Domesticity

The first rule of surviving the underworld: never play cards with someone who smiles too much. The second rule? Ignore the first if you’re the one doing the smiling, especially one that doesn’t dress properly.

Seriously, you just want to fit in with the Gen Z. Sneakers to meetings instead of dress shoes, or that you’d rather win a deal over a poker table than through bloodshed (Brain over brawn, as you dubbed). Or…rob them suckers in broad daylight by getting too fucking good at making even your enemies cackled at your 174th rendition of your Dad jokes. Either way, the underworld doesn’t quite know what to make of you — an heir of a gangster family who grin too much, joke too often, and somehow still had half the city under your thumb with what you promptly called “business senses”.

“Boss, you can’t keep calling blackmail ‘mad rep,’” your right-hand man groans as you both step out of the backroom of the casino. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of cheap perfume (home, sweet home).

You brush a bit of ash off your sleeve. “Why not? Sounds more professional. Classier. Like something I can put on my LinkedIn.”

He sighs. “…You threatened to release a video of the guy cheating on his wife.”

You grinned. “Exactly. That’s high-stakes negotiation. Will be my first line in my bio.”

The rest of your crew wait by the cars outside — black suits, too much gel, and enough bad jokes to make the cops quit their job out of secondhand embarrassment. One of your underlings nod, half-impressed, half-concerned as he follows you from behind. “You really are unorthodox, boss.”

“That’s one word for it,” you said, stretching. “I prefer…unpredictable.”

Because that is your thing. You don’t rule with terror or tradition. Leverage is how you roll — those that make rival bosses sweat in their suits the moment you mention the files. (Wait, you’re basically the loan shark. Huh. That sounds less impressive now saying that out loud.) The point is that you always had something on someone — the mayor, the port inspectors, the CEO of Lottemart, even that one police chief who thought he was untouchable. Your web of blackmail keeps everyone dancing on the palm of your hand. Every other gang in the city either hates you or owes you. Sometimes both.

One of your guys flicked his toothpick and said, “Boss, word on the street says the Enami clan aren’t happy about us taking the port deal.”

You tilt your head. “The Enami? The traditional ones? You mean the boomers who still bow before slicing someone?”

“They’re saying they’re gonna ‘teach us respect,’ if we keep going to be rowdy.” another added, air-quoting the phrase.

“Respect’s earned, not taught,” you mutter, lighting a cigarette. “Besides, I’ve got enough insurance on half the gangs in this city. They won’t risk a war.”

“Yeah, but boss, they’re not like the others,” he said. “Old-school type shyt. Tight discipline. No leaks. They don’t play dirty like we do.”

“Hey, don’t say we play dirty, dummy.” You exhaled a plume of smoke and smirked. “But they are really stinky boomers.”

Truth is, the Enami Clan is really something. Old money, old rules. They are the kind that still bowed before portraits of their ancestors and treated “honour” like currency. No gambling, no shady trades, no jokes (or none that you and the gang can really trace off, they totally have graveyard jokes). Just clean-cut precision, discipline, and ruthlessness.

And then the supposed daughter. Or mysterious, whatever works. You never see her before, only heard stories. How she once fought off a dozen armed men during an ambush and left the last one crawling back to deliver a message: “Try again, and I’ll aim for your throat next time.”

A little dramatic, sure. But she is Enami blood through and through. Living up to the clan name. According to words on the street, you heard.

And uh…you have crossed paths with her men plenty of times. You clashed, sometimes violently, but never fatally (yet). There was always this silent line neither side dared to cross. You don’t go directly after her, and neither is she.

It worked….well, until tonight.

You don’t arrive home until midnight, still humming from the adrenaline of the day’s deals, when you notice the unfamiliar cars lined up outside the estate. Black. Polished. Not something that you associate yourself with.

“Young master?” your butler calls from the hall. “Your father’s in the dining room. He’s… entertaining guests.”

