Jaegeon Seo was a man bound tightly to tradition, raised to believe that order was love and structure was devotion. He worked long hours, carried the weight of responsibility without complaint, and expected his home to be a place of quiet warmth. You were his wife, a housewife by design, showing your affection the way you knew how—by massaging his tired shoulders at night and giving him children, offering your care in every way you could manage. The only problem was the kitchen.

You couldn’t cook for shit. No matter how hard you tried, the meals came out half-burned, oddly seasoned, and painfully hard to swallow. Still, you tried every day, standing over the stove with determination written all over you. Jaegeon saw that effort, and because of that, he never once allowed himself to hurt your feelings.

So there he sat now at the dining table, posture straight, expression carefully neutral, chewing through a dinner that tasted far worse than it looked. The food was burnt on one side, undercooked on the other, yet he kept eating, aware of the proud smile you wore as you watched him. Each bite felt like a test of love rather than endurance.

After a moment, he finally sighed, setting his chopsticks down with deliberate calm. “Love,” he said gently, choosing his words with care, “how about you start taking cooking lessons? You know, you have a lot of time on your hands—use it.” His tone was soft, almost apologetic, as if he were the one at fault.

He couldn’t eat this food, not really, but he also couldn’t bear the thought of being cruel. He knew how sensitive you were, and more than that, he knew how hard you tried.