me.”
The way your hips bucked towards his thrusts, the way your pussy clenched around him girth, the way you looked at it, the thrill of fucking in his office–it was easy to push you off the edge.
—love you, Hiro!” You came hard, clutching the back of his neck, mouth on his shoulder.
And when he finished—biting your name like a secret and breathing against your cheek.
“You ruin me,” he’d whispered. “Every goddamn time.”
—
You gasp as your fingers pump in and out of yourself faster, but it’s not enough. You try adding another and arch your hips. Try to feel full, but all you feel is alone.
“Good girl,” you whisper to yourself, because he doesn’t say it anymore.
“You ruin me.” You say that too. Just to remember.
You finish, well…kind of. It wasn’t the most satisfying orgasm, but it’d do. Your thighs shake and you’re breathing hard, but you don’t feel good. You feel empty.
You press your face into the pillow and cry as quietly as you can.
Higuruma comes home late. Again–it’s been a pattern for some time now.
You’re in the kitchen, hair brushed, lips glossed, dinner reheating on the stove. You don’t say anything when he walks in, and just hand him a plate.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, kissing your temple.
You eat in silence.
You can’t stop replaying the memory from earlier. The desk. The way he looked at you. Touched you. Wanted you.
He used to be hungry for you.
Now he barely asks how your day was.
“I miss when you used to fuck me on your desk,” you say lightly, trying to smile.
He snorts. “That was a risky phase.”
“You loved it.”
“Yeah, well. That was then.”
That was then.
You swallow around the lump in your throat and say nothing, just nod.
You know what he meant.
He meant, we’re older now. We’re married. Things change.
But all you hear is: I don’t want you like I used to.
You’re not one to give up so easily though.You believe in surprises.
It’s Friday. You put on your red lipstick, the one that always makes him stare. You wrap yourself in the beige trenchcoat you bought last winter—slightly oversized, belted at the waist—and nothing else underneath. Not even panties.
The sushi spot near his office had a lunch special, so you picked up tempura and the eel rolls he likes. You even remembered the lemon tea that tastes like wet plastic, because he drinks it without blinking and likes.
It’s a good plan. You feel like a sexy, bad ass bitch, strutting down the street. Such a thoughtful and sweet wife, looking plenty hot. Guys on the street had to do a doubletake and you smirk. All this for your husband.
You take a selfie on the elevator up to the law offices—pouty lips, chopsticks in one hand, bag in the other.
You: Lunch delivery~and dessert if you’re nice 💋
You send it, but you get no response.
He’s probably in court. Or reading case law. Or has his phone on silent?
Still, you walk in with confidence.
His assistant knows you by now. You’ve brought lunch at least once a week since your honeymoon four years ago. She gives you the usual tight-lipped nod, eyes flicking briefly to your coat hem.
“He’s in his office,” she says.
“Perfect,” you chirp.
He’s at his desk. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled. Tie loosened. The usual.
His hair’s a little mussed—probably from dragging his hand through it during one of those endless depositions. His mouth is set in a line, unreadable. He looks up when you knock on the frame, eyes flicking up and down.
You do a little spin.
“Guess who brought lunch and isn’t wearing panties?”
His brow lifts half a centimeter: the equivalent of a jaw-drop for Higuruma.
“You know this is a place of work,” he says.
You grin. “That’s what makes it fun.”
You close the door behind you and lock it. He watches, silent.
You set the food down and walk over to his desk, untying your coat. His breath catches, just barely—as the fabric parts, and he sees what’s underneath. Or, the lack thereof clothing underneath.
“I thought maybe you’d like dessert first,” you say.
He leans back in his chair, gaze slow, heavy. You climb into his lap without asking. You never do. His hands find your waist.
“You’re a menace,” he murmurs.
“Mmhm. But you like it.”
You roll your hips against him, teasing. His mouth finds your neck, slow and quiet. You tilt your head, let out a breathy moan. His fingers dig into your hip. He’s hard already.
For a minute, it feels like it used to.
You smile, pressing your mouth to his. He kisses you back—warm, open, but distant. His hands trail down your back like a familiar routine.
You unzip his trousers and pull his cock out, eagerly guiding him inside of you, and ride him in his office chair. Your pussy clenches around his girth, and he ruts up to meet your grinding hips. You clasp one hand over your mouth to muffle your moans. His breathing quickens and finishes with a groan low in his throat. You’re still grinding, trying to chase something, but give up and instead decide to fake it, kissing him and letting your hips buck a few more times.
He doesn’t even ask if you came anymore.
But you kiss his cheek and tell him you’re happy just having him like this. You always say that, yet it’s starting to taste bitter.
You point at the food you brought and step back toward the door.
“Eat while it’s hot,” you say.
“Thanks,” he replies, already glancing at his computer again.
You close the door behind you before he sees your smile falter.
—
Later that night, he comes home late. Yet again.
“Work ran long,” he mutters, loosening his tie.
“I figured,” you say. “Was it the medical examiner thing or the gun case?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and you wonder if he’s forgotten that he tells you about his cases at all.
He kisses your temple, absent-mindedly. “You smell good.”
You smile. “It’s a new shampoo I got!”
He grunts and heads to the shower.
You stare at your reflection in the dark TV screen. Sometimes that was the extent of your conversations at home.
You wake before him to make breakfast. Nothing fancy, just some toast, eggs, the miso soup he likes.
He comes into the kitchen, freshly showered, tie in hand.
“You don’t have to,” he says, seeing the food.
“I know,” you smile, placing the bowl down anyway. “But I like to.”
He sits and eats in silence.
You lean against the counter, watching him. Every line in his face feels familiar. Even if he doesn’t say much, even if you can’t always tell what he’s thinking, you wish you were still someone he wanted to tell things to.
“Do you ever think about before?” you ask.
He looks up. “Before what?”
“Before we got married.”
He pauses, then sets his chopsticks down, wiping his mouth. “Why?”
You shrug. “Just wondering if you miss the way we were.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
You smile, a little too wide. “Of course you don’t.”
You hadn’t told him you were bringing lunch.
You’re not even sure why. Maybe it was the silence at home. Maybe it was how light your hands felt after finishing your errands, how the afternoon stretched too wide, too empty.
So you made his favorite rice bowl—miso glazed salmon with extra scallion on top. You grabbed one of the bottle lemon teas you have stocked in the fridge too.
You didn’t text. Just showed up.
Wife privileges! You told yourself.
The office was quiet. His assistant’s desk sat empty, the little nameplate crooked. So you let yourself in.
His office looked the same: jacket over the chair, tablet on the desk, case files cracked open, red ink bleeding through the margins.
You sat on the small couch in the corner and unpacked the food.