“Guests?” you echo, loosening your tie. “Since when does he entertain anyone who doesn’t owe him money?”

The butler doesn’t answer — just look pale, which is never a good sign. So you just dismiss him for the night (for his own good). Kicking off your shoes, you loosen your tie, and halfway through debating if you had the energy to shower when you hear it. Voices. Calm. Polite. Out of place in a house that usually echoed with your boys cackling and the constant curse of “fuck” from your old man.

Your father sat at the head of the table, back straight, expression unreadable (very different from his usual laidback self). Across from him—a man in a crisp black yukata, posture perfect, aura colder than the grave. His hands fold neatly, movements deliberate, measured. And beside him sits a girl. Good guesses are, around your age.

You notice her eyes first — dark, steady, and completely unimpressed by your existence. Her hair frames her face in sharp, clean lines; her kimono is immaculate, not a wrinkle in sight. Everything about her screams discipline and control, right down to the way she barely blinked when you stepped in.

You clear your throat. “Wow. Didn’t know we were doing a period drama.”

Your father’s gaze flicks up. “You’re late.”

“You say that like it’s not my defining trait, Dad.”

He ignores you, gesturing to the empty chair across from the girl. “Sit.”

You hesitate, glancing between the strangers. “Jeez, you could at least tell me who I’m sitting with before I get scolded again.” Still, you obey, partly because you respect him, and partly because the last time you ignored that tone, you end up cleaning blood off the floor for three hours.

The older man spoke first — his voice deep, controlled, with a faint edge of authority that made your instincts straighten. “You must be his son.”

You flashed a grin. “Well, where are my manners? Good evening to you, sir. And you are…?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, potentially trying to measure what kind of trouble you were in. You give him a playful bow in return, because really, who didn’t love a little mischief in the house?

Then your father leaned back, steepling his fingers. “You’re both aware of the… tension between our groups.”

You tilted your head. “You mean the nerf war?”

The older man’s eyes narrowed. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

Your father sighs. “As much as I enjoyed the passionate young blood, it’s gone too far. And we think there is only one way to stop it.”

You laugh under your breath. “Please don’t say marriage. Every time someone says that in a movie, it always go shit at the end.”

Neither side breaks even a chuckle.

You blinked. “…Wait.”

“You’re going to marry her.” “I’m sorry, what the fuck?”

He continued like he didn’t just throw a grenade into the room. “The groups need peace. Everyone needs peace. And there’s no better symbol of unity than between you, our children. You’ll court her properly. Publicly.”

You turn to the girl, who was still staring at you with the same flat and surgical calm. “No offense, but are we both hearing this shit correctly?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Unfortunately.”

“Well, that’s comforting.” You lean back in your chair, smirking despite the chaos in your head. “Guess this makes us… allies?”

“You talk too much.” “And you glare too much, I guess that’s equilibrium.”

Your father pinches the bridge of his nose. “Enough. You’ll be seeing more of each other from now on. Learn to get along.”

You raise a brow, turning to the girl again. “Well, I’m gonna need your name before I start practicing my couple introductions.”

She finally spoke, voice calm and quiet, but sharp enough to leave a mark. “Asa. Enami Asa.”

You blinked once. Twice. So this is her. Ah…

The air between you two suddenly gets heavy, even the sound of a chair creaking feels like a gun cocking. Asa sat perfectly still, posture sharp, her eyes trained on the steaming cup of tea in front of her. You aren’t sure if she was trying to calm herself or calculate how fast she could stab you with the spoon.

Anyway, your hand is already reaching for the gun holstered under your jacket. “Ah….just saying, your men started this.”

She shoots you a glare that could have sliced steel. As expected, her hand is already on her katana. “Mine don’t act without orders.”

“Yeah? Then maybe you should check your communication, missy.”

“You’re not funny.” “Funny’s how I cope with being blamed for your fucking mess.”

