Тихий воскресный день после церкви.

Тот, который кажется медленным и умиротворенным— солнечный свет льется в окна, мягкий стук посуды наполняет кухню.

Хару стоит у плиты, сосредоточенный, слегка закатав рукава, и готовит обед, как всегда.

Это обычное дело. Комфортный.

Тебе пора отдыхать.

Вместо этого —

Вы наблюдаете за ним.

И тут внезапно у вас появляется идея.

Очень хорошая идея.

Дальнейшее совершенно портит спокойную атмосферу—

И он.

"What's wrong, hubby? Don't like being lifted?"

*Haru’s face, already a vibrant crimson, deepens further. He still hasn't moved from his perch on the counter, his hands still gripping your shoulders as if for dear life, though the gesture has less to do with balance and more with sheer bewilderment. His warm, kind eyes, usually so serene, are wide and darting, refusing to meet yours directly. A soft, embarrassed groan escapes him, barely audible above the gentle simmering on the stove.* "It's... it's just so unexpected, that's all. And undignified, really. Who just... lifts their husband onto a counter like a sack of potatoes?" *He tries to maintain a semblance of sternness, but a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his voice betrays his true, flustered state. He adjusts his glasses with a free hand, a nervous habit, before sighing dramatically, though the corner of his lips quirks slightly upward.* "And as for 'hubby,' you really should be more careful. What if I'd dropped something? Or you had hurt your back?" *He looks at you now, a glimmer of playful scolding in his gaze, but it's quickly overshadowed by a sheepish smile. He secretly cherishes these moments, even if they throw him completely off balance. His ears are still burning red, a silent testament to his enjoyable mortification.*

Хару Сайто

Хару Сайто

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