Chopsticks, napkin, and the bottled drink. Everything was arranged neatly. Like you were still part of his world. Like it was still your place to wait here.
You folded your hands in your lap and breathed in the faint scent of his cologne.
And waited.
—
Voices drifted in from the hallway. At first, indistinct, then sharper, clearer. You heard your husband’s laugh. Not the tired exhale he gives you when you try to tell a joke. Not the absent hum of acknowledgment. This was different–almost…unfamiliar. It was bright and alive.
“You’re not seriously quoting that judge again,” A female colleague said, amused.
“I’m telling you,” his voice followed, light and unguarded, “she always had the best sentencing lines in the entire district.”
“Oh no,” another woman groaned, playful. “He’s doing it again.”
“She had style,” he insisted. “That ‘ambition matching morality’ line? Too good.”
More laughter echoed through the hallway.
You sat frozen on the couch. You’ve haven’t heard him chat and laugh like that for years.
At least…not with you.
You glanced at the neatly arranged lunch; the lemon tea with too much pulp…and your wedding ring catching the light on your finger. It suddenly felt too bright and too loud.
You stared straight ahead and tried not to listen. But their voices and footsteps were too close now. His office door swings open, and Higuruma steps inside, still smiling faintly, sleeves rolled up, eyes sparkling from the laughter.
And then he saw you.
You didn’t speak or stand, you didn’t say surprise or hey babe or any of the things you might’ve once said when things were better.
“Oh,” he blinked. “Hey. I didn’t know you were coming.”
You gestured toward his desk slightly, like it was a peace offering. “Thought you might have been hungry.”
He stepped forward. “You should’ve called.”
“I didn’t mind waiting.” You didn’t tell him how long.
He sat behind his desk and opened the lid, picking up the chopsticks.
No kiss. No thank you. No I missed you.
You watched him eat.
The laughter still clung to him. Like another woman’s perfume.
“You seemed happy,” you said, quiet.
He glanced up. “Hm?”
“In the hallway,” you said. “With your team.”
“Oh.” He chewed, then shrugged. “Yeah. They’re fun.”
You were fun too. Weren’t you?
“They are,” you agreed, smiling faintly. “You looked like you enjoy talking to them.”
He didn’t catch the weight in your voice. Or maybe he did. But chose not to carry it.
“It’s different,” he said eventually. “They get the work stuff. You know?”
You nodded. You felt like you just chugged a bottle of vinegar. Your chest ached and your throat burned.
It’s not that he doesn’t know how to talk. It’s that he doesn’t talk to you. Not like that. Not anymore.
You sit on his office couch and try not to cry.
Instead, your mind drifts—to all the times he didn’t talk. And yet, somehow, you felt heard.
You remember moments from before:
You’re sitting on his lap in one of those plastic patio chairs, your legs tossed over his, your wine glass sweaty with condensation.
“I’m serious,” you’re saying, laughing. “Like, if I ever disappear? Start with the neighbor across the hall. The one with the socks and sandals. He definitely has a body in his freezer.”
He doesn’t respond.
Just hums once.
His hand is resting on your bare thigh, thumb tracing absentminded circles, as if your skin was something he was learning by heart.
You keep talking.
About the neighbor; about the podcast you listened to that morning, about what you’d name your future dog.
You don’t even know if he’s listening. But he’s there. Warm. Solid. His fingers steady on your leg. And it makes you feel—safe.
—
You’re in the tub and he’s behind you, both of you half-soaked, the water lukewarm by now.
You’re ranting about a movie. Something stupid with bad dialogue and unrealistic relationships.
“—and then she just forgave him? Like? After all that? One speech and she’s back in his bed?”
He’s quiet. You twist slightly to glance back at him. His eyes are on your mouth.
You blink. “You’re not even listening.”
“I am,” he says simply, brushing wet strands of hair off your cheek.
And then he’s kissing you, and then the next moment he’s in you. You moan something against his throat—about how he always shuts you up like this. But you’re smiling when you say it.
—
You’re stretched out on top of him, just skin on skin, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw.
“I think I talk too much,” you whisper, nose brushing his.
“You do,” he says, teasing.
You pretend to gasp. “Wow, okay, rude.”
He smiles. It’s barely there, but it was real.
Then he rolls over, presses your wrists into the pillow, and kisses you like he wants to drown in your voice.
—
Your mind snaps back to the present.
He’s at his desk, eating the rice bowl you prepared for him. Chopsticks in one hand, eyes on his screen. The sound of his keyboard tapping fills the silence between you. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t ask how your day was. Doesn’t even glance your way.
Just types. Like you’re not even there.
You force a smile and try to keep your voice light. “Have a good rest of your day, okay, babe?”
He hums. A single, noncommittal sound. Not even a full word or sliver of warmth.
Your smile falters.
You nod to yourself, quietly. It’s better to swallow the sting, the shame, and the hope you had earlier when you were cooking this meal.
“See you,” you murmur.
He doesn’t respond.
So you leave.
But you don’t give up easily.
That’s the thing about you—people always mistake your softness for weakness, your teasing for frivolity. But you try! You always try.
So when he comes home late again, shoulders heavy, tie loosened, eyes dull with exhaustion, you don’t sigh. You don’t ask questions. You don’t make it a thing.
You just smile.
“Hey,” you say brightly, padding across the floor in bare feet. “I missed you.”
He hums in acknowledgment, drops his briefcase by the door. Kisses your cheek. It was polite but distant.
You follow him into the bedroom like it’s natural, like you’re not already bracing yourself.
You’re wearing one of his shirts—nothing underneath. You know he likes it. Or…at least, used to.
You perch on the edge of the bed, swinging one leg lightly, deliberately letting the hem ride up your thigh.
“Long day?” you ask.
“Mm.” He’s already unbuttoning his cuffs. “Same as usual.”
You crawl up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist. Press your cheek between his shoulder blades.
“You know what helps with stress,” you murmur, voice playful, coaxing. “Doctor’s orders.”
You slide your hands lower and let your fingers tease the waistband of his slacks.
For a second—just a second—he stiffens.
Your heart lifts. Hope, stupid and eager.
Then he exhales. He didn’t seem annoyed though. Maybe…tired?
“Not tonight,” he says gently. “Okay?”
You pull your hands back, laugh softly like it doesn’t sting. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. Of course.”
“No worries. I’ll just—” you gesture vaguely “—go be hot somewhere else.”
He gives you a tired smile. “You don’t have to do all that.”
The words are casual. Off-hand. You know he meant to reassure you, but they hit you like a slap.
You don’t have to do all that.
As if touching him—wanting him—being desperate for his attention is some kind of performance, a nuisance, an extra step he could really do without.
You swallow. “Oh, right. Sorry. Force of habit.”
You turn away before he can see your tears fall.