And that was it. That was the spark. Both of you squared up, tension sharp enough to make the air crackle. You could see her hand twitch near the hilt of her blade. Yours flexed around the grip of your gun. The distance between you shrinks, hard to tell whether you were about to kill each other or kiss just to end the argument. (If you two kiss, then that will be too short of a read.)

Then, from outside, a gunshot rang out. The noise snapped both your heads toward the door. Shouts followed — names, threats, the distinct crack of glass and metal colliding. Yay, plot continues.

Immediately, you bolt for the courtyard, and Asa right behind you. “Goddamn it, these fuckwits.”

Outside, chaos has erupted (as both of you suspected). Men from your side and hers are at each other’s throats, fists flying, blades flashing, gun barrels gleaming under the neon haze. The shouts blended into a single roar. Anger, confusion, loyalty. All tangled together.

One of your men yells, “Boss! They’ve taken you hostage!”

“I’m right here! You dipshit!”

At the same time, Asa’s lieutenant shouts, “Miss Asa! Are you alright?”

“Do I look kidnapped to you?”

Neither side listens. The fight grows exponentially, the noise rising, and for a second you feel the weight of everything snapping simultaneously. So you did the first thing that came naturally — that being raising your gun and firing one clean shot into the air. The echo booms through the courtyard, cutting through the chaos like a whip. Every head turned.

And beside you, Asa drew her katana — the blade catching the light as it hisses out of its sheath. The sound alone makes both sides freeze.

“Oi, fuckwits! Put. The. Weapons. Down.”

Asa stepped forward beside you, her presence commanding in a way that even made your own men hesitate. “If anyone moves,” she said coldly, “I’ll consider it treason.”

The crowd freezes, leaving only the gushing sound of the wind past the cherry trees lining the courtyard.

You holster your gun, turning to your men with a strained smile. “Now that I’ve got your attention, let’s clear up a few things.” You clap your hands together. “Nobody’s kidnapped, nobody’s captured, and nobody’s dying tonight.”

Asa crosses her arms. “What he said.”

The shock that rippled through both sides is almost funny. You feel every pair of eyes flicking between the two of you, confused and tense (which is fair).

And then, because apparently your life wasn’t absurd enough, the words escape your mouth before you can stop it. “Also, a small announcement while I have everyone’s attention,” You glanced at Asa. “uh….We’re married.”

Asa gives you a sideways glance that could’ve killed a lesser man. “…Unfortunate as that may be,” she mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s true.”

Gasps spread through both sides like a wave.

“The hell you mean wife?!” one of your men blurts out, looking scandalized.

“It’s true,” a calm, commanding voice confirmed from behind was your father, standing with Asa’s. The two old men exchange knowing looks, clearly proud of this ridiculous plan they hatched. “We approved their marriage.”

You sigh as you turn back to the sea of confused faces and add, “So yeah, you can all stop trying to kill my wife now.”

For a few seconds, silence hung thick… until your side erupts into a chorus of cheers.

Your side, a bunch of loud, rowdy degenerates who think subtlety was a myth, cheers. “Boss got married?!” “Damn, finally!” “She’s way outta your league!” “He’s buying rounds for us tonight dawg!!” “You can get laid? What?”

Meanwhile, Asa’s men bow slightly, muttering restrained congratulations like they were at a funeral. The contrast is so fucking absurd that you can’t stop a small laugh from slipping out.

“Something funny?”

“Just wondering if it’s too late to file for divorce,”

She turns away, sliding her katana back into its sheath with a soft click. “You wouldn’t survive the paperwork.”

“Maybe not,” you admitted, holstering your gun. “But I’d die trying.”

The crowd still roared in celebration — your men drinking, hers bowing, both sides unknowingly cementing an alliance that would make them unstoppable.

And all you can think, as you look at the woman now bound to you by name and circumstance, is that peace had never felt so damn annoying.

It starts the morning after that deal of a lifetime. Eh… rephrase it, the curse of a lifetime.

The Enami heiress has finally moved in.

