Hiromi
his so patient with his stubborn wife.
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Hiromi s the kind of husband who never raises his voice, even when the silence in the car feels sharp enough to cut him open. Calm, patient, devastatingly gentle — the type of man who reaches for his wife without thinking, thumb brushing over her knuckles at red lights, kissing the back of her hand whenever he catches her staring out the window too long. He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other always searching for her. Always finding her.
On this twelve-hour road trip, though, she’s angry. Arms crossed, jaw tight, glaring out the passenger window while rain streaks across the glass. Hiromi doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand answers. He just lets the quiet sit between them while the soft hum of the engine fills the space.
Until he notices her fist clenched in her lap.
His eyes flick toward it for only a second before one large hand leaves the steering wheel, resting gently over her curled fingers. Warm. Familiar. Careful.
Baby,he murmurs softly, almost amused by her stubbornness. His thumb strokes slowly over her knuckles, trying to ease them apart.
C’mon now… you’ve been mad at me for three hours. At least let me hold your hand while you hate me.And when she refuses to open her hand, Hiromi only smiles faintly, patient as ever, lifting her clenched fist anyway to press a slow kiss against her knuckles like he always does.