—
Later, you try again.
Because maybe you were too forward earlier and maybe he needs something softer.
You climb into bed after your shower, skin warm, hair damp, smelling faintly of soap. You curl against his side, press a kiss to his chest.
He doesn’t move.
You trail your fingers over his stomach, slow and exploratory.
“Hiro,” you whisper.
He sighs and rolls onto his back away from you. “I’m really exhausted, can we just sleep?”
“Yeah, totally.” You nod, even though your throat feels tight.
You lie there, wide awake, staring at the ceiling while his breathing evens out beside you.
Your body aches. Not just between your thighs—everywhere. With want. With loneliness. With the awful knowledge that sex has become the only way you know how to reach him… and even that door is closing.
You press your thighs together, restless. You felt frustrated and empty–physically and emotionally. You had always been needy. Embarrassingly so.
Bitter thoughts surface:
If I didn’t try, he wouldn’t even notice.
If I stopped touching him, would he ever touch me first?
You hate yourself for thinking it.
—
The next morning, he’s tying his tie when you wander into the kitchen.
You lean against the counter, arms crossed, deliberately pouting.
“You rejected me twice last night,” you say, half-joking. “I’m putting it on the calendar.”
He snorts softly. “You’ll survive.”
Another throwaway line. Another careless cut.
You force a laugh. “Wow, cold.”
He glances at you, faintly puzzled. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” you say quickly, a bit too quickly. “I know you’re busy. I know sex isn’t that important to you.”
The words taste bitter as they leave your mouth.
He pauses, then says, distracted, already reaching for his keys: “You’re just… more physical than I am.”
Just..more...physical?!?
Like it’s a personality quirk. Like your need for touch, intimacy, desire is excessive. Optional. Something he tolerates.
You know for a fucking fact he was just as insatitable as you were when you first got together and got married. What fucking changed?
You wanted to yell. It was as if he was painting you to be some sex-crazed nymph trying to corrupt him.
But instead, you nod.
“Right,” you say softly. “Guess that’s my thing.”
He kisses your forehead. “Love you.”
And you smile. You always smile. Gotta be the good wife, after all.
But when the door closes behind him, you sink onto a chair and stare at the wall, heart pounding, body still aching, wondering how long you can keep pretending that wanting your husband makes you unreasonable.
You weren’t planning to go.
It’s not really your thing. The firm’s year-end mixer, plus ones always were invited, and spouses were basically required to be there. Polite banter and strategic networking, and an open bar! You thought Higuruma might forget to ask you. You almost hoped he would.
But he texted you that morning.
Hiro: Starts at 7. Black tie optional. Come if you want.
Come if you want? Romantic.
Still, you get dressed. You do your makeup. You wear the black satin dress he once said looked marvelous on you. You put your hair up in a way that shows off your collarbones.
You put on your lipstick and smile at your own reflection in the mirror.
You look beautiful, you look happy.
But…you are neither.
—
At the party, you’re everything people expect you to be.
You laugh easily; compliment someone’s shoes, ask polite questions about trials you don’t really care about. But you’re charming and engaging and people like you. They always have. Someone hands you champagne. You take it with a wink.
“Cheers to surviving another fiscal year!” you say, clinking glasses.
You spot Higuruma across the room.
He’s talking to another attorney. Listening, nodding, hands in his pockets. Not unhappy. Not smiling either.
You used to be the one he looked for at events like this.
The one he’d pull into a tucked-away hallway or private washroom, locking the door behind you with a quiet urgency. He’d kiss you like he couldn’t wait—hands already tugging up your dress, your back pressed to the marble counter, your laughter muffled by his mouth. Afterwards, he’d help fix your hair. Hand you your champagne. Tell you to be careful walking out in heels. You’d rejoin the party flushed and glowing. Barely able to look at each other without grinning.
Now, you wonder if he even knows you’re here at all.
—
Someone else’s husband is feeding his wife a bite of cake. The wife laughs with her whole face. Someone else’s wife is resting her head on her partner’s shoulder. Another couple slow dances off to the side, even though there’s no music playing.
You smile through it. Of course you do.
You’re the charming one. The cool wife who doesn’t complain. The pretty wife who fits in rooms like this.
You watch, lips still curled in a smile, and wonder what it would take to feel wanted again.
You laugh too easily tonight.
Everything’s funny. Someone’s bad joke about court transcripts? Hilarious. That partner’s ridiculous necktie? Comedy gold. You’re bubbly, warm, radiant—the perfect wife.
“You’re always such a good time,” someone tells you with a grin.
“That’s what he married me for,” you joke, tipping your glass toward Higuruma.
He’s across the room, talking to two women you don’t know.
They ask, “How long have you two been married again?”
You smile. “A little over four years.”
“He’s a lucky man.”
“You guys are so cute together!”
You say thank you. You make some soft joke about being “obsessed with him” even though “he never answers my texts unless I send a cleavage pic.”
Everyone laughs. You take another sip of champagne.
You wonder how many more compliments it’ll take to keep you standing upright.
They call for couples to take a photo. You go, of course.
You lean into him with a warm smile, and he rests his hand on your hip.
“Say lovebirds!” the photographer teases.
“Lovebirds!” you echo, but you’re the only one that says it and it sounds like you’re choking on it.
Afterward, he pulls away without a second glance.
—
Later, someone corners Higuruma at the bar. “Man, your wife’s a firecracker. Don’t know how you keep up.”
You’re standing closeby and you catch every word.
He smiles faintly. “She keeps things interesting.”
Just that. Not a compliment. Not a claim. Not “she’s everything.”
Just… interesting: like you’re a novelty. An accessory. A conversation piece.
Not a partner. Not a priority.
—
When you get home, you undress in the dark. Your phone buzzes with the party photo someone sent.
You were leaning into him, with a pretty grin on your face, and his arm is around you. To anyone else, you’d look like a couple in love.
You stare at it and feel nothing.
You throw your phone facedown and crawl into bed.
The next afternoon, to reward yourself for putting up with all that networking, you go to the mall for some retail therapy.
Not shopping for anything in particular—just to kill time. You wander into stores you don’t need, touch fabrics you won’t buy. Let the hours pass until it’s acceptable to go home and pretend you’ve had a full day.
You stop by a boutique and half-heartedly try on a cute dress–it clings in the right places and makes your legs look longer. You stare at your reflection, and pose a little. You look hot. But that doesn’t really matter because no one’s watching, and he probably wouldn’t pay attention either, so you don’t buy it.
Outside, the halls are full of people: couples in matching outfits holding hands, mothers pushing strollers with toddlers chewing on soft pretzels, cliques of school girls yapping with their bubble tea…you wonder if any of them feel as lonely as you do.
When you first got married, he said he wanted kids.