You are fresh out of your sleep and barely dragging yourself out of bed when your courtyard are crowded with the same set of black cars, their engines humming low like a threat. Men in suits flow out of them like shadows, carrying polished cases and folded kimonos wrapped in white cloth. Every motion is crisp. No wasted movement. No talking. Not even a cough.

Your own men, bless their dumbass hearts, gather near the gate — some gawking, some whispering, one or two are half-convinced you were about to be assassinated in your pajamas (rude).

“Boss, they’re really here.”

You squint, coffee mug in hand. “Dude, you don’t say. What gave it away, the line of samurais or the death stares?”

He blinked. “The cars.”

“Ah, my big brain lads,” you sighed, scratching your neck. “Truly the backbone of this established organisation.”

You stand there barefoot, coffee mug in hand, watching the whole circus unfold like a reality show you definitely didn’t audition for. If Architectural Digest came over to film your ‘new shared home,’ you’d probably look more at ease.

And then she steps out.

Perfect posture, face calm, eyes unreadable. Not a single hair dares to move without permission. She gives your house one quiet glance, like she was measuring whether it deserved to still exist, then simply walked past you without a word.

That’s how your, um, “married life” began.

Days bleed into each other like bad coffee stains. The house, once loud and messy, now feels like someone had pressed mute.

You remember when it used to be alive — your men yelling over fried rice at 2 A.M., arguing about whether to use bleach or detergent, laughing too hard over nothing. Now they whisper like the air will chill them out. Every time she enters a room, they will be straightened up, bow, and suddenly remember how manners worked.

At dinner, she sits on one side of the long table, posture straight, barely touching her food. You sit at the other, leaning back, cracking jokes to your crew, pretending the icy atmosphere didn’t bother you.

“So,” you attempt one night, halfway through a meal, “are you allergic to talking, or is it just a family thing?”

Her chopsticks don’t pause. “It’s a you thing.”

“You’re starting to sound like my dad sometimes.” “I’ll take that as an insult. Now leave me alone.”

The guys sitting nearby tried not to choke on their rice.

You don’t mind her sharpness. If anything, you find it kind of fascinating, you know? It’s rare to see someone looking so calm while clearly wanting to break your nose. But what you don’t show was the quiet irritation bubbling under your easy grin. Because back then, her people cross paths with yours on the streets — and it is not always pretty. She’d injured some of your men before. You’d seen the scars, the stitches. They were your family, your brothers.

You never bring it up, because it will be too petty at this point. You just smiled, joked, and told yourself you’d be the adult in the room. Fine, if she wants to live like a ghost, you’ll just live around her.

So that’s what you do.

You cook, clean, keep the place running as usual whenever you don’t have to go out and terrorise the world with another rendition of your Dad jokes. Make breakfast for your guys, scold them for eating too fast, then give them extra servings just in case they’re still hungry, make sure everyone has clean sheets. They joke that you were more of a mother than a boss. And to be honest, you’re close to a mother figure to them so you just let them say whatever.

Sometimes, her men come over, usually for bandages or food when things go south, and are definitely thrown off by seeing you in an apron while covered in flour. You treat them the same way you treated your own. They always looked startled, like kindness was some foreign language.

“Since we’re…family now, tell your little miss not to kill my guys next time,” you say to one of them once, half-smiling as you patched a cut on his arm.

He bowed awkwardly. “She… doesn’t mean to, sir.”

You snorted. “Yeah, and I don’t mean to overcook rice, but it still happens.”

It is easier that way. Easier to play nice than to sit in silence with someone who made your chest feel like a bomb waiting to go off.

Then comes that midnight.

Well, saying midnight at your house is kind of a stretch. It barely feels like night, really. The main room is dim, lit only by the amber glow of a desk lamp and the faint red ember of your half-burned cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee. The papers in front of you look the same as they did an hour ago — trade reports, ledgers, call logs — all the things you tried to cram in your head while waiting for the outside to calm down.

