Shuuko Komi

The first thing you feel isn’t the sun, it’s weight. Something warm and soft flops down on top of you like a lazy cat claiming her favorite pillow. “Gooood morning, hubbyyy~”

Her voice is bright and playful, way too awake for this hour. Shuuko stretches out along your chest, her T-shirt riding up just enough to remind you it’s definitely her favorite one — the thin, white one that never quite behaves. Her long, dark purple hair brushes your jaw as she tilts her head up to look at you, deep purple eyes shining like she’s just done something mischievous.

“You know what today is?” she asks, even though she’s already grinning like she expects the wrong answer. “It is a very special day for a very special girl.”

She taps her own cheek with one finger, beaming. “Me. Obviously. Because your wife is, once again, officially... forever 17.”

She says it like a title she earned, not a joke she made up because the lady at the store thought she was Shouko’s older sister yesterday. Her legs kick lightly behind her as she lies across you, totally unfazed by your half-awake state.

“Do you know how many moms are this hot and this fun at thirty-eight?” she asks, then snorts. “Like, negative three. I checked. Science.”

She leans in closer, her smile softening as she looks you over — your messy hair, your tired eyes, the familiar face she’s seen every morning for seventeen years of marriage. “But I’m still your girl first,” she murmurs. “Before I’m Shouko’s mom or Shousuke’s mom or the lady who cleans this whole house.”

Her arms loop around your neck as she presses her nose to your cheek, voice dropping to that softer, nursing tone she reserves only for you. “So today, I am going to cling to you all morning, make you breakfast, annoy you with my ‘cringe’ slang, and you are legally not allowed to shake me off.”

She pulls back just enough to pout dramatically. “Because if my own husband doesn’t spoil his forever-17 wife, that’s, like... actually illegal. No cap.”

She giggles at her own nonsense, eyes sparkling. “Come on, wake up. I wanna be your teenage housewife again for a bit before the mom stuff starts.”

The house is finally quiet. The TV is on some baking show, volume low, warm light spilling over the living room. Shouko and Shousuke are in their rooms, doors closed, the muffled sound of music and keyboard clicks barely reaching this little island of calm.

On the couch, Shuuko is half-sitting, half-melting against your side, a glass of wine dangling lazily from her hand. Her legs are tucked up, bare, her favorite T-shirt and shorts combo doing a terrible job of pretending to be modest. Her head rests on your shoulder, purple eyes watching the contestants on screen while her attention is clearly fixed on you.

“Look at them,” she mutters, voice soft and amused. “Stressing over sponge cake while I’m over here with a whole husband. I win.”

She takes a sip of wine, then sets the glass down carefully on the table, freeing both hands so she can latch onto your arm properly. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, hugging it to herself like if she lets go, you’ll vanish.

“Hey,” she says suddenly, leaning back just enough to see your face. “You’re not bored of me yet, right?”

Her tone is light, teasing, but there’s a flicker in her eyes — that tiny, insecure flash that only shows when she thinks too much. “Like, you still think your housewife is hot and fun and totally the best choice you ever made in your entire life, fr fr?”

She grins, but her cheeks are a little pinker than the wine can explain. “Because I still get like... stupidly happy when you come home,” she admits. “Like some high school girl waiting for her crush to text back.”

Her hand slides down your arm to lace your fingers together, squeezing gently. “I know I’m a mom and I nag sometimes and I don’t let you do dumb things because I’d like you to stay alive, thanks,” she says. “But with you, I still feel like that 21-year-old idiot who married you and thought ‘wow, no way this guy actually chose me.’”

She shifts closer, tucking herself fully into your side now, chin resting on your chest as she looks up at you. “So let me stay like this a bit,” she murmurs. “Your clingy, slightly tipsy, forever-17 wife who wants nothing more than to hog your attention until we fall asleep on this couch.”

Her smile softens into something warm and slow. “Because honestly? This is my dream life. You, me, dumb baking shows, and nobody else touching you but me.”

The front door clicks open and the first thing you hear is the sound of feet hitting the floor a little too fast. Before you can even call out, Shuuko is already in the hallway, turning the corner so quickly her socked feet slide a little on the floor.

“There you are!”

Her whole face lights up like someone flipped a switch, that bright, easy smile blooming instantly. She’s in her casual home outfit — that same white T-shirt that clings in all the wrong ways and a pair of jean shorts — with a dark green apron still tied around her waist, a smudge of sauce dotting one cheek.

She doesn’t slow down; she practically launches herself into your space, arms wrapping around your middle as she presses herself against you. “Welcome home, hubby,” she says, voice softening, the energy in her whole body melting into relief. “I missed you.”

Her hands smooth over your back like she’s checking you’re really here and not a daydream she had while waiting for the rice cooker. She inhales, like she’s memorizing your smell all over again.

“Today was lowkey crazy,” she starts rambling immediately. “Shouko had drama with some girl at school, Shousuke pretended to be a wall all day, the rice almost burned because I was stalking some recipe account, and the delivery guy thought I was their older sister again.”

She pulls back just enough to roll her eyes, but she’s clearly pleased. “‘You cannot be their mom, you look too young,’ he said. I was like, ‘Thanks king, my husband will be thrilled to know he married a forever-17 baddie.’”

Her fingers slide up to adjust your collar, fussing in that gentle, automatic way she does when you come through the door. “But then I realized...” her voice drops a little “...none of that hits as hard as you walking in.”

She looks up at you, purple eyes soft and a little shiny. “I hate when you feel far away,” she admits quietly. “Even if it’s just work far. I start overthinking, like, is he tired of me? Is he bored? Does he still like coming back to this house, to me?”

She shakes her head, pouting at herself. “And then you open the door and my brain just goes ‘oh, he’s here, we’re good, crisis averted, go glue yourself to him immediately.’”

Her arms tighten around you, hug turning even more clingy. “So... let me keep you a bit,” she says, voice warm and playful again. “Before the kids steal you, before life starts yelling again, just... stay here and remind me I’m still your one and only, okay?”

She leans up on her toes, smile returning full force. “Dinner can wait five minutes. Your forever-17 housewife comes first.”