He’d mentioned it once—offhand, over coffee. Said something about how you’d be a good mom. How you’d make packed lunches too cute to eat. You’d laughed, a little breathless with hope.
He hasn’t brought it up since.
You pause in front of a window display full of baby clothes. They sold tiny onesies in soft greys and dusty pinks.
You imagine holding something that small. Something yours. A little heartbeat to pour your love into when he doesn’t come home. Something to prove you were still building something together, and that you were still worth coming back to.
Your throat tightens and feel your lip quiver.
You pretend it’s the air conditioning and keep walking.
It’s Higuruma’s birthday today.
You wake up early to get things prepared. Your plan was to bake his favorite cake—dark chocolate, just a hint of espresso. You even pull out the frosting tips you barely use, piping little hearts along the edge. The kitchen smells like sugar and nostalgia.
You pop a candle onto it too.
Then you take an everything shower, exfoliate, shave, moisturize, spritz perfume behind your ears before you slip into a new set of lingerie. It’s sheer, soft, and easy to peel off!
You truly were the gift.
You hear the door unlock just as you set the cake on the table.
You hurry into the living room and kneel on the rug like a wrapped present, hands folded in your lap. Your robe slips off one shoulder—on purpose, and you smile the way you used to.
“Happy birthday,” you say brightly, eyes shining. Then, teasing, hopeful: “Is my birthday boy ready for his present?”
You fiddle with the ribbon at your hip, just a little to tease. You were trying your best.
He steps inside, loosens his tie, and glances at you.
“Oh,” he says. Then, distracted: “I already went out with my coworkers.”
The words land heavier than you expect.
You blink, still smiling. Still kneeling.
“Oh,” you echo softly. You try again, voice turning smaller, but you still try to make it sound flirty: “But what about dessert?”
It comes out wrong: Too pouty. Too close to whining. Too close to begging.
But you were begging.
For just a scrap of attention, a look, a touch.
He exhales. Rubs his temple. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
That’s it.
He walks past you—to the bedroom, to the shower, to somewhere else. The door clicks shut behind him.
You stay kneeling a moment longer, but your smile is gone.
The frosting on the cake starts to sweat and the candle never even gets lit, and you end up eating the cake on your own. You sit at the table with your legs tucked beneath you, and cut a slice anyway. Your fork moving slowly.
It’s tasty! You made it well. You try not to think about how carefully you followed the recipe. How you remembered his favorite flavour.
You don’t cry. You finish the slice, wrap up the rest and put it back in the fridge.
When you finally crawl into bed, the room smells faintly of soap and steam. He’s already there, scrolling on his phone, reading glasses on, his face turned slightly away from you.
You lie on your side, purposely leaving space between your bodies.
“You can bring the cake to work tomorrow,” you say quietly. “Share it with everyone.”
He hums. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
That’s it.
The lock clicks just past 1 a.m.
You’d stopped checking the time an hour ago. The TV plays a rerun on mute. Your wineglass has long gone dry. The city outside is dark, foggy, still.
He stumbles through the door.
Not tipsy—drunk. The kind of drunk that makes a man loosen his tie halfway but forget to hang up his coat. The kind of drunk that makes him pause like he’s not sure he’s in the right home.
You sit up on the couch, blinking sleep from your lashes. “Rough night?”
He flinches. There’s a long pause where he just stares at you, like he forgot you lived here.
He doesn’t answer, but instead moves, to cross the space between you, slow and heavy, like he’s trudging through water.
You tense as he sits beside you. He smells like whiskey and aftershave. His hand lands on your knee, all warm and heavy.
“Hiro—” You breathe.
He kisses you. Clumsily and fast, open-mouthed and desperate. His palm cups your jaw, calloused thumb grazing your cheekbone.
Your heart stutters. Because it’s been months.
You let him. Because you’ve been starving.
His tongue slides against yours like he’s searching for something he dropped. He pulls you onto his lap, rough hands sliding up under your sleep shirt, squeezing your thighs, your hips, like he can’t touch enough fast enough.
You whimper when he pushes your panties aside. He doesn’t prep you, or do any other foreplay, he just thrusts in.
And it stings. It’s been a while since he’s fucked you. The stretch is sudden, not sweet. But you don’t stop him.
Because this is something. And something is better than the nothing you’ve been getting.
The couch creaks as your nails clutch at his shoulders. He buries his face in your neck and fucks you like he’s not trying to connect—just trying to forget.
You bite your lip to keep from crying. Because this is the most alive you’ve felt in months. But he still won’t look at you.
“Hiro,” you breathe, hips rocking with him, chasing the friction, “please…look at me, or…say something.”
He groans low in his throat, but it’s not a response. Just pressure. He grips your waist tighter and simply fucks you harder.
You cum alone.
Not because he helped you there. Because you had to drag yourself there, like crawling out of a pit—chasing the heat with clenched teeth and tears you didn’t let fall.
You shake, still aching.
He doesn’t finish. Instead he just slows, then stills, then slumps over on top of you, and starts snoring.
You lie there.
His chest rising and falling against yours. His weight pinning you to the cushions. The air between you thick with sweat and unspoken things.
“I love you,” you whisper.
But you don’t know if you’re really talking to him, or to the silence.
The next morning, you wake up alone on the couch.
The sun filters in through the slatted blinds, a little too bright.
You find him in the kitchen. He was already wearing an freshly ironed button-up shirt and had a fresh shave.
The scent of toast and black coffee fills the space.
“Morning,” he says, not looking up.
Like nothing happened, like it was just another Wednesday.
You sit at the island, tugging the hem of your sleep shirt lower. The one that says wifey in faded cursive. You suddenly hate this tacky shirt. You had gotten it for your honeymoon. His said hubby. Now you felt like an idiot.
“Hey,” you mumble. Your voice is scratchy. “You’re up early.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t sleep well.”
Excuse me? You almost want to blurt out.
You wait for him to say something more, shoot you another glance, or reach for your hand. Some sign that last night meant something.
Instead, he butters the toast on his plate.
“You needed that, huh?”
You blink. “What?”
He finally looks at you—briefly, distractedly, over the rim of his coffee mug.
“Last night. It’s been a while, figured you could use it.”
Something inside you splinters.
Use it? Like fucking you was a charitable donation?
Your heart splintered.
“Right,” you say. You try to sound breezy. Light. The way you used to, back when he liked you more. “Thanks for the… favour, I guess.”
“Didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, eyes back on the newspaper in his hands.
But he doesn’t correct it either.
You don’t eat. Instead, you just sit there, twisting the ring on your finger.
“Do you remember our wedding?” you ask softly.
He hums, noncommittal.
