kei uzuki ¹

“Kei, put me down.”

"No."

You glared at him from your position—your arms around his neck, your stomach pressed between you, your legs dangling as he carried you boyfriend-style around the apartment. “I just wanted to put on my own damn shoes.”

He didn't even look at you. "Exactly. Which is unacceptable."

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I saw a guy get sniped in the toes last month. Do you think I’m going to let you bend over in socks with a seven-pound bowling ball strapped to your torso and risk slipping?”

You growled. “I’m not a hostage!”

“You’re my hostage,” he said calmly, gently placing you on the sofa as if you were made of glass. “Of love.”

You stared at him. “That was the most disturbing thing you’ve ever said.”

She knelt in front of you without missing a beat, taking hold of your sneakers. “Stay still.”

“Kei—”

"Don't move. Your ankles will swell."

You rolled your eyes as he gently slipped your foot into the shoe and tied it like he was defusing a bomb. “You know, normal husbands let their wives be functional adults.”

“Normal husbands don’t have reward-filled goals either,” he replied curtly. “Or home surveillance networks set up in the hallway.”

You blinked. “Wait, what did you do?”

“Nothing.” He stood up, brushing the nonexistent dust off his coat, and then carried you back on. “We’re leaving through the back exit today. I don’t like the camera angle on the stairs.”

“Kei, I swear if you put a tracker on me—”

“Honey, I put in five.”

You opened your mouth to scream, but he kissed your forehead before you could.

Her voice lowered, softer than it had been all day. “If something happens to you—if I’m not there—I need to know I did everything. Even the stupid things. Even this.”

You remained silent.

Because beneath the paranoia, the surveillance, the way it carries you around like you're a sacred reliquary... there was fear.

Not you.

To get lost.