Chapter 5: The Wife’s Inability to Help (Part Two).

Back then, in the first six months with Hoshiya Kaoru, they were insatiable—sparks on dry tinder, tireless day and night.

Whenever the chance arose, they burned hot and wild, leaving the bedroom a battlefield: sheets twisted into knots, clothes strewn everywhere, the air thick with lingering passion.

They hadn’t bought the apartment yet, just a cheap rental with paper-thin walls.

Neighbors complained constantly about the noise.

Thinking back, Ayata Aina’s cheeks still burned.

But it wasn’t all her fault. Any woman tasting that soul-shattering bliss—like scaling paradise itself—would crave it like a drug.

One morning after that half-year, she caught her reflection: cheeks sunken, lips cracked from dehydration.

She turned to Hoshiya Kaoru, still sprawled in the wrecked sheets—flushed, eyes gleaming, not drained but blooming, radiating a ripe, heart-stopping allure, lazy yet lethal.

That’s when she realized: keep this up, and she’d die on his body.

With addict-level willpower, she reined in her desires. Their nights shifted from endless hunger to scheduled restraint, like any ordinary couple—fixed to certain days each week.

But work exhaustion crept in. Though Hoshiya Kaoru still ignited her easily, the endings grew awkward.

Before, she could last half an hour, dragging him into the same dizzy whirlpool.

Now, roles often reversed.

Just as his eyes glazed, breath quickened, body tensed—on the edge—she’d collapse first, sitting mortified on the bed’s edge, wiping sweat from her brow, chest heaving, filled with helplessness.

Thankfully, Hoshiya Kaoru never complained.

He’d gaze with those water-soft eyes, murmur understanding in a husky voice, insist he’d enjoyed it, that pleasing her, easing her, was his duty.

His kindness only deepened her guilt.

That physical shortfall pricked her pride like a hidden thorn…

To reclaim confidence and control in bed, unease once drove her.

One evening after work, she detoured to a corner pharmacy—harsh white lights stinging her eyes.

She lingered before shelves of contraceptives and supplements, face blazing, eyes darting.

Finally, like a thief, she snatched a small box promising “extended performance,” tossed it on the counter, avoiding the clerk’s gaze.

Even if it worked, the aftermath brought no joy—only deeper, wordless humiliation and wrongness.

It felt like cheating their pure connection with outside help.

She never touched it again. The half-box moldered in the drawer’s depths, evidence of failure she buried.

So, seeing Hoshiya Kaoru in that heartbreaking video—cheeks flushed crimson, eyes misty and lost, cries escaping uncontrollably in utter abandon…

That raw, unrestrained bloom—she hadn’t witnessed in so long she’d nearly forgotten how devastatingly beautiful he was in surrender.

Knowing their intimacy had faltered only heightened her anxiety. The video rang a brutal alarm.

[What am I thinking… I’m insane… Kaoru isn’t like that. Our love is real, tested by time…]

Ayata Aina shook her head violently, as if to fling out the malicious thoughts.

But she resolved to change. The urge hit so hard she couldn’t wait.

In the steamy bathroom, staring at her defiant reflection, she decided: start now, from the basics.

Deep breath. She began squats.

The first dozen were easy. By fifty, her breath rasped, thighs burning with acid.

She gritted her teeth, pushing on—each drop heavier, legs like lead.

Barely past a hundred, her knees buckled, trembling. She gripped the sink to stay upright.

“It’s fine… keep going, and I’ll get back to my peak.”

She whispered encouragement.

Emerging from the bathroom on aching legs, towel-drying her hair, the wall clock read past nine.

Without Hoshiya Kaoru, the house felt cavernous and cold, missing his comforting presence.

By ten, restless, she changed into outdoor clothes early.

She fixed her collar before the entryway mirror, took a steadying breath, and stepped into the night.

When Hoshiya Kaoru mentioned the izakaya job, she’d gone with him once, vetted it herself before approving.

She knew the place well—two blocks away, not far.

Ten minutes’ walk brought “Kawasaki Family” izakaya into view, lights glowing warmly.

Kawasaki’s was a decades-old staple, run by the sixty-something Madame Kawasaki, hair long gray.

She’d managed alone until recent years—age slowing her, business booming from word-of-mouth.

With more customers, the couple finally hired reliable help.