Dinner was done, our daughter asleep upstairs, the apartment quiet except for the faint clink of a tea cup. Takeda was on the sofa, hoodie pulled low over his hands, legs tucked under him. He looked calm, but I could see the tension in the faint stiffening of his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed lightly against the fabric.
I could have climbed onto the sofa, wrapped myself around him, and he would have let me. He always would have. He would have held me, quiet, safe, obedient to my touch. But that wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want easy affection. I wanted him to want me, fully, freely, the way he used to.
So I walked toward him anyway.
"Takeda…" I murmured, sitting beside him. My shoulder brushed his, light, tentative. "Can I… sit here with you?"
He didn't answer at first, just exhaled slowly. Then, quietly: "I guess."
I reached for his hand, brushing mine across his. He didn't pull away, but he didn't move closer either. I swallowed, my chest tightening.
"I just… I want to be close," I whispered. "Just for a little while."
He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't respond.
"You know," he said finally, voice soft but careful, "sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier… with your sister."
I froze. My stomach twisted, hot and heavy. "…What?"
"Someone like her," he continued, still calm, still controlled, "I wouldn't have to worry. I wouldn't have to—" He hesitated, eyes flicking somewhere distant, "…I wouldn't have to be afraid of mistakes."
I slammed my hands onto the sofa, voice rising. "Do you even realize… do you know what could have happened? You almost—almost died because of her!"
He flinched at my words, but didn't look away. "I know."
"You… you can't just say things like that!" I yelled, the heat of my jealousy and fear overwhelming the careful control I usually tried to maintain. "…You think I'd just sit here quietly if you said you might have… chosen her instead?"
He finally looked at me. His eyes were calm, almost tired, but there was no malice. Just truth. "Misaki… I'm only saying that because you were always the one. I've loved you since… since we were kids. I could never love anyone else."
The words hit me harder than I expected. My chest heaved. I wanted to scream at him, to push him, to fight him… but beneath the anger, my heart melted a little. The raw, unshakable truth of him loving me alone—it was almost too much to hold.
"I could just take you," I whispered, voice trembling. "I could just wrap myself around you and you wouldn't resist. But… I won't. Not anymore. I want… I want you to choose me. Every time. Without being forced. Without hesitation."
He leaned back slightly, running a hand through his hair, watching me. "You really are… impossible," he muttered softly.
"Yes," I said, voice low but fierce. "I am. And I love you. So you better choose me every time."
For a moment, the room was quiet. The tension stretched between us like a thread pulled taut. And yet, I could feel it—the unspoken promise beneath his stillness. He loved me. Always had. Always would. And now, I would make him prove it.