The rest of the house is dead quiet. Your men long gone asleep, scatter around the guest rooms and couches like lazy guard dogs. Even the city outside seems to hold its breath. You like this hour when it doesn’t go rowdy. Well, ignore the gun holster half-unbuckled on your hip (just in case).

That is, until you hear the faint creak of the front door.

You glance up, expecting one of your guys sneaking in from a late-night run. But the steps that followed are slow, deliberate. Heavy with exhaustion, yet steady. You knew immediately it wasn’t one of yours.

Then she appears. Your wife-on-paper. Asa.

Her usually clean kimono? ruined. Soaks through with red, the fabric clinging to her frame. Her katana dangled loosely in one hand, its tip leaving small drops of blood along the wooden floor (damn it, it took ages to mop it all up last time). A faint cut marks her cheek, and her eyes are distant, almost empty, even.

You rise from your spot, the floor creaking under your feet. “You’re back late,”

She doesn’t answer.

“Rough night?” you add, standing now with one hand still on your gun not out of fear, just habit. (Weird habit, don’t ask.)

She gives you a single glance. “Stay back.”

You ignored it, picked up a towel from the table instead and walked toward her, slow but sure. “You’re bleeding.”

Her grip on the sword tightened. “It’s not mine.”

“Doesn’t make it look any better,” you say softly, lifting the towel.

That is when you hear it.

A sharp whistle cut through the air. The flash of steel catches the lamplight as her katana shoots upward, a cold edge kissing your throat before your brain fully catches up.

You? Flinching? Not even once.

Your gun is already up, cocked and aimed square at her chest, your finger resting on the trigger. The two of you stood apart — breaths mingling, reflections trembling on the thin surface of her blade.

Her eyes never waver. Neither are yours.

“You have a bad habit of pointing that thing at people, Enami.” “And you have a bad habit of not listening,”

Her eyes, cold and violet in the low light, refuses to waver. You wonder, for a brief moment, if this was how it’d end: not a war, not a deal gone wrong, but a dumb fucking misunderstanding between a "married” couple too stubborn to look away. But then…

Grrrrrrhhh.

A low, unmistakable rumble echoed between you. It takes a second to realize it came from her. You blink. She froze, eyes flicking down as if maybe she could glare her stomach into silence.

And you? Well, you tried not to laugh. You really tried. But the twitching on your lips betrays you before your brain could stop it.

“Don’t.” “I didn’t say anything,”

“You’re thinking about it.” “Yeah, probably.”

She glares at you, cheeks faintly pink from embarrassment. The katana lowers an inch. Well, not much, but enough for you to slide your gun back into its holster with exaggerated care.

You gesture toward the kitchen with a tilt of your head. “Come on. Before you eat someone alive.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you interrupt, already walking ahead. “You never do, big child. Man, and here I thought I’m the immature one.”

You don’t have to look back to know she follows (surprisingly) — the soft scrape of her shoes against the floor was enough.

In the kitchen, you flip on the small overhead light. It buzzed weakly, casting long shadows across the tile. You set your gun on the counter, reaching for the wet towel again, and turned to her. “Sit.”

She stands there, still gripping her sword, as if the chair might explode if she touched it.

You sighed, stepping closer until you were standing right in front of her. “Fine. Stand, then. Friggin’ tough crowd.”

You press the towel lightly against her cheek. She gets stiff, but doesn’t stop you. The blood comes off in dark streaks, revealing the pale skin beneath. Your hand moves carefully, slow enough that she could push you away at any second. She doesn’t(phew). When you finally pull back, her face is clean again — and up close, you noticed how tired she really looked. Eyes rimmed with faint shadows, shoulders drawn tight from holding too much.

Her voice comes out quiet. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’d rather not wake up tomorrow to a starved princess in my kitchen and a blade to my chest.”

She huffs, almost a laugh, but not quite, and turns her face slightly away. “You talk too much.”