“You kissed me so hard after the vows, you knocked my veil crooked,” you say, almost smiling. “You used to be so…”
You trail off. Because he’s already walking away, mug in hand.
“Don’t be late,” he calls over his shoulder. “The firm’s having that partners’ dinner tonight. Plus-ones expected.”
The front door clicks shut.
And just like that— he’s gone again.
You sit there alone, in the kitchen you picked out. In the house you tried to turn into a home.
Still full from the nothing he gave you. Still aching from everything he didn’t say.
You pour yourself a second cup of coffee. Wishing it was something stronger.
You wear red.
Not because it’s your favorite color, it isn’t, but because he once said it looked good on you. Back when compliments came easy, back when he still saw you.
It also made you feel a bit more powerful. And you needed the morale boost.
The dress is soft velvet, slinky but modest, high neckline with an open back. You pair it with a cherry lip and a new pair of heels, ones you bought weeks ago hoping for a reason to wear them. Tonight will do.
So you show up.
Because you are his wife, after all.
—
The event is at some glass-paneled downtown venue overlooking the harbor. You arrive just before the doors open, clutching your coat close against the winter air. Your Uber pulls off.
Inside, it’s all champagne flutes, gold cutlery, tall windows and men in expensive watches, women in satin and diamonds. You fit in as always.
You spot your husband immediately.
He’s across the room, surrounded by a circle of colleagues, most of them female — and he’s laughing.
Not the kind of small, polite huff he gives you when you’re being silly or clingy or talking too much.
This is full-bodied, effortless.
Is this what he’s like when you’re not around?
Your chest tightens, but you don’t move. Just stand there staring at him.
He looks good. Rocking a dark suit with neat cuffs. He lifts his glass in a toast, eyes bright. He hasn’t spotted you yet.
“Can I take your coat?”
A warm voice beside you cuts through your trance.
You blink. One of the other husbands, whom you vaguely recognize from another event— stands beside you, smiling warmly.
You nod, sliding your coat off your shoulders. He helps, gentle and polite, and you murmur a quiet thank you.
Only then does Higuruma look up.
His gaze finds you then, lingering for just a second longer.
You straighten your shoulders and flash a shy smile and a small hand wave.
Notice me, you want to say. Touch me. Want me.
But he just nods.
No smile. No wave. Not even a word of greeting.
—
You don’t wait for him to come over.
You make small talk, introduce yourself to the other wives, compliment their jewelry, sip your wine in dainty sips even though you want to chug the whole glass.
You laugh. You sparkle. You dazzle. You pretend.
Across the room, Higuruma has resumed talking to one of the paralegals. A younger woman with perfectly smooth hair and a friendly face. She rests her hand on his arm when she laughs. He doesn’t move away.
You excuse yourself to the restroom. The moment the door closes, your smile falls. You grip the edge of the marble sink and exhale, hard. Your reflection looks composed, alm,ost like a mannequin. You swipe under your eyes, reapply your lipstick. And do your best not to cry.
—
Back at the table, dinner has begun. Higuruma is already seated.
There’s a chair beside him, left empty. You walk over. He doesn’t even stand to pull it out for you. Just gives you a nod as you sit, like you were an acquaintance at a networking event.
The food is exquisitely bougie: duck confit, shaved truffles, wine with notes you can’t pronounce.
He makes idle conversation with the law firm’s partner on his other side. Laughs again, gently. Occasionally checks his phone. You reach for his hand under the table, lightly.
He doesn’t take it, doesn’t flinch or squeeze your hand back. Just…lets you hold it.
—
At dessert, someone clinks a glass.
“To the partners who keep this firm running,” one of the senior VPs announces. “And to the real powerhouses…the women behind the men!”
“Hear, hear!” Everyone laughs.
Someone turns to you, the wife of the youngest, most stoic partner and says, “You’re so lucky. Hiromi’s such a catch. Brilliant mind!”
You smile and nod, but your hand curls tighter around the stem of your glass.
“He’s even charming,” they add with a wink. “We were all saying how open he is at work. Like he’s in his element.”
You swallow. Hard.
“Yes,” you say, voice saccharine-sweet. “He really comes alive at the office.”
Higuruma finally glances at you.
There’s something in his eyes — something quiet, restrained, almost apologetic — but it’s too late. The moment passes.
You excuse yourself again.
—
Outside, on the rooftop balcony, the wind cuts sharper.
You lean against the railing and close your eyes. You can hear the muffled sounds of the party inside — laughter, the clink of dishes, a distant jazz band playing something upbeat.
Your hands tremble.
Don’t cry. Don’t ruin your makeup.
Someone steps out behind you.
You brace yourself. But it’s not him. Just another guest coming out for a smoke. You move aside.
Ten minutes pass. No one follows.
Eventually, you slip back inside, grab your coat, and call another car.
He doesn’t notice you leaving until the elevator doors are already closing.
Back home, you kick off your heels in the foyer. One of the Christian Louboutins lands sideways, the other still upright.
You should go wash your face and clean up. Do your usual routine: to be the good wife, to be quiet and composed. But instead, you make a sharp left turn into the kitchen to grab the half-full bottle of vodka you usually kept for making cocktails.
Not using glass, you just pop the bottle open and feel the cold bite of it pressed to your lips before you take a big chug. It makes your throat burn and your eyes water—but not enough to numb the ache in your chest.
With the bottle in hand, you pad down the hallway, past the perfect life you’re supposed to be grateful for, to the master bedroom, and into the insuite bathroom.
You twist the faucet to the tub, making sure it’s hot. The room steams up fast. You leave the vodka on the edge of the tub, and slowly, you step in—still wearing your evening dress. The velvet clings to your body as it soaks, getting heavier and darker as you sink it, the fabric drinks in the water like it’s starved. You lower yourself all the way down.
Hair still pinned and pearl earrings still on. Lashes clumped with expensive mascara that’s already starting to streak.
You sit there in the tub as if you were a bride abandoned at the altar, and then, you start to cry. Ugly, raw sobs that tear through your chest, echo off the tiles, and sound nothing like the composed woman you pretended to be tonight.
You take another swig of vodka, and then another. It doesn’t help, but the hurt feels clearer this way.
The front door opens.
You hear it, faintly, through the walls and the water and the buzz in your head.
“Honey?” Higuruma’s voice filters through. “Why did you leave early?”
You don’t answer.
You hear his footsteps, slow, measured and tired, like he always is. He eventually finds you, his silhouette appears in the doorway of the bathroom and freezes.
You don’t even look up. You just sit there—soaked, trembling, eyes rimmed with black. Dress ruined. Velvet clinging to your thighs, the vodka bottle still in your hand.
“What the hell—” he starts, voice caught between confusion and alarm.
You cut him off with a hollow laugh. “Don’t, don’t use that tone. You don’t get to sound concerned right now.”
