Nagano was hopeless. That was the kindest word I could find.
He stood in front of my desk, shoulders hunched like he was already expecting the blow. Fingers stiff at his sides. Reports late again. Numbers mediocre. Confidence? Nonexistent.
"I'm sorry, sir," he mumbled for the third time.
I leaned back in my chair and sighed. "Nagano… do you know what you're lacking?"
He hesitated. "…Talent?"
"No."
He blinked.
"Responsibility."
The word hung between us like smoke.
He looked confused.
And that was when the idea hit me.
Responsibility couldn't be taught in a meeting room. It couldn't be drilled into him with performance reviews. It had to be felt.
And what greater responsibility was there than protecting a home?
That evening, I brought him over.
Meguri greeted us at the door with her usual composed smile. Cream sweater, long charcoal skirt — simple, elegant, the kind of quiet beauty that never needed to try. That was something I had always admired about her.
"Welcome," she said softly.
Nagano almost bowed himself into the floor. "Th-thank you for having me, ma'am."
She laughed politely. Warm. But distant.
I noticed it. I always noticed it lately.
Dinner was peaceful. Meguri played the perfect hostess — pouring drinks, asking gentle questions, smiling at exactly the right moments. From the outside, we must have looked like the ideal couple.
But something had been off these past few weeks.
She laughed less freely. She spoke more carefully. And when I told her "I love you," she answered with that same soft, measured smile instead of words.
I told myself it was enough. Love didn't need to be loud. It just needed to be understood.
As we cleared the dishes, Nagano helped awkwardly, nearly dropping a plate twice. I chuckled and dried my hands on the towel.
"You know," I said casually, "Nagano has no idea what it means to run a household."
Meguri glanced at me. "Oh?"
"He thinks life is just work and sleep. No structure. No real responsibility."
Nagano's face turned red. "Sir…"
So I said it. Lightly. Almost jokingly.
"I'm going out for three hours. Why don't you two try being a pseudo-married couple?"
Silence dropped like a blade.
Nagano froze mid-reach for a glass. Meguri blinked once, slowly.
I laughed. "Relax. I just mean conversation. See what it feels like to manage a home atmosphere. Partnership. Responsibility."
Nagano looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.
Meguri tilted her head slightly, studying me with those calm dark eyes.
"…Pseudo-married?" she repeated, voice soft.
"Just for practice," I said smoothly. "I think it would be good for him."
I turned to Nagano.
"You need to understand what you're working toward in life."
He swallowed hard.
Meguri studied me for a long second. Then that familiar soft smile returned.
"If that's what you think is best, dear."
Something about the way she said it lingered in the air.
But I dismissed it.
I grabbed my coat.
"I'll be back in three hours."
At the doorway I looked back one last time.
Meguri stood near the kitchen counter, hands resting lightly on the marble. Nagano hovered awkwardly in the middle of the living room, unsure where to put his hands, his eyes, his entire pathetic existence.
They looked like two polite strangers trapped in the same room.
Perfectly harmless.
Perfectly controlled.
I smiled.
"This will be good for you, Nagano."
The door clicked shut behind me.
For a brief moment my fingers stayed on the handle.
I felt… something. Not doubt. Just a faint, strange tightening in my chest.
I told myself it was nothing.
After all — I trusted my wife completely.
And three hours wasn't enough to change anything.
Right?
The door clicked shut.
The sound lingered longer than it should have, echoing down the empty hallway like a period at the end of a sentence neither of them had finished reading.
Meguri stood perfectly still, listening to the fading footsteps until silence swallowed them whole. Only then did she let out a slow, measured breath.
Three hours.
She turned back toward the living room.
Nagano hadn't moved an inch. He stood exactly where her husband had left him, shoulders tight, hands clasped in front of him like a schoolboy waiting for punishment.
"I-I'm really sorry about this," he stammered. "I didn't mean to intrude."
Meguri offered a small, polite smile. "You didn't. He invited you."
That was true.
He had invited him.
Just like he decided everything else.
Just like he always decided everything.
She moved toward the kitchen, heels soft on the wooden floor.
"Would you like another drink?"
Nagano hesitated, eyes darting. "Only if it's not any trouble."
"It's not."
It never was.
She poured slowly, watching the amber whiskey swirl against the crystal. Without her husband in the house, the space felt… different. Lighter. Quieter in a way she hadn't noticed in years.
She handed him the glass.
Their fingers brushed.
Nagano flinched as if burned.
She noticed.
They sat across from each other at the dining table that suddenly felt far too wide.
"Sir speaks very highly of you," she said, voice gentle and even.
Nagano looked startled. "He does?"
"He says you only lack responsibility."
Nagano gave a weak, self-deprecating laugh. "That sounds like him."
No bitterness. Just quiet acceptance.
Meguri studied him.
He wasn't impressive. Not tall, not confident, not magnetic like the men in dramas. But when he spoke to her, he looked directly at her — not through her, not past her, but at her.
It had been a long time since anyone had done that.
"Is he always that strict at home too?" Nagano asked carefully, almost apologetically.
Meguri paused, fingers tightening around her own glass.
"Strict?" She considered the word, rolling it around in her mind. "No. He's… reliable."
Reliable.
A provider.
A planner.
A man who believed love was proven through stability and order.
A man who never asked what she feared.
What she wanted.
What she missed.
She took a slow sip. The whiskey warmed her throat.
"He works very hard," she added.
Nagano nodded. "He talks about you all the time. Says you're perfect."
The word landed like a stone in still water.
Perfect.
Like something polished and placed on a shelf.
Meguri smiled, but this time it didn't reach her eyes.
The alcohol loosened something inside her chest.
Nagano shifted, shoulders finally relaxing a fraction. "I've… never been in a serious relationship," he admitted suddenly, voice barely above a whisper.
Meguri tilted her head. "Why not?"
"I always feel like I'm not enough."
The honesty surprised her. No bravado. No excuses. Just raw truth.
She took another sip.
"That feeling doesn't go away," she murmured.
Nagano blinked. "Even after marriage?"
Her gaze drifted toward the hallway that led to their bedroom.
"Especially after."
The words slipped out before she could catch them.
Silence settled between them — not awkward, but heavy, alive.
She hadn't meant to say it.
But it had been living in her chest for years.
Her husband loved her. She knew that.
He loved her in plans, in schedules, in quiet reliability.
He never asked if she was happy.
He simply assumed she was.
Nagano looked at her again — directly, openly, almost shyly.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make things uncomfortable."
"You didn't."
She surprised herself by laughing softly, a real sound this time.
"You're easier to talk to than I expected."
His ears flushed crimson.
"I just… say whatever comes to mind."
"That must be nice."
The words came out almost wistful.
Another drink was poured.
Then another.
The house grew warmer.
Or maybe it was just the slow heat spreading through her veins.
Three hours.
That's what her husband had said.
Three hours to "play house."
She found herself wondering when her real marriage had started feeling like exactly that — an exercise.
A role.
A performance.
Nagano looked at her again.
Not through her.
At her.
And for the first time that evening, Meguri didn't look away.