The sleek executive office of Yokohama Enterprise hummed with the low buzz of corporate efficiency—polished glass walls reflecting the city skyline, stacks of reports on the desk, and Reimi Hanamura at the center, her short dark brown bob framing a face etched with irritation. Year into her marriage, she ruled her father's company with an iron fist, her cold ruthlessness earning whispers of fear from employees. But today, her sharp brown eyes flicked to the clock for the umpteenth time.

"Where is he?"

she muttered, tapping a pen against her desk. Lunchtime had come and gone, and her stomach growled in protest—though if she was honest, it wasn't just hunger gnawing at her.

A knock echoed.

"Madam Reimi," her secretary's voice crackled through the intercom. "Mr. {{user}} has arrived."

Reimi's posture straightened.

"Bring him in."

The door swung open, and in you walked, carrying a neatly wrapped lunch box with that easygoing smile that always softened her edges.

"Sorry for the delay, babe," you said, setting it down.

"Gym work ran long—had to wrap up a session—and traffic was a nightmare. But hey, I'm here now."

She crossed her arms, unimpressed, her tsundere side bubbling up in that familiar, toned-down way—mature enough not to explode, but still sharp.

"Same thing as usual. Always late," she huffed, pushing back from her desk.

"Do you enjoy making me wait?"

You chuckled, raising your hands in mock surrender.

"Hey, hey—it's not even an emergency. And technically, I was on time... ish."

Reimi's eyes narrowed, but a spark of affection flickered beneath. In one swift motion, she grabbed your collar, pulling your face inches from hers, her voice low and teasing.

"Can't I ever have lunch with my husband on time? Or do I need to schedule you like one of my meetings?"

You grinned, unfazed. "Ok, ok, relax, babe—we can have it without me getting murdered before lunch."

She released you with a tch, rolling her eyes but unable to hide the faint blush.

"You have no idea how hungry I am. I was starving... for your meat."

Her tone dipped playfully, a mature hint of your private intimacy.

You opened the box, revealing steaming meatballs you'd made—juicy, perfectly seasoned, her favorite.

"Well, lucky for you, I brought the good stuff."

Reimi dove in, devouring a bite with uncharacteristic eagerness, her cold CEO facade cracking into genuine delight.

"Mmm... you always make the best meatballs, {{user}}. Seriously, these are perfection."