He steps closer, kneels beside the tub. “You’re drinking in the tub, fully clothed? What are you doing?”
You look at him, glassy-eyed. “Drowning, I think.”
He just stares at you.
You raise the bottle again, swirl it lazily. “Do you even like me anymore, Hiro?”
He frowns. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m asking you a question,” you say, sharper now. “And you not answering it? That’s an answer, too.”
His mouth opens. But no words come.
You look up at him through wet lashes. “If you don’t like me anymore, just say it. Please. I need to know.”
The silence stretches.
And that pause fucking hurts worse than any word could.
Higuruma’s jaw tightens. His eyes darken. “You’re upset. I get it. But you can’t just sit in the tub like this—”
You rise from the water—dress clinging like a second skin, heavy and regal. Barefoot, you step out. The water pools at your feet, drips down your thighs, mascara streaking your cheeks like war paint.
He reaches for a towel.
You stare him down, breath ragged. The wet velvet clings like regret and cold trails down your spine. Your lipstick’s smudged but your eyes still burn—furious, desperate, alive.
And then—
You lunge. Not violently or boldly, just a little bit. Just enough to remind him, to make yourself feel something other than this quiet heartache.
You grab his face with wet fingers, and press your lips to his.
It’s not graceful, not seductive. But pleading. Desperate.
But he doesn’t kiss you back. He grabs your wrists firmly, not harshly, and pulls away.
You pull back half a step, stunned. Your hands fall to your sides and your chest rises and falls like you’ve been slapped. Then, you laugh sharply and bitterly.
“See?” you rasp. “You don’t even like me anymore.”
“Don’t do this—”
“You used to want to fuck me whenever I so much as touched you.” Your voice shakes, not with tears—but with memory. With fury. With longing. “You’d pin me to the wall. The table. The fucking stairwell. You used to look at me like I was—”
Your whole world. The love of your life. Important…
You break off.
He says nothing. And that silence—the way he just stands there, suit damp, jaw clenched, eyes full of things he won’t say—hurts more than anything else.
You take a breath. A trembling one. Then: “Say it.”
“…Say what?”
“That I disgust you now. That I’ve become inconvenient. Say it, Hiro.”
But he doesn’t. He can’t.
And that, somehow, is worse than if he yelled at you.
You reach up, fingers shaking, and rip the pearl earrings from your ears. The ones he gave you two anniversaries ago. You throw them at his chest. One bounces off and clatters to the tile. The other lands at his feet.
“You don’t even want me anymore.”
His jaw tightens. But he says nothing.
You step back again. Sodden velvet dragging at your ankles, eyes shining beneath ruined mascara.
You swallow the lump rising in your throat. “You can’t even kiss me.”
He says your name once—quietly, almost regretfully.
But it’s too late.
You walk past him, the smell of vodka and heartbreak trailing behind you.
You pass out on top of the sheets, still damp in your velvet dress.
Your body curls in on itself instinctively, shivering despite the heat. Your runny mascara smudges the pillow and the blanket slips halfway off your legs.
Higuruma stands in the doorway for a long moment. Then quietly, he crosses the room. Simply reaches down, lifts the duvet, and drapes it gently over your shoulders. He adjusts the corner so your feet are covered. Then he steps back.
Still dressed in his rumpled suit. Still wet from where your soaked clothes had clung to him. Still clutching the pearl earring in his palm.
He doesn’t climb in beside you. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed and leans forward, elbows on knees, head in his hands.
The silence wraps around him like guilt.
And from somewhere deep in the vault of his mind—memories surface.
It was your honeymoon, a little over four years ago.
The plane had barely lifted off when you turned to him with a grin, eyes sparkling, and whispered, “Can you believe we’re married?”
Higuruma glanced down at your left hand, fingers intertwined with his, the rings still impossibly new and shining under the dull cabin light. “No,” he murmured, lips brushing your knuckles. “But I like the sound of it.”
You leaned in, pressing your nose to his shoulder. “My husband.”
That word again.
He swallowed. Something in his chest tugged tight. “Say it again.”
You laughed, soft and smug. “My husband.”
He kissed you right there. Quick, but tender. A little messy. You tasted like strawberries from the sparkling fruit water the flight attendant had brought earlier.
You kissed him back, giggling. “You shouldn't make out with me in economy.”
“Doesn’t matter where we are, I’ll always kiss you.” He said, pulling you closer.
—
It was late afternoon by the time you arrived at the overwater villa. The air was thick with ocean salt and hibiscus and the weather was perfect.
You stepped onto the deck barefoot, still in your travel dress, hair slightly windblown, skin flushed from the heat. “It’s so beautiful,” you whispered.
Higuruma didn’t answer right away.
He was too busy staring at you.
You turned, laughing when you caught him. “What?”
“You,” he said simply. “You’re ridiculous. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen.”
You rolled your eyes but pranced straight into his arms. “You’re so cheesy.”
“I’m your husband. I’m allowed to be cheesy.”
“You are,” you agreed, tipping your face up to kiss him.
—
On the beach, you fed each other slices of chilled mango, sticky-sweet and warm from the tray. He kept pretending to miss your lips on purpose, smearing papaya juice on your chin just to lick it off.
“Gross,” you laughed, trying to swat him away.
“You’re the one who said I don’t relax enough,” he said smugly. “I’m relaxing.”
You rolled onto your side, propped on one elbow, grinning at him in nothing but your bikini and a gauzy white cover-up. “You’re practically a new man.”
He looked at you, all soft and sun-dazed. “Nah. Just a lucky one.”
“You really are.” You throw your hair back and laugh heartily.
—
It was near sunset when you played in the water, Higuruma’s shirt stuck to his chest, translucent.
You splashed him. He splashed you back. You squealed and ran, but he caught you easily, hauling you up against him.
You shrieked, laughing breathlessly.
He kissed your temple, your cheek, your shoulder. You shivered, even in the warm water.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered against your skin. “You’re everything.”
You tilted your head back. “You’re totally in honeymoon mode.”
“Maybe.” He nipped your jaw, playful. “But I’m also really fucking in love with you.”
You blinked. Then smiled, slow and radiant.
“I love you too,” you whispered. “So much, Hiro.”
—
You were curled on the bed, hair damp from the shower, still warm from the sun and sea. Higuruma had just returned with the bottle of champagne and two glasses.
He poured them both, handed you one. But before you could drink, he leaned in and clinked your glass with his.
“To my wife,” he said.
You beamed. “To my husband.”
You took a sip. Then another.
And then you turned serious. Just for a moment.
“I’m sorry we didn’t have the big wedding,” He said softly. “I know your parents might’ve wanted something more…”
You shook your head. “Don’t. I didn’t want anything more.”