“Only when the person holding a sword to my neck earlier looks this dead.”

Her lips twitch. Just a bit, but you catch it — the tiniest hint of a smirk, like she wants to be annoyed but couldn’t help herself.

You turn around and head to the counter, cracking two eggs into a pan. The oil hissed instantly, the smell of fried yolk and soy sauce filling the air. You grab a bowl, scooped in leftover rice, tossed it all together. Quick, simple, warm — the kind of thing that grounds a person back to life.

When you finally set the bowl down on the counter, steam curling up between you, she hesitates. “You really made this now?”

You roll your eyes. “Nah, it just materialized outta thin air. Sit, princess.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line — but she sat, picked up the chopsticks, and took a bite. Her shoulders dropped just slightly. The kind of release that happens when warmth finally reaches someone who’s been cold for too long.

You leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “See? Not poisoned.”

“You really don’t know when to shut up.” “And yet, here you are, eating my food, bleeding on my floor. Still. Imma have to spend the whole day tomorrow mopping it.”

“Shut up. I’ll bring someone over to do it.” “You better.”

You watch her eat in silence, her movements small but methodical, like she was trying not to enjoy it. The blood on her blade has dried by now, but the air feels…lighter. Not peace, exactly — just… less uhh…bloody. But it’s more fascinating when you catch it — that small shift in her expression when she thought you weren’t looking. Her brows unfurrow, her lips curved slightly, and her foot tapped against the counter rhythmically.

When she catches you watching, she immediately straightens up, scowling. “What?”

“Nothing,” you turn away with a smirk. “Just realizing I should’ve made two bowls.”

“Too bad,” she mutters, snatching the last spoonful with an annoying kind of satisfaction.

And for the first time since she’d moved in, maybe since the marriage itself, the house is not as cold and shivering as back when she first moved in. Just… alive.

Things get strange as fuck a month later or two. One word: Domestic. Somehow it spreads outside of your household.

The room smells like expensive whiskey, cheap cologne, and a fuck ton of bad decisions. A long table separates you from another gang. The polished wood reflects the dim chandelier light so hard people will think this is a respectable meeting.

(It is fucking not.)

"Let’s not waste anymore time, my guy.” You spin a card between your fingers. “You can have the port route, but I get 90% of the cut and access whenever I want.”

The rival boss (understandably) frowns. “What the fuck? You’re basically robbing us!”

“Oh wow, you realise it so fast! Good work, champ.”

A few of your guys snickered behind you. One of them whispers, “Boss is in a good mood today.”

“Dude, boss, always in a good mood.”

The rival boss leaned forward, his fingers steepled. “You’re asking for too much.”

“And you’re hiding too much,” you shot back instantly.

Yep, that shuts his antics, alright. You just let him marinate the situation. Then, to put salt into his wound, you casually reached into your jacket and slid a thin envelope across the table. It stopped right in front of him.

“The fuck is this?” “Open it, my guy. A little bribe to you.”

He opens it, and it is definitely not a bribe (lol). His expression is satisfying to watch - a tightening of the jaw, the vein pop on his forehead. But he can’t do shit. And that energy channels to the rest of his “little” gang.

“Page 11’s my favourite, by the way. About your little…fun.”

He freezes as soon as he flips to that page. “Where…where did you…?”

“I have my source.”

“It’s fabricated.” “Sure, then I’ll leak it. You don’t mind right?”

Silence again. He stares at you, weighing other possible options that don’t exist. You lean forward slightly. “Ok, look, I’m not here to ruin your life. I’m here to make a deal. You get to keep your operation. I get my cut. Everyone goes home happy.”

A pause, before you add casually. “And please make up your mind quickly and wrap this up. My wife’s waiting.”

Well that is a shift, alright. So sudden that everyone blinked, even the terrified boss. “Your…wife? Are you married?”

“Yep. Terrifying woman. Sharp blade enthusiast. Not someone I’d make them keep waiting.”

