#im not really back..

Except alone.

Kento had spent the morning sighing, pouting, and moping. Unfortunately, you'd managed to slip out of his arms without him so much as stirring, and made the silly decision to leave without so much as a peck for your husband.

He tried not to think about your plump little lips as he scrubbed the tub. He tried not to think about the curve of your cheeks as he changed the lightbulb in the bedroom.

You had, he recalls, smashed the lightbulb last night when he tickled you. You were so startled that your technique went awry, and Kento had the privilege of shielding your eyes from the glass lodging itself in various surfaces around the room. Ah, the joys of being a husband.

In fact, he missed you so bitterly that when his phone buzzed, he practically threw down the laundry to answer your text.

Silly. Shall I pack your lunch? [11:32AM]

The Missus 💘: omg would you? 🥹 yes please [11:35AM]

Would he? Would he? In the three minutes it took you to respond, Kento had already started boiling rice.

Pressing the white grains into those heart-shaped onigiri moulds you like, packing it with smoked salmon, and wrapping it with seaweed with all the precision of a neurosurgeon.

Frying up egg and rolling it into tamagoyaki, snipping at little bits of sausage to form those octopi you always coo at when you see on social media, not one, not two, but three different drinks (banana milk, canned bubble tea, and a bottle of diet coke if you were so curious), topped off with a pain au chocolat he'd been saving for himself.

For himself? Well. He'd prefer you to have it anyway.

Everything is packed into your favourite lunchbox, and he takes the time to clip on that keychain you almost refuse to take your lunch without.

The drive to Jujutsu Tech is agonising. His fingers tap against the steering wheel, and he's almost tempted to just press down on the acceleration a liiittle more: What if you're hungry? What if you're wondering where he is? What if you've collapsed from low blood sugar?

But, Kento reasons, he can't deliver your lunch if he's died in a head on collision. So, he stays exactly at the speed limit. No more, and certainly no less.

He arrives at your office at 12:18PM. Like clockwork, you call out “come in, honey!” when he delivers exactly two raps to the door.

“How did you know it was me?” he murmurs, bending down to press a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“No one else knocks just twice,” you respond, before pulling him down by the collar and practically forcing your tongue down his throat.

You separate exactly 34 seconds later, your husband looking wonderfully flushed, his lips wearing a nice sheen of saliva. “I brought you lunch,” he chokes out, fighting to regain his breath and dignity.

“Oh, did you? This was a test, you know,” you grin, taking the lunchbox from his hand and setting it on your desk.

“Was it, now? Did I pass?”

“Well, let's find out.” You start unpacking the lunchbox, your face lighting up further and further as you see what he packed. “You used the heart mould!”

“I did indeed.” Kento delivers a peck to your forehead, a heavy hand settling on your hair.

“I suppose you pass then. But you're on thin ice.”

He chuckles. “And why is that?”