He set the glass down and took yours too, cupping your face with both hands. “You made it so easy to love you,” he murmured. “You never asked for anything but me. No expectations. No drama. Just… us.”
You blinked fast. Then laughed through it, nose wrinkling.
“I’m just happy to be with you forever, Hiro,” you said, throwing your arms around his neck.
He kissed you, slow and deep, pressing you back onto the sheets.
His mouth never left yours—not even when his hands began to roam. He kissed you like he was memorizing you, like the world had finally gone quiet and there was nothing left but your skin and his hands and the taste of champagne between your teeth.
You arched beneath him, soft and sighing, fingers curling in his shirt until it slipped off his shoulders. He was warm and solid above you, and when he looked down—really looked—you felt it in your chest.
That look.
Like you were everything.
Like he didn’t know how he ever lived without this.
“Hiro,” you whispered, voice catching.
He pressed a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Just let me take care of you.”
You nodded, already breathless as his hands slid down, slow and reverent. He peeled your nightdress up inch by inch, kissing every patch of skin revealed. Your stomach, your ribs, the soft curve beneath your breast.
You trembled as the fabric slipped off completely, leaving you bare beneath him.
“Beautiful,” he breathed. “So fucking beautiful.”
You reached for him, pulling him down until your bodies aligned, until your thighs fell open for him instinctively. The press of him against you was hot and heavy, sending a thrill up your spine.
He kissed you again—this time deeper, hungrier. And when he moved against you, slow and purposeful, you gasped into his mouth.
Your hips lifted. Your legs wrapped around him. The slow grind of his body against yours stoked every ember until you were writhing underneath him, clutching at his shoulders, murmuring his name. “Hiro—please…”
He pulled back just far enough to look at you.
His hair was mussed, his lips swollen, eyes dark with want. But there was tenderness there too—a softness you only ever saw in moments like this.
“I love you,” he said.
You smiled, teary and aching. “Then show me.”
And he did.
He entered you slowly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh as he rocked into you with quiet desperation. The stretch, the heat, the fullness—it made your back arch and your eyes flutter shut.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
You did.
You always would.
And when you looked into his eyes, you saw it: the depth, the ache, the absolute love.
He moved inside you in slow, deep thrusts—letting you feel every inch, every stroke, every breath he stole from your lungs. You met him move for move, murmuring his name, tangling your fingers in his hair, grounding yourself in the feel of his body pressed so tightly to yours.
It was messy. It was beautiful.
You clung to each other as if time might stop here—on this bed, this night, in this moment when nothing else mattered but the two of you.
His name left your lips over and over as you crested together, hips trembling, lips locked, your release washing over you like a tide. He followed soon after, groaning your name into your mouth, gripping you like he’d never let go.
When it was over, he didn’t move—not for a long time. He just held you.
Breathing heavy. Hearts pounding.
Then: a kiss to your temple. Another to your shoulder.
He buried his face in your neck and whispered, “Thank you.”
You smiled, tears prickling. “For what?”
“For marrying me,” he said.
You stroked his back. “Forever, remember?”
He nodded against your skin. “Forever.”
Higuruma sits on the edge of the bed now.
Still fully clothed, but his suit wrinkled. His tie loosened but never removed—like he never quite let himself come home. His hands rest on his knees, fingers curled loosely, knuckles pale. He hasn’t moved in a long time.
You’re asleep beside him.
Your breathing is uneven, shallow, exhausted. There’s a faint furrow between your brows, even in sleep, like your body hasn’t forgotten how much it hurt tonight. One hand is curled near your chest, fingers clutching fabric as if you’re afraid something will be taken from you if you let go.
And something in him caves.
He doesn’t know when the shift happened.
When laughter turned into politeness? When desire turned into obligation…when touching you started to feel like something he had to schedule instead of something he ached for.
“She knows what this job takes,” one of the senior partners once told him. “Provide. That’s the important part. Everything else falls into place.”
That’s what the other men say when they stay late, when they miss dinners, when they stop going home before midnight.
Higuruma believed him.
He believed that if he worked harder: took on more cases, more responsibility, more hours — he’d be doing right by you. That the long days and late nights were a kind of love. That the house, the security, the future he was building would speak for him where words didn’t come easily.
He thought you’d understand.
You were always so… accommodating, so warm, and so happy to fold yourself around whatever shape his life took.
He didn’t notice when that started to change. Or maybe he did…and convinced himself it was normal.
Marriages settle, don’t they? Passion cools. Routine takes over.
He rubs his face with both hands now, as he remembers the early days of your relationship, and the simplicity of them.
You in his shirts, barefoot, talking just to talk; the way you’d ramble about nothing while he listened, fingers tracing slow circles into your skin, the way your voice used to fill the silence he’d spent most of his life learning to live with.
He remembers kissing you like he was starving, pinning you down just to hear you giggle.
The way you used to melt into him so easily—trusting, warm, endlessly giving.
He remembers the honeymoon.
The way you both said forever like it was obvious. Like it was simple. Like nothing could ever change it.
You never asked him to be different, and that’s the part that twists in his chest now.
You never demanded more time, or accused him of infidelity, or raised your voice until tonight. You always just showed up. Bringing lunch, attending dinners, and made soft attempts at connection he told himself he’d return later.
And now—
Now you’re here, asleep beside him, and he’s never felt further away from you in his life.
His throat tightens.
He reaches out—then stops himself.
His hand hovers inches above your shoulder, trembling, unsure whether he’s earned the right to touch you anymore. Whether touch would soothe you… or just remind you of everything he failed to give?
So he does nothing.
He stays seated on the edge of the bed, staring at the woman he married, realizing that love doesn’t disappear all at once.
It withers.
You wake up feeling like shit.
Your head throbs. Your mouth tastes like regret and vodka and salt. Your voice comes out hoarse when you try to breathe through it, a small, broken sound you don’t even recognize as your own.
You shift, muscles sore, velvet stiff where it dried wrong against your skin.
And then you sit up.
The room tilts.
And you see him.
Higuruma is sitting on the edge of the bed.
Still in his suit. His elbows rest on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. Head bowed, like he’s been thinking for a very long time.
Like he never went to sleep.
Your chest tightens.
He hasn’t been in bed when you woke up in… how long?
Weeks? Months?
You swallow, throat raw, and try to study his face without making it obvious.
The hard line of his jaw looks softer like this. Tired. There are shadows under his eyes you don’t remember being there before. His hair is slightly out of place, like he dragged his hands through it one too many times overnight.
He looks older...worn down.
And for a split second—just one—you wonder if maybe this is what you’ve been missing. This quiet presence. This stillness.
Then memory crashes back in.
The bath. The vodka. Your voice breaking as you asked him if he even liked you anymore.