One of your guys coughs to hide a laugh. Another just straight-up fails and snorts. "The boss has priorities now.” Someone else mutters.

“Shush, you lot.”

The rival boss stares at you like he tries to figure out if this was a bluff. It is. But it also kind of is not.

“You’re kidding.” “Nope. So can you just deal?”

“…Fine.”

You don’t even let him finish. You stand up immediately and clap your hands once. “Great talk. Love what you’ve done with the place.”

“Wait—shouldn’t we finalize—”

“You’ve got my guy for that,” you said, already grabbing your coat. “He loves paperwork. Don’t you?”

“Wait, boss, the fu—” “You do now.”

Your men try their best to contain their giggles as you walk out like you haven’t just strong-armed a deal in under 10 minutes. “The boss really said ‘my wife is waiting’ and ended the negotiation,” “Man’s gone soft.” “Boss, please go buy flowers for Lady Boss when you get home.”

You flip them off.

By the time you arrive home, the sky has sunk into the deep and quiet blue. You step through the gates, rolling your shoulders to let off all the stress, already tugging your tie loose. And it seems like the boys have it rough too — some groans, some sigh, and some groans a second time.

You slip off your shoes, and then a click. The front door slides open behind you.

Huh, Asa is here.

Standing in the doorway like she has been cut straight out of the night. Not drenched in blood this time, thank fucking god, but not exactly untouched either — slightly uneven sleeves, a faint crease where there shouldn’t be one, a few strands of hair escape and rest against her (puffy) cheeks.

“You’re early.” She says.

‘You’re early too.“

'Well…I live here.” “Funny. So do I.”

…The silence stretches just long enough to get awkward. And then…a very poorly hidden snicker comes from one of those fuckwits. You both turn at the same time, and of course, they are absolutely eavesdropping. One of them duck behind the couch like that would save him. It doesn’t.

“Can you all just go wash up?”

“Sorry boss,” one of them says, grinning shamelessly. “Watching our boss come home early for his wife is more entertaining.”

“You wanna keep that attitude, or you wanna keep your kneecaps, dude?”

“Boss, you love us too much to do that.”

Behind Asa, her men stayed behind like statues…until one of them cleared his throat.

“…Lady Asa also concluded her duties ahead of schedule,” “…She prioritised returning. With haste.”

Her head turns just slightly. “That’s enough.”

It’s subtle, but you somehow catch the red hue on her cheeks. She's…embarrassed? Your stone cold wife-on-paper?

“Damn, rush home for me?” “Don’t be absurd.”

“Mhm. What a coincidence, then.” “It is not a coincidence.”

You walk in together…well, try to. Ok, just imagine the scene straight out of a romcom - a very awkward one. You both step forward at the same time towards the hallway. Pause. Adjust. Then step again. Pause again. Cha cha real smooth.

“You go first, Asa.”

“No, you.” “Please, lady first.”

“I don’t need your courtesy.” “Well I wasn’t offering much.”

And the audience (your boys) is groaning. “Oh my god.” “This is painful.” “I’ve seen middle schoolers with more games.” “Why is our boss so embarrassing…”

“I can still hear you, you lot.” “We know.”

Beside you, Asa exhales, a mix of irritation and resignation that this is her household now. You glance at her, and she glances back. And…both of you away immediately.

“I’ll go prep dinner.” “…Fine.”

You take a few steps and….

“…make me more…"

You immediately turn back. "What now?”

“You heard me.” “Nuh uh, I have loose brains. Please say again, my dear … wife.” Never know one word can make you both cringe and embarrass at the same time.

“…Fine. Give me more.” Asa sighs. “Happy?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

And of course, the audience gossips. Firstly, from your side: “She said make enough.” “That’s basically a love confession.” Then, her side: “…This is… unexpectedly normal.” “Hope she will get a lot.”

“Why are both our sides so nosy…” “You tell me…husband.”

It will take a while before you two get used to this domesticity.