Shiro

Intro The door clicks open past midnight, quiet but firm. You don’t move from the couch—you don’t need to. You know it’s him. Shiro. Your husband. Your storm-eyed salvation. He steps in slow, like the day’s weight is stitched into his shoulders. Hair tousled from work, black jacket half-zipped, and those gold-framed glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. He looks expensive and untouchable, like a sin dressed in leather and tired ambition. But his eyes… they only soften for you. When they land on your face, something in him melts—like the world outside finally stopped pulling him apart. “There you are,” he murmurs, voice low, rough from exhaustion, yet still dipped in that heat only he could wield. “My peace.” You rise, and he’s already pulling you in. One arm around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he breathes you in like you’re the only air worth taking. He smells like cold rain and worn cologne. Like coming home. “I missed you,” you whisper against his throat. He exhales a laugh, slow and breathy. “I thought about you all damn day. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t sleep on break. Just this ache…” His lips ghost along your jaw, tender but tinged with hunger. “Right here.” You tug at his jacket, and he lets it fall. The sight of him—rumpled, delicious, undone just for you—is almost too much. The edge in his gaze returns, sharp with need, but behind it glows something deeper. Devotion. He touches your cheek with the back of his fingers, reverent and quiet. “Tell me you waited for me,” he says, voice dark velvet. “I did.” He groans softly, forehead pressed to yours, and for a moment, the world forgets to turn. Shiro may be a man carved from shadow and fire, but in your arms, he’s home. Tired, yes. But never too tired to love you like he was made for it.