His silence. Your hands on his face. His hands stopping yours.
The earrings hitting his chest. The sound they made when they fell.
Your heart lurches so hard it almost hurts.
You look away first. Embarrassment floods you, hot and sharp. You tug the blanket closer around yourself, suddenly hyperaware of the ruined dress, the smeared makeup, the way you must look right now.
“How long have you been sitting there?” you ask quietly. Your voice sounds small. Groggy. Nothing like the woman who stood dripping in the bathroom last night, eyes blazing with fire.
“All night,” he admits. His gaze drops to your hands. To the way your fingers fidget with the edge of the blanket.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed, feet finding the floor. The room feels too bright, too real. You rub your temples, wincing.
You nod, once, like you’re filing that information away somewhere safe and far from your heart. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
Silence stretches between you again.
You steal another glance at him.
He’s watching you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away.
And that thought—that now he’s watching—makes something ache deep in your chest.
Because it’s too fucking late. You’re so tired, and you don’t know if watching is enough anymore.
—
And then you say it, softly. “I think we should get divorced.”
His head turns—slowly. Like he didn’t quite hear you.
You meet his eyes anyway, and this time, you don’t flinch.
“I’m your wife, Hiro,” you whisper, voice raw. “Not a roommate. I don’t want to shackle you with a marriage you don’t want anymore.”
“Don’t,” he whispers.
You smile. But not kindly.
He stares at you like you’re a stranger in your own home. Like he’s seeing you for the first time in months—and suddenly realizing what it means to lose you.
“You don’t want this,” he says.
“No, Hiro, I didn’t want this.” You gesture vaguely to the bed, the room, the emptiness of it all.
“I didn’t want to feel alone every night while you buried yourself in work. I didn’t want to beg for affection. I didn’t want to forget what it felt like to be wanted by my husband.”
He opens his mouth—but nothing comes out.
“I wanted you,” you say. Voice breaking now. “I still do. But I don’t think you know how to love me anymore. And I’m so tired of hoping you’ll remember.”
Silence.
You sniff and wipe your nose with the back of your hand. You shift your gaze to the window. Morning is bleeding through the curtains.
“Let’s keep it amicable, alright?” you murmur. “Give me a week to get my things packed up.”
You’re surprised you’re not crying. You sound past that: hollowed out, like someone who’s already halfway gone.
“Please don’t,” he says.
Just that.
Not even an utter of your name. Not stay. Not I love you.
Just please don’t.
And it would almost be enough—if he looked at you the way he used to. If he touched your cheek. If he reached for your hand, even clumsily, even late.
But he doesn’t.
He stands there, still in last night’s clothes, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides. Like he’s bracing for impact instead of trying to stop it.
And that’s what kills you.
Because if he just said it—just once—
If he looked at you with anything close to tenderness, if he kissed your forehead, if he told you I miss us, if he touched your face like it still meant something...
You would falter! You would stay! You would fall apart in his arms and beg him to try again.
But he doesn’t move.
And you can’t beg for what he won’t give.
So you nod.
“Okay,” you say, quietly to yourself. “A week, then.”
You didn’t take much. Just what you first moved in with, really. A few boxes. Your laptop. Some clothes. You’d packed it all quietly, over the course of a week.
There wasn’t a scene, or drama, or begging. Simply silence. The same silence that had been growing in that apartment for the past year.
So, that day, you left your wedding band and engagement ring on the kitchen counter, right beside the envelope with the signed divorce papers. You didn’t leave a note, because what is there even left to say?
The apartment looked smaller without your things.
Sadder.
Your favorite mug was gone from the dish rack. The blanket you always curled up with on the couch—packed. The smell of your shampoo already fading from the bathroom.
You stood in the doorway for a moment, gripping your keys.
This was your first home together: where you hung fairy lights on the balcony; where you danced barefoot in the kitchen after the courthouse ceremony, where he’d kissed your ring finger every night before falling asleep.
Where you used to be happy. Now it was only a sad, empty pit of despair.
“Bye, home,” you whispered, trying not to cry.
Then you closed the door behind you, not looking back.
The whole week was a blur.
Hiromi Higuruma was off his game. Being short with his paralegal, snapping in court, missing things—simple things like submitting a file before the deadline.
He was a mess and everyone saw it. He told himself it was stress. Deadlines, overload of cases…but he knew.
He avoided coming home. Just slept on the couch in his office.
On the sixth day, he cracked.
He brought a bouquet of flowers. Sunflowers. You were like a sunflower when he first met you. So bright and cheery and vibrant. He thought it would be nice to remind you of that today.
He rode the elevator up clutching them like a lifeline, maybe you had just thrown a tantrujm last time. Maybe you’ve got dinner made and was just waiting for him. Maybe you hadn’t packed everything yet. Maybe you’d still be there.
Maybe all you were doing was waiting for him to fight for you.
He half expected—half hoped—to find your shoes by the door, your laugh in the kitchen, your perfume on the air.
But when the door opened—the lights were off.
And on the kitchen counter was your engagement ring, wedding band and divorce papers.
He froze.
The bouquet slipped from his hands and hit the floor, the sunflower petals scattered across the tile like confetti.
He stood there for a long time: unable to move or breathe.
You were really gone.
—
You used to wake up needy—still half-dreaming. He’d be at his home desk already, shirtless, hair tousled, reading over briefs with tired eyes.
You’d pad across the floor barefoot, wearing nothing but one of his old undershirts, and climb straight into his lap and let out a soft little whimper as you nuzzled into his neck, still warm from sleep, pressing kisses under his jaw.
In the mornings, before his hearings, you’d crawl into his lap while he sipped his coffee, your legs thrown over his thighs, your cheek pressed to his chest.
“You can’t go yet,” you’d murmur, tugging at his tie. “I’ll sue you for abandonment and emotional distress for kissing your wife only once.”
He never said much. But his hands would settle on your waist, fingers warm and slow, rubbing little circles against your back like he had all the time in the world.
You’d kiss him twice, always. Once on the mouth, then again on his chest—right over his heart, like a promise.
“Good luck today, my favourite lawyer,” you’d whisper. “Come back to me in one piece.”
He never replied. Well, not really. He’d just cup your face for a second longer and let his eyes linger on your lips and let you have him for a few stolen moments more.
Because you were always so full of light, so sure of the way you loved him.
So soft and sweet and stubborn.
—
Higuruma bends slowly, numb, and picks up the bouquet. Some of the petals stick to his palms.
For a moment, stupidly, his body remembers—the way you used to kiss him twice before he left.
Once on the mouth. Once over his heart.
He presses the flowers to his chest.
He stands there now, in the dark, surrounded by petals and the echo of the love he didn’t hold onto hard enough.
— End