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“Mushitaro… psst… honey… wake up.”
The whisper drifted through the quiet like a feather brushing against still water.
Mushitaro did not move.
The room was wrapped in the kind of deep, peaceful silence that only existed before dawn — a hush so complete it felt sacred. Pale moonlight slipped through the curtains in soft ribbons, painting the walls in shades of cool blue. Outside, Yokohama murmured gently in its sleep — the distant roll of a late-night taxi, the faint rattle of wind against a loose pane, the occasional soft thud of a stray cat exploring a bin somewhere far below.
It was perfect sleeping weather. Perfect dreaming weather.
Perfect leave-me-alone weather.
“…Please do not tell me,” Mushitaro croaked finally, voice thick with sleep and barely disguised irritation, “that you actually say ‘psst’ when you whisper.”
He didn’t open his eyes yet. He didn’t want to confirm his suspicions. If he ignored this long enough, perhaps his husband would simply… evaporate.
Unfortunately, reality did not grant him that mercy.
A barely contained giggle hovered in the air beside the bed.
Mushitaro sighed — the long, suffering sigh of a man who loved deeply but regretted his life choices at least twice a day — and cracked one eye open.
There was Yokomizo.
Crouched beside the bed like an overly enthusiastic raccoon that had broken into a bakery.
His hair stuck out in soft, rebellious tufts as though he’d run his hands through it a hundred times in excitement. His eyes sparkled with mischief so obvious it practically glowed in the dim light. And in his hands — held with the reverence of a sacred relic — was a small strawberry shortcake, wobbling slightly on a plate.
A single candle flickered on top.
Its tiny flame danced in the dark, casting warm golden light over his delighted expression.
“Happy anniversary!” Yokomizo whispered.
Far too loudly.
Mushitaro blinked slowly. Once. Twice.
His glare sharpened like a blade being unsheathed.
“…Anniversary of what, exactly?” he muttered, voice hoarse. “My patience? Because that expired months ago.”
Yokomizo gasped softly, scandalised — though the grin threatening to split his face betrayed him completely. “No! It’s the anniversary of the day you first insulted me!”
Silence.
Pure, exhausted disbelief.
“You woke me up,” Mushitaro said slowly, “at four in the morning… to celebrate the day I called you an idiot.”
“Technically,” Yokomizo corrected thoughtfully, squinting as though recalling a beloved poem, “you said — and I quote — ‘If incompetence were a person, it would look like you.’”
Mushitaro groaned and rolled onto his back, dragging a pillow over his face like a man burying himself alive.
“…And you remember that fondly.”
“It was the day I realised you were interesting,” Yokomizo said brightly.
“You are unbelievable.”
“You’re adorable when you’re cranky.”
There was laughter beneath the words — soft, warm laughter that slipped through Mushitaro’s defenses like sunlight through thin curtains. The bed dipped gently as Yokomizo perched beside him, careful not to jostle the cake too much.
The scent of strawberries and overly sweet frosting filled the air, mingling with the faint bitterness of coffee clinging to Yokomizo’s sweater. He must have been awake for hours, Mushitaro realised — planning this absurd little ambush with the kind of earnest dedication only he possessed.
Mushitaro slowly dragged the pillow off his face and stared at the cake again.
“You really went outside,” he murmured, “in the middle of the night… for this.”
“I love you,” Yokomizo said simply.
No hesitation. No dramatics. Just quiet certainty.
The irritation Mushitaro had been clinging to loosened, unraveling thread by thread.
“And,” Yokomizo added softly, smile turning gentle, “you only insulted me because you were nervous when we first met. I knew it then. I still know it now.”
The candlelight reflected in his eyes, warm and steady — not teasing now, just fond.
Mushitaro wanted to scoff. He wanted to roll his eyes and lecture him about the absurdity of celebrating insults like national holidays.
But Yokomizo looked so impossibly happy, holding that lopsided cake like it was the most important thing in the world.
“I hate you,” Mushitaro muttered weakly.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
Yokomizo leaned closer, nudging his nose against Mushitaro’s with a featherlight bump. “Then why are you trying not to smile?”
Mushitaro’s lips twitched traitorously.
“…Because it’s four in the morning.”
“Romance doesn’t sleep.”
“Neither will I, apparently.”
“Oh!” Yokomizo brightened. “I made coffee too.”
Mushitaro groaned with genuine despair and pushed himself upright, hair rumpled and eyes heavy with sleep. His nightshirt slipped loosely off one shoulder as he blinked at his husband — at the ridiculous candlelight, the proud smile, the sheer ridiculous sincerity of it all.
“You,” he said slowly, voice softening despite himself, “are the strangest man alive.”
“And yet you married me.”
“I was blackmailed.”
“You proposed.”
“…Semantics.”
Yokomizo laughed — a bright, unrestrained sound that filled the room with warmth. He handed Mushitaro a fork that had seemingly appeared from nowhere and carefully set the cake between them.
The candle flame flickered gently as Mushitaro stared at it.
“You’re actually serious,” he murmured.
“Completely.”
“You expect me to make a wish?”
“Only if it’s about me.”
“Then absolutely not.”
But after a moment — after Yokomizo’s hopeful gaze lingered just a little too long — Mushitaro leaned forward and blew out the candle.
Darkness softened the room again, moonlight reclaiming its quiet glow.
Yokomizo beamed like he’d just witnessed a miracle.
“So,” he asked gently, slicing off a small piece of cake, “do you forgive me for waking you up?”
“No.”
“Not even if I say I love you again?”
“You already did.”
“I can repeat it.”
“You will.”
Yokomizo grinned. “I love you.”
Mushitaro chewed slowly, eyes half-lidded. “Mm.”
“Say it back?”
“Eat your cake.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a yes either.”
But when Yokomizo rested his head against Mushitaro’s shoulder, humming softly in contentment, Mushitaro didn’t pull away. He let the warmth settle between them, quiet and familiar.
After a long moment, he murmured softly, “You’re impossible.”
“You mean irresistible.”
“I mean insufferable.”
“Same thing.”
Outside, the sky began to pale faintly at the edges. Dawn crept closer in slow, gentle breaths. The cake dwindled between them, laughter fading into comfortable silence.
Under the covers, Mushitaro’s hand found Yokomizo’s.
Their fingers intertwined naturally, like they had always belonged that way.
“Next time,” Mushitaro whispered, voice soft with sleep and affection, “wake me up at a reasonable hour.”
“Define reasonable.”
“When the sun exists.”
“…So three-thirty is off-limits?”
“I’m divorcing you.”
“Not before our next anniversary.”
Mushitaro’s lips curved faintly. “Which one will that be?”
“The day you stopped pretending to hate me,” Yokomizo said quietly, thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. “It’ll be soon, I think.”
For once, Mushitaro didn’t argue.
He just leaned against him, letting the absurd little moment settle into something soft and safe — something warm enough to carry them gently into morning.