She was gone before dawn.
Toji woke to the sound of the city filtered through the glass.
He realised she hadn't just gone for a walk.
Her side of the bed was cold. The faint trace of her perfume lingered on the sheets.
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Guess she wasn't kidding about working all day," he muttered.
It was strange, but he felt lighter. The night before had been suffocating with her constant clinging, the way she followed him like a shadow, waiting outside the bathroom door just to be close.
She was warm and soft in ways he wasn't used to. It made his skin itch.
At least now he could breathe again.
He spent his day like a man retired too early. Drinking coffee, flipping through TV channels, taking a long bath, and wandering the rooms she called home.
Every corner was pristine. The quiet felt like wealth, the kind of quiet you could only afford when you owned the city.
When the lock finally clicked open that night, the clock on the wall read half past midnight.
He wasn't asleep, not really. A man like him never slept deeply. The sound of her heels against marble made his eyes open instantly.
"Toji…" she called. That was the first thing she muttered after getting home.
He sat up. "I'm here."
She came in looking drained, her black suit still immaculate, but her red lipstick was slightly smudged, her hair falling loose at the ends.
A small, forced smile curled her lips, an expression of relief upon seeing him.
He studied her. The woman who had bossed him around like a spoiled empress now looked small.
She didn't move. Just looked at him.
He got up slowly, hesitating as he walked toward her. "…"
She still didn't say anything and just let herself fall into his embrace, her face resting on his chest. He knew what to do by then.
His arms wrapped around her. The second he touched her, she melted into him. Her body sagged. "My husband…" she whispered, voice small and trembling.
He rubbed her back. The words felt strange on his tongue, but he said them anyway. "Welcome home."
He told himself he said it because that was what he was paid for, because it was what she probably wanted to hear.
But something about saying it made his throat tighten. Maybe he just wasn't used to it. It felt like playing pretend home... well... he was.
The tiredness in her eyes softened, replaced by a hint of colour.
She pushed him gently toward the bed, guiding him down.
She lay on top of him, eyes closed, clinging.
They stayed like that for minutes that stretched and blurred, his hand resting awkwardly on her back.
"Can you help me wash up?" she muttered, finally, half-asleep.
He blinked. "How does that work?"
"Shower with me."
"…"
"…"
He guessed she wasn't going to explain further.
"Okay," he nodded.
It was that simple.
The bathroom was filled with steam soon after, fog curling around the mirror and the marble walls.
She stripped first, unbothered by his presence.
Her skin glowed faintly under the lights, pale and soft. He noticed a few scars in strange places that couldn't have occurred naturally.
He didn't ask because his body was much worse. He took off his shirt. Scars danced across his roughened skin like birthmarks. She watched.
He walked into the shower with her. By now, she was already soaked, waiting for him to do something.
His hands were muzzy, unsure. Her eyes pointed toward the bottle of shampoo.
He followed her quiet guidance and helped her wash up. Shampoo. Conditioner. Rinse. He had never done this before, and it really showed.
"No, not like that." She yanked herself away from his grasp. "You're supposed to massage the scalp, use less force, with the tip of your fingers. You're about to rip my head out," she scowled.
"I'm trying," he muttered.
"You really suck at this. You need to practice more."
He bit back a laugh. "Practice how? with you?"
"I don't know, watch videos or something, tutorials online." She flicked water at him. "There are guides to how girls shower."
"There are those kinds of vids?" he laughed. "Why?"
"How would I know…" she paused, "There are guides for all sorts of girlhood things, for girls without a mother to teach them."
"…"
"…"
Yeah. Right. Akiyama Yumi... does not have a mom.
By the end of the session, he was sweating through the steam, completely drenched and exhausted, while she stood there wrapped in a towel, glaring at him like he had failed a life test.
He tried to dry her hair, fumbling with the towel, but his hands were too clumsy, too rough. She eventually snatched it away. "You'll break my hair, idiot."
He just watched her, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I'm actually surprised I can suck this much at something."
She didn't reply but looked ridiculously furious, dripping wet, and still impossibly beautiful.
Later, when she was changed into silk pyjamas, he brought her a cup of tea.
