"I told you already stop eating outside! Come home and eat here! Those food stalls out there, did you even see how they cook? Is it clean? What ingredients do they use? If you eat and drop dead, what are you gonna do?"
This guy is dramatic about literally everything especially food. If I were gonna die from eating, I should've died the day I scooped up that papaya salad with fermented fish sauce full of maggots. Rich boy, please. The one who's dying early isn't me—it's you. Smoking, drinking… your lifespan's the one getting shortened. Serves you right.
"If you eat outside again, I swear I'll force-feed you till your stomach explodes."
I have no idea what kind of food-related trauma the wife has. He loves cooking, loves feeding me, and I MUST eat as much as he wants, or he gets pissed like actually pissed, the kind that doesn't listen to reason. After almost a year of living together, I know the rules: don't mess with his food. Ever.
"I can always eat the food you make, darling. Today I just had to entertain one of your dad's clients at a restaurant. Had to eat for politeness. No one cooks better than you anyway… Have you eaten yet?"
Praise first he loves it. Or maybe he hates it, who knows? His face is always deadpan. But as long as he's not throwing utensils at me, it means he's pleased. Especially when I tell him his cooking is the best.
"Who the hell would starve waiting for you?"
Husband eats real food. Wife drinks beer. He's sitting right next to me chugging alcohol and watching a horror movie, even though this giant condo has a million spots to sit but no, he has to come sit pressed right up against me.
"Your dad had me entertain clients again today."
My wife cooks incredibly well. I don't know if anyone else would love his food, but I do. Everything he makes tastes like it was made just for me seasoned exactly the way I like it. Not too strong, not too bland, perfectly balanced. He cooks so well you could straight-up call him a chef.
"Was she pretty?"
He's watching a horror movie, chugging beer, yet still finds time to interrogate me. What exactly does he want from society?
"Well… yeah, she was pretty. Great body too."
I'm naïve, okay? How am I supposed to know he's baiting me? I'm the kind of idiot who says whatever pops into my head, and this wife of mine loves to trap me with questions whenever we're eating.
"What the hell did you just say?"
He snaps his head toward me so fast it's scarier than anything in the horror movie. Those dagger eyes could kill a man.
"N-No, I mean her face was average at best. Body so-so. Nothing compared to my wife~"
And now I'm the one who has to lie through my teeth just to calm him down. Why even ask in the first place?
"Why did my dad assign a woman client to you anyway? I should have a word with him."
He was complaining about his dad, and honestly, I wanted to complain about his dad too, but I'm at the bottom of the food chain here. I better not get involved. Still, I really want to tell him to stop talking my father-in-law's system is weird: whatever command you give him, he always does the opposite.
"It's okay, babe, don't trouble yourself. I can handle it. I never look at anyone else but you, so relax."
I reached out and lovingly patted half of my husband's head—right after the tom yum soup splashed onto my hand.
"Bullshit."
Fia snapped his head toward me, cursed, then turned back to his horror movie.
"It's trueee… no one's as good as you. You're cute, you look good, your body's great, you're kind. Where else would I ever find a wife as perfect as you?"
I lowered my head and gulped the tom yum soup like I was worshipping him. A few minutes later, my beloved's food was gone. The fullness was stuck in my throat.
"Urrp—"
I burped loudly right into his face. He shoved my face away. Not my fault—he chose to sit next to me.
"If I catch you doing that again, I'll beat your guts out."
He threatened me but I'm used to it. Not that I'm not scared, but I'm not suicidal enough to provoke him.
"There's really no one else, babe. Want another beer? I'll get it for you."
Look at me such a virtuous husband. Good at pampering him, good at working, good in bed. He should really be worshipping me, that little brat. I grumbled internally while grabbing a can of beer and opening it for him. My heart is just too damn generous.
Pop.
"You want beer?" he asked like some thug with a divine face and the foulest mouth.
"No thanks, hubby. I'm a good person."
Let me slap him with that. What kind of health freak drinks alcohol and smokes?
"You calling me a bad person?!"
Fia grabbed my collar, yanking me close any closer and we'd be straddling each other. We're already sitting side by side; why the hell is he yelling?
"Noo, babe. You know I just don't like drinking it's bitter."
Honestly, we should swap roles. I swear.
"Go get sugar."
He said it with a dead-serious face, and I actually thought he needed it.
"What do you want it for? Why sugar?"
Why does he look so pure now?
"To mix it in your beer."
I knew it—this asshole is messing with me. Who the hell puts sugar in beer, you cursed creature?!
"It's okay, babe. You drink."
I dismissed him lightly, rubbing my stomach. I'd been talking to him from the first bite to the last. If he's that stressed, he could've left the house.
"You look awful."
My husband's mouth exists solely to ruin my life. With every breath, does he even love me?
"I've been working outside a lot… no time to take care of myself. If I'm not handsome anymore, will you still love me?"
I softened my voice, leaning my head on his broad shoulder, hoping he'd drop the teasing.
"You were never handsome to begin with."
You feral freaking Fia. You barbaric, beautiful menace.
"…Oh?"
"Ask yourself something why do you like me?"
If I had even a little more status or power, I'd love to kick this man in the face just once. I've been irritated for a long time.
"Who said I like you?"
There he goes again. If he falls asleep drunk tonight, I swear I'm rubbing my beautiful foot all over his face.
"What? Then why did we register our marriage? We even slept together."
"I was running away from my ex."
"Running away how? Why marry someone else?"
"All you need to know is that if I didn't get married, I wouldn't have escaped."
"That hurts… So I'm only useful as a shield to keep your ex away, huh?"
"At least you're useful. You nap at the office all the time—no wonder you never get promoted. Becoming the chairman's son-in-law worked out for you. We both win."
"Well… you sleep with me so often. Don't you love me even a little?"
I pretend to sulk for the millionth time, but I'm still a rookie liar—he catches me every damn time.
"You don't even love me!"
"How do you know? If I didn't love you, would I give myself to you like this?"
Honestly, at this point I could audition for a drama role.
"Bullshit."
He counters everything. And he calls himself the "wife." Apparently insulting the husband is therapy for him.
"You've had several cans already, darling. You're drinking too fast—you'll get drunk."
"Me? Drunk? I'm not you!"
"When you're drunk, you always attack me… I get tired, you know."
"You're the husband, so do your damn job. I'm the wife—I cook for you, clean the house. Isn't that enough? And you're still lazy about doing your part? Why were you even born, Wai? Do you want to get your ass kicked!?"
He grabs my collar and shakes me so hard my head is about to fall off.
I literally just ate!
"Baby, don't shake me… I'll puke. I just finished eating."
"You're really something, always saying shit that pisses me off."
"Nothing I do ever pleases you, darling…"
Can I sulk? My wife is so not cute. I turn my face away from him.
"Go brush your teeth."
Look at him doesn't comfort me, and talks like I'm a three-year-old.
"Darling, I'm a grown man…"
"Go!"