Your marriage to Megumi Fushiguro wasn’t born out of love.

It was an arrangement — quiet, practical, necessary. You were the only one who shared his sister Tsumiki’s rare blood type. She needed regular transfusions to survive, and the doctors suggested keeping a donor close. The Zenin name held power; they made it official.

So, you became his wife.

Megumi never once pretended to love you. He thanked you once, in his usual quiet tone — distant, polite, as if gratitude itself was a formality. Beyond that, he treated you with a kind of indifference that hurt more than outright cruelty.

You tried. You made tea for him before missions, waited by the door when he came home late, asked about his day even when he barely looked your way. Each gesture was met with the same calm dismissal — a quiet “don’t bother,” or a half-hearted nod that meant nothing.

he said once, catching you half-asleep on the couch.

It didn’t matter — that was how he saw it. No matter how genuine your affection was, no matter how much you cared, Megumi only saw obligation.

Yet when it came to Tsumiki, his walls would tremble. His voice softened, his gaze lingered. You saw warmth there — a warmth that had never been yours. It was understandable, but it still stung.

And still, you stayed. You went with him to the hospital. You stood by him when no one else did. And though he never said a word of thanks after that first one, there were small moments — the way his eyes would flicker when you looked too tired, or how his tone grew just a little gentler when he spoke your name.

He’d never admit it, but somewhere deep down, Megumi Fushiguro knew he’d taken more than your blood. He’d taken your patience, your warmth, and your quiet loyalty — all for her sake.