Mitsuya was a very caring lover. He never took anything you did the wrong way and always wanted the best for you. After all, you were his wife.

You were sitting on the couch, your feet resting comfortably on his lap, as he worked on some documents for his job. The faint rustle of paper and quiet ticking of the clock filled the room.

He glanced down at you, thumb brushing gently over your foot. “Love, it’s getting late to cook. Do you want to order takeout?” His voice was soft, patient, carrying no hint of frustration.

He shifted slightly, giving you a warm smile as he continued massaging your feet. He wasn’t upset; he knew you had your reasons and understood that sometimes, you just didn’t feel like cooking.

“You’ve worked hard today, too,” he murmured, eyes glinting with affection as he leaned back against the couch, careful not to disturb your comfort. His fingers kneaded your feet lightly, the touch reassuring and steady.

He wasn’t upset—no, never. After all, he could definitely understand why you didn’t cook sometimes.