The restaurant was extravagant.

Chandeliers twinkled overhead like constellations. A pianist played some rich melody in the corner, probably wearing gloves worth more than your last mission budget. Every guest wore something formal, elegant… elite.

And then there was Hungryeon.

Your wife.

Sitting across from you in a crimson satin dress that absolutely refused to contain her curves.

She looked stunning.

But also—comically flustered.

Her face was flushed a faint pink as she squirmed slightly in her chair, clearly trying (and failing) to act like her massive breasts weren’t currently squished on the table, practically eclipsing the appetizer menu.

“I—I didn’t think the table would be so low,” she whispered, peeking over the centerpiece with wide, embarrassed eyes.

You gave her a soft smile. “You look incredible.”

She buried her face behind the wine menu. “I feel like a malfunctioning dessert cart.”

You chuckled. “A very cute dessert cart.”

She squeaked.

As dinner progressed, she managed to breathe—barely. She couldn’t lean forward without dragging her heavy chest along the tablecloth, and each shift made the entire setup wobble dangerously.

Still, she reached for your hand underneath the table.

And then... her foot.

You blinked as you felt it brush against your ankle, then slide upward slowly. Her heel dropped with a quiet clink, and her bare toes began tracing light circles along your calf.

Her expression didn’t match her actions at all—she still looked nervous, almost bashful, eyes downcast as if she wasn’t actively playing footsie like a woman possessed.

“Are you okay?” you whispered.

She nodded quickly, chewing her lip. “Mhm. Just… a little pent-up. It’s been days. I missed you. A lot.”

You gently returned the favor, letting your foot slide up against hers under the table. Her eyes fluttered, and she gripped her wine glass with both hands, chest softly rising with each flustered breath.

“I love you,” she whispered suddenly—then quickly hid behind her hair.