Chapter 27 : Adult Life and Marriage

The city. Steel towers stabbing the sky, neon bleeding into every crack of the night, and office buildings packed tighter than the lies in a politician’s speech.

This is adulthood. Not the glamorous kind you see in TV dramas—no cool suits and big speeches that save the company. Just paperwork, emails, and me silently wondering if I should throw myself out the nearest window every time someone says “let’s circle back.”

Yeah. Welcome to my life.

---

It’s been three years since graduation. And now here I am: Reiji Kazama, twenty-one years old, proud (?) corporate drone.

They call it “entry-level.” Translation: you do everything no one else wants to do. Fetch coffee. Prepare endless spreadsheets. Pretend to care about presentations. The usual hell.

The first week, my manager told me, “Kazama-kun, you should smile more. You’ll seem more approachable.”

I tried. My attempt at “smiling” apparently looked like I was about to strangle someone, because now they just avoid me altogether. Honestly, better for everyone.

But even hell has its comedy.

---

Take last Tuesday. I’m hunched over my desk, eyes glazed, when I hear a familiar voice yell:

> “Punch-kun!”

Every head in the office turns. And there she is—Yume, now nine, barging into the company lobby with her schoolbag bouncing.

I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. My coworkers, of course, loved it.

> “Punch-kun? That’s adorable!”

“Kazama-san, you didn’t tell us you had a kid!”

I tried explaining. “She’s… not my kid.” But Yume clung to me, laughing, completely ignoring my suffering.

Then, just to make sure I died of humiliation:

> “Mama said to remind you: don’t forget the eggs after work!”

The whole office burst into laughter. My boss even clapped me on the back and said, “Good family man, Kazama. I respect that.”

I glared at Yume, but she just giggled and skipped out. She’s weaponized embarrassment, and I have no defense.

---

At least home wasn’t so bad.

That night, I walked into Asuka’s apartment (our apartment now, technically). She was standing in the kitchen in a loose sweater and shorts. Harmless outfit, right? Wrong. Absolutely lethal. I froze like an idiot while she stirred the miso soup.

She caught me staring. “What?”

“Nothing,” I muttered, ears burning. Smooth, Kazama. Real smooth.

Later, after dinner, we sat at the table discussing marriage logistics. Romantic, right?

> Asuka: “I think a small ceremony would be best. Close friends, family.”

Me: “Fine, but no karaoke.”

Asuka: “You’re scared they’ll make you sing.”

Me: “…That’s irrelevant.”

We bickered over rings too. She wanted simple, practical. I secretly wanted something expensive, because—yeah, sue me—I wanted her to have something flashy. But she shook her head.

> “Reiji, it’s not about money. I just want something that feels… us.”

That shut me up. She always did know how to strip the nonsense out of me.

---

Fast forward a week. I get home late, exhausted, and stumble into the living room. And there she is, folding laundry in a thin summer kimono.

My brain short-circuited.

> “You—uh—you look…”

“What? Like a normal person doing chores?”

Yes. Exactly that. Except not at all. I spun around, muttering something about needing water, while she raised an eyebrow knowingly. Yume, half-asleep on the couch, smirked. Kids shouldn’t smirk like that. It’s dangerous.

---

Sometimes, in the quiet moments—when Yume is doing homework at the table, when Asuka is sipping tea beside me—I think about the past.

How she carried me when I was nothing but anger and broken edges. How she taught me patience without ever preaching. How she showed me I could be more than fists and bitterness.

I hate admitting things, but if there’s one truth I can’t deny:

I can’t imagine life without them.

-

The ceremony was small, simple, and painfully embarrassing for someone like me.

Traditional Japanese-style shrine. White kimono for her, black montsuki for me. Guests seated quietly, the faint scent of incense in the air.

I could barely breathe when she walked in. She looked… perfect. Beautiful in a way that wasn’t flashy but so natural it hurt.

And then there was Yume, flower girl extraordinaire. She was supposed to scatter petals gracefully. Instead, she dumped half the basket in one spot, then tripped and dropped the rest in a clump. The guests laughed; Asuka covered her mouth, trying not to. I smiled—an actual smile, not the murder one.

When it came time for vows, I almost froze. Words aren’t my specialty. But looking at her, it came easier than I thought.

> “I don’t have fancy words. I don’t have promises that sound like poetry. All I have is this: I’ll stay. No matter how hard it gets, no matter how messy. I’ll stay.”

Her eyes shimmered, and she squeezed my hand.

> “Then I’ll stay too.”

Simple. Honest. Enough.

--

After the ceremony, as we walked out into the sun, Yume grabbed both our hands and swung between us, laughing.

I looked at the two of them—the woman who saved me, the kid who dragged me into family chaos—and for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was drifting.

Growing up sucks. Jobs suck. People suck. But this?

This was okay.

Better than okay.

And I didn’t hate it one bit—because I was with them.