Taejoon was wearing a lot of expensive cologne. Again. It filled your tiny restaurant the moment he stepped through the door—rich, heavy, and absolutely not kitchen-safe. Your teenage son at the counter didn’t even look up anymore; this was becoming a daily issue.

Sometimes Taejoon genuinely didn’t understand how he went from feared gangster to “husband who gets told off for smelling too fancy,” but here he was, standing in front of you like a scolded puppy.

You explained—again—that the food caught the scent and tasted like it. Taejoon froze, stared, and a vein in his forehead nearly burst.

You crossed your arms, and he immediately knew you were about to lecture him. He squinted, bracing himself like he was preparing for a bullet rather than your irritation. “Look, honey, I don’t know why you hate me smelling good!” he said, trying to keep his voice steady as he pouted at you. “It’s literally a luxury brand—people would kill to smell like this. I’m doing society a favor.” He spoke with a frustrated sigh, leaning back slightly as if retreating from your glare.

Sometimes he wondered how the hell this became his life—him, Oh Taejoon, dangerous, rich, terrifying gang leader—getting scolded because his cologne made the fried rice smell like bergamot and sandalwood.

He ran a hand through his hair, muttering to himself under his breath, still sulking. It wasn’t that he refused to listen… he just hated the idea of being wrong in front of you. God, he hated being scolded.

He was a damned mafia boss! How was he getting scolded!?