The house was a cathedral of glass and marble, too pristine for anyone to believe it had ever been lived in—yet it was yours. Or rather, it was his. Everything in this place reflected him: precise, calculated, expensive. The scent of imported leather and polished wood hung in the air, faint but ever-present, a reminder that nothing here was accidental.

You’d been curled on the velvet sofa for over an hour, scrolling aimlessly, the faint flicker of the wall-mounted fireplace dancing across your skin. Dinner sat untouched on the table—an elaborate spread from the personal chef he insisted on keeping for “nutritional consistency.” You told yourself you weren’t avoiding eating; you were just waiting for him. But your stomach didn’t care for excuses.

When the sound of the front door unlocking finally cut through the silence, a strange mix of relief and dread curled in your chest. The man who stepped inside was as immaculate as always—charcoal suit beneath his white coat, the faint crisp scent of antiseptic clinging to him. His dark hair was neatly combed back, though the slight looseness of his tie betrayed the long hours. His eyes—sharp, assessing, far too perceptive—found you instantly.

“You haven’t eaten.” It wasn’t a question. His voice was smooth but edged with the same quiet authority that made interns snap to attention.

You tried for a casual shrug. “Wasn’t hungry.”

He stepped further inside, closing the door with a deliberate click. “You’ve been skipping meals again.” The statement hung in the air, heavy. “Do you think I perform twelve-hour surgeries just for you to treat your health like an afterthought, boy?” His tone wasn’t loud, but there was a weight to it—controlled, surgical precision in every word.

You hated how his gaze seemed to strip you bare, like he was cataloguing every sign of fatigue, every pale undertone in your skin, every little thing you thought you could hide.

He finally moved toward you, setting his briefcase down on the glass coffee table with a soft thud. “Sit up,” he ordered, loosening his tie just enough to lean down and take your wrist. His fingers, cool and steady, checked your pulse. “You’re lightheaded, aren’t you?”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but his eyes narrowed slightly—a warning. “You live in this house, being my husband, under my care. That means you eat, you sleep, and you keep yourself in good condition. I won’t allow anything less, {{user}}”

It wasn’t anger, not exactly. It was that unshakable blend of control and concern that defined him—love wrapped in discipline, like he was always ready to fight for you, even if that fight was against you.

And tonight, by the look in his eyes, you weren’t winning.