I used to think love had to be loud to be real.

Then I married Giyu Tomioka.

Our home is quiet—not empty, never empty—but calm. The kind of calm that settles into your bones. Giyu wakes before the sun every morning, moving like a shadow so he doesn’t wake the children. I always pretend to be asleep, just so I can feel the gentle press of his hand on my stomach before he leaves.

Four heartbeats.

One still growing.

He never says much before missions. He just looks at me, really looks, as if memorizing my face. Then he kneels to our children—three of them already—and rests a steady hand on each of their heads.

“Listen to your mother,” he says.

They do. Mostly.

He isn’t a loud father. He doesn’t raise his voice. But when he enters a room, everything settles. The children feel safe in a way they don’t know how to explain. I see it in the way they follow him, the way they cling to his haori, the way they wait for his approval even when he only nods.

At night, when the house is finally still, he sits beside me, one hand on my stomach, the other loosely holding mine. Sometimes he doesn’t speak at all. Sometimes he tells me small things—how the wind sounded in the mountains, how the water felt colder than usual.

That’s how Giyu loves. Quietly. Completely.

Until the night everything almost ended.

⸻

I told him I was tired.

More tired than usual.

He frowned slightly—so slight anyone else would miss it—but brought me water, adjusted the blankets, stayed closer than normal. I could feel his eyes on me even when they were closed.

When the pain hit, it was sudden. Sharp. Wrong.

I remember falling.

I remember saying his name.

Then there was blood.

Too much.

Giyu was on his knees instantly, hands shaking as he pressed them to me. I had seen him face demons without flinching, seen him stare death in the eyes—but never like this.

Never terrified.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, voice breaking.

“Please... don’t leave them. Don’t leave me.”

He carried me himself. Refused to put me down. His haori was soaked through, and he didn’t even notice. When the doctors hesitated, he spoke with a sharpness that made the room go silent.

“Do whatever it takes.”

The children were crying somewhere behind him. I heard my name on their lips. Giyu didn’t turn around. He couldn’t.

I slipped into darkness with his voice in my ears.

⸻

When I didn’t wake up right away, he stayed.

Hours passed. Maybe more.

He sat beside my bed, holding my hand like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the world. And then—when he thought I couldn’t hear—he spoke more than he ever had in our entire marriage.

“I should have said it more,” he murmured.

“I thought you knew.”

A tear fell onto my knuckles.

“If you wake up... I’ll say it every day. I swear.”

⸻

When I finally opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was him.

He didn’t move at first. Just stared, as if afraid this was another cruel trick. Then his grip tightened, his shoulders shook, and he pressed his forehead to my hand.

“You scared me,” he whispered.

Not angry.

Not harsh.

Broken.

⸻

After that, Giyu changed.

Not in the way people expect. He didn’t become loud or overbearing. He became closer.

He shortened missions. Came home earlier. Watched me like the world had already tried to steal me once and might try again. He said “I love you”—quietly, awkwardly, usually when he thought I was asleep.

He never went to bed without touching me.

Never left without looking back.

Sometimes I catch him awake at night, hand resting protectively on my stomach, eyes dark with fear.

When I ask him what’s wrong, he answers honestly.

“I learned what life looks like without you,” he says.

“I don’t want to see it again.”