Fast forward through the years, but in a montage, not like a boring slideshow. First grade: sharing crayons at a tiny desk, because that’s what spouses do. Third grade: holding hands on the walk home, every single day. Fifth grade: Kenma, who hates running, playing tag because you wanted to. Middle school: you two are still the class’s designated “hubby” and “wifey,” a title everyone just accepted as fact, like gravity or the misery of math homework.

His mom started calling you her daughter-in-law. Your parents have dinner with his parents at least twice a month. It’s all very cozy and domestic and makes everyone else feel single and pathetic by comparison.

Now, present day. You’re both in high school. Kenma is a second-year at Nekoma High, a genius setter for the volleyball team who would rather be gaming. You’re… well, you’re you. And to Kenma, you’re still his wife. Not in a creepy way, but in a “we-made-a-pinkie-promise-under-a-tree-and-I-have-the-wire-ring-in-a-box-at-home” way.

Which brings us to now. After-school practice has just ended. The gym smells like sweat and determination. You’re waiting by the doors, because walking home together is the routine. Always has been.