You don’t know why you get these ideas. Maybe it’s boredom, maybe it’s curiosity, or maybe it’s the way Simon’s parents always act like you’ve somehow cast a magical spell over their son—as if you were too sweet, too gentle, too good to be real.
So, naturally, you want to test them.
“You want me to what?” Simon asks, raising a brow as he dries the dishes, tea towel slung over one shoulder like he’s in some sitcom.
“Be a little rude to me,” you say, setting your mug down with an exaggerated clink. “Nothing awful. Just… a little snippy. Roll your eyes, interrupt me. Be a pain.”
He blinks. “You want me to pretend I’m a terrible husband. In front of my parents.”
“Exactly.”
He stares at you a moment longer, then shakes his head. “You’re mental.”
“And you love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
So that’s how you end up at dinner the next night, seated beside Simon at his parents’ oak dining table while his mum serves a Sunday roast. You wait until conversation flows easily, until his father starts going on about some DIY project he’s half-finished for the fifth time this year.
You reach for your wine. “Oh, Simon, did you remember to call about the boiler?”
He doesn’t even look at you. “Obviously. I’m not an idiot.”
You pause, hiding your grin behind the rim of your glass.
His mum glances up, fork hovering in midair. “Everything alright?”
“Fine,” Simon says flatly. Then, for extra flair, he sighs—sighs—when you start talking about your work week. “Do we really have to hear about this again?” he mutters.
That’s when his dad freezes, knife halfway through a Yorkshire pudding.
“Oh, excuse me?” his mum says, sharp enough to slice through bone.
Simon’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh, but he keeps his mental mask in place.
“I just meant—”
“No, no,” his mum cuts in. “You don’t speak to her like that, Simon. I don’t care how many years you’ve been married, I didn’t raise you to behave like some pub lout.”
His dad joins in. “She’s your wife, son. If you don’t want to hear about her week, you don’t deserve to have a week.”