They ended up in bed again, her head against his chest. The rise and fall of her breathing slowed, softer than before. Within minutes, she was asleep.
He didn't know she struggled to sleep, didn't know this was unusual for her.
He stared up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the shadows, listening to her breathe.
The first week passed quietly. Almost exactly like that every day.
He had expected something else. Games, manipulation, hidden motives, but she didn't play.
She didn't speak much either. Only asked for small things. Kisses before work. Cuddles at night. Morning greetings. Hugs, lots of hugs. Hugs all the time, actually.
Every morning before dawn, she left in a tailored suit and sharp heels, her perfume trailing faintly behind her.
Sometimes she carried a file. Sometimes she looked like hell, with red eyes and a cigarette hanging from her lips.
But she always leaned over to wake him, no matter how early, and demanded a kiss somewhere on her face before leaving.
Never the lips, though. Not once.
He didn't mind. The bed stayed warm after she left.
The kitchen was always stocked. The fridge was filled with food no one ate.
And every night, she came home the same way, exhaustion clinging to her like perfume.
Her first words would always be to call out for him. To check if he was there.
"I am alive," was now his casual response, followed by, "Welcome home."
Sometimes she trembled and hugged him. Sometimes she dropped her phone and sank into him, sitting on the couch.
"I haven't eaten anything all day," she'd mumble, voice small.
He'd watch her, then head to the kitchen. He'd return with a plate in hand. "So much money, but your stomach's empty. What's the point?"
He'd set the plate in front of her.
She'd look up at him through tired lashes. "Did you cook? Why are you sleeping so late?"
"My wife might be lonely."
"You're getting better at this."
"I always get my job done." He grinned smugly and reached forward, pulling her upright. "Eat."
She just stared at the food, unmoving.
"What? You need me to feed you?" he raised an eyebrow.
"…"
"…Seriously?"
When she didn't answer, he sighed and fed her himself.
She ate quietly, bite after bite, like she was too tired to chew.
"Have you showered?" he asked when she finished.
"No."
"…Wanna shower together?"
She gave him a death glare, remembering the last time they showered together.
He smirked. "Don't look at me like that, I've actually been practising."
"…? Practice how?"
"I watched tutorials."
"You actually did…"
"I did."
They showered together again that night. He had surprisingly improved. A few clumsy moves here and there, but it was comforting.
After drying her off, like taking care of a toddler.
"You don't talk much," she murmured.
"I'm not paid to talk."
She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "You're not paid to stay quiet either."
"Do you want me to talk more?" His hand brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"Kinda. I like your voice."
He gave a small, dry laugh. "That's not a first."
Her eyes flicked toward him, searching. "You must've slept around a lot. Back then."
"Yeah," he helped her with her shirt as they spoke. "Didn't mean much, though."
"Did you fancy anyone?"
He paused, eyes unfocused. "No. Not really."
"Why?"
"I never stayed long enough to." He shrugged faintly. "Feelings don't pay rent."
She was quiet for a moment, then asked softly, "Then, do you fancy me? I pay your rent...or maybe I am more like a landlord? "
He scoffed and shook his head. "Who knows?"
"You'd still stay if I weren't rich?" she asked again.
"Wouldn't be very profitable."
She hummed faintly, leaning back against the headboard. "At least you're honest."
"Honesty's cheap. Doesn't cost me anything."
"Still rare. People lie even when there's no reason to."
He glanced at her, eyes softening a little. "You do that too?"
"Sometimes. Makes the world easier to live in."
He nodded, as if he understood too well. "Yeah. Keeps things quiet."
"Lie to me, then," she said. "That you'd stay."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'll always be here."
"…" Her gaze drooped, not sure if she was satisfied or not.
He carried her to bed. She clung to him in silence.
After a week or two together, he noted that it wasn't just that she was lonely. She was fragile in ways he couldn't understand just yet.
He told himself he didn't care. That it was all part of the contract. He'd lie and pretend for this lonely brat if need be. It doesn't cost him anything.
But sometimes, when he watched her sleeping beside him, her hand curled in the fabric of his shirt, strange thoughts and emotions would fill his deadbeat heart.