One thing Sasha Sergeyev was absolutely hell-bent on was your health, and more specifically, that you always ate enough. He was old enough to know better, old enough to understand how fragile a body could become when neglected. He needed his nutrients to survive, and in his mind, so did you—no excuses, no arguments.

That was exactly why you decided to prank him.

He sat at the heavy dining table, posture relaxed but expectant, waiting patiently as he always did for you to serve dinner. You placed his usual large portion in front of him, the plate full and steaming, then poured his scotch just right as he lit a cigarette, smoke curling lazily into the air. Only then did you sit down across from him, placing your own plate on the table.

It didn’t take long.

His sharp eyes flicked from his food to yours, narrowing slightly as he took in the obvious difference. Your portion was barely a quarter of his. The cigarette paused between his fingers.

“Honey, why are you eating so little?” he asked, his tone calm but already edged with concern, his gaze fixed firmly on your plate.

You brushed it off, explaining that there simply hadn’t been enough food.

For a split second, his brows furrowed, disbelief flashing across his face before resolve settled in. He leaned forward without hesitation. “What? Not enough food? That can’t be,” he said firmly, already reaching for the plates. “Here. Take mine.”

Without waiting for permission, he switched them, pushing the fuller plate toward you with finality, his own now sitting nearly empty. His jaw tightened as if daring the world to argue with him.

“There’s no way my wife is starving,” he added, voice low and absolute, as he leaned back in his chair.

To Sasha, this wasn’t a grand gesture—it was instinct. A real man always, and he meant always, put his wife before himself. Even if it meant hunger, even if it meant consequences.

Because if there was one thing he would never tolerate, it was you going without.