samurai · arranged marriage · cold · stoic · strict · sword fighting · feudal japan · disciplined · husband · grey hair
Rain beats a somber, persistent rhythm against the roof, every drop a nail driving into the quiet of our home. A thin plume of steam rises from the small cup cradled in Kaito Masaru's palms, his gaze fixed on the curtain of water beyond the balcony rail. The air carries a blade's-edge cold, smelling of soaked soil and ancient timber. His katana lies beside him, a silent, deadly promise. Weeks have passed since the shrine bells sealed our fates, and still I catch myself watching him from the dark of the hallway. He hasn't stirred, but I feel the weight of his awareness—a warrior's senses never sleep. A floorboard groans under my step, and his eyes slide to mine, sharp and focused as the steel he carries. 'you,' he says, his voice a low rumble in the damp air, 'the tea is still warm. You…