I lifted my gaze from the bowl and found him casually untying the apron. The moment he put it aside, my breath caught in my throat.
His body was… hot.
Broad shoulders, defined chest, sculpted abs that looked like they were chiseled by an artist with too much free time, and that dangerously sharp V-line disappearing into his waistband.
He looked like a walking sin, not a human being. Better than any model I had ever seen on a billboard. And then I noticed the red claw marks across his chest—long, very obvious scratch lines.
My face went up in flames. Did I do that last night?
Before I could even process the embarrassment, he casually pulled out a chair and started sitting down across from me—shirtless—like this was some romantic candlelit dinner after a warm bath and not an unlicensed home invasion.
Did this guy have no sense of shame?
I slammed my chopsticks down. "Are you going to sit like that?"
He blinked. "Like what?"
"Like you're naked!"
A low laugh rumbled from his chest. "Wife, I'm wearing pants. I'm not naked."
"Go wear a shirt," I snapped, refusing to look at him directly.
He tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. "Why? Are you getting seduced by my body?"
"I—NO!" I coughed out, looking away so hard I nearly twisted my neck. "Aren't you at least embarrassed sitting half-naked in front of a woman?"
"I'm not embarrassed about my hot body," he said without an ounce of shame, flexing his chest like he was auditioning for a fitness commercial. "Do you see these muscles? This is dedication. Besides, you liked touching them last night. You weren't complaining then."
I froze.
Words? Gone.
IQ? Missing in action.
"......"
He clicked his tongue dramatically. "Wife, we might have to fix your attitude. You can't ravage your husband, put your clothes back on, run away, and then pretend you don't know him. That's scumbag behavior."
I nearly flipped the table.
"JUST PUT ON A DAMN SHIRT!" I hissed through clenched teeth.
He sighed like I had asked him for divine sacrifice. "As the world's best husband, I will listen to my wife."
I stared at him, utterly speechless.
World's best what? I didn't even recognize him as a domestic mammal, let alone a husband.
Also, why did he look like he fully believed that if he stayed shirtless for two more seconds, I would jump across the table and devour him alive?
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
I had seen handsome men before.
But, not this handsome, my inner voice mocked, not this dangerously handsome.
I quickly shoved the thought out of my mind and stabbed another bite of food into my mouth. My eyes followed his finger as he stood up, went to the kitchen counter, and picked up his shirt. Giving me another accusing look, he finally put it on.
Seeing the beautiful scenery in front of me covered, I breathed a sigh of relief. I returned to my food. The dish melted on my tongue, warm and flavorful and annoyingly delicious.
This lunatic was really a great cook.
"Is it tasty?" he asked softly.
"Yes," I muttered, unable to deny it.
He smiled, looking absolutely pleased. We ate in silence for a while. When I finally set my chopsticks down, I rubbed my stomach unconsciously and sighed. "This is the best food I've ever tasted. Are you a chef?"
He paused for a beat, then shook his head. "No. I'm just a homeless, jobless person."
I blinked. "Excuse me? You're jobless?"
He nodded without shame, taking another bite of rice.
I stared at him for a moment. "Your cooking is amazing. If you just apply to a restaurant, you'll get hired immediately. Honestly, they might fight over you."
He shook his head almost instantly. "No."
"No?" My brows furrowed. "Why not?"
"I don't want to cook for other people," he said casually. "My cooking is only for my wife."
My heart skipped. It was just one beat, but that was enough to annoy me. I cleared my throat and looked at him helplessly. "Can you not drag this wife-and-marriage nonsense into every sentence?"
"But you are my wife," he replied without missing a beat.
I massaged my temples. There was absolutely no point arguing with a certified, full-time lunatic. So I changed the topic. "Fine. Then are you an orphan?"
He shook his head. "No. I have a grandfather."
"Then how exactly are you homeless?"
He looked completely unbothered. "Because he kicked me out."
I blinked. "Why?"
"Because I was unmarried."
"…Huh?"
A small smile tugged at his lips. "Grandpa said not to come home unless I brought him a granddaughter-in-law. Then I met you that night. So it's fate."
I stared at him like he had grown a second head. "You call that fate? That's not fate—that's a scam! I was drunk!"
He looked genuinely offended. "Wife, I didn't force you. You signed the marriage agreement willingly. Thumbprint and all. You can't accuse me afterward just because you forgot."
My jaw tightened. "I didn't—"
"And," he added quietly, suddenly sounding almost fragile, "I clearly told you I was a virgin. I said if you wanted to sleep with me, you'd have to take responsibility. You didn't refuse…"
His eyes lowered, his voice soft, wounded—like I had heartlessly abandoned a small puppy in the rain. "I trusted you," he murmured. "I thought you meant it. If you didn't want to take responsibility, then why did you...."
For a full three seconds, I forgot how to breathe.
Did I actually promise him that?
I forced my brain to think of what happened last night, but I couldn't remember a single thing. I only remembered the hotel… the dizziness… everything blurring…
After that, my mind was a blank. Did I really tell him that I would take responsibility? Did I actually do a stupid thing, such as getting married for the second time?
If this man was telling the truth, then my eyes widened for a horrifying moment, as I realized something:
Did I accidentally become the scumbag?!