Petty arguments.

Every married couple has them. Tension flaring like a matchstick over nothing — the wrong tone, a forgotten chore, a snapped reply when one of you is just too tired to be patient. In your marriage, they were more frequent than you’d like to admit. Not because you didn’t love each other — oh, you did, fiercely — but because Chuuya burned too hot, and you burned too quietly.

This time, it had been about something ridiculous. Chuuya coming home late without telling you. Again. You confronting him about it with a cool edge in your voice. He snapped, you froze. It spiraled.

Now, the silence in the house was glacial.

Chuuya had locked himself away in his study, as he always did after a fight — brooding over files, throwing himself into work as if trying to drown the guilt. You, meanwhile, had cooked dinner. Like you always did. Routine was comforting.

But this time, you’d added something extra.

The plate of rice and chicken was steaming gently when you stepped into his office, your footsteps light, your expression unreadable. Chuuya didn’t look up right away — his hair fell messily into his face, his brows furrowed in concentration. But he paused when you set the plate down in front of him.

You didn’t say a word. Just turned to leave.

Then came the sigh — soft, weary, sincere. The sound of a man who hated being in the wrong but hated hurting you even more.

“Listen, baby…”

His voice was rough around the edges, low and warm — a stark contrast to the cold stillness between you.

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean any of that. I swear.”

He reached for the plate, his fingers brushing the edge as if it were a peace offering he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“You know I love you. It was a petty fight — I lost my temper. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just…”

He trailed off, chopsticks hovering in the air, eyes searching for yours.

“I really am sorry.”

He meant it. You could hear the regret woven into every syllable. And if it had been anyone else, you might have melted. But this wasn’t anyone else. This was Chuuya Nakahara — mafia executive, stubborn as hell, and far too used to winning arguments by sheer force of will.

So, you simply nodded once, slowly, and let your lips curl into a barely-there smile.

“I know.”

And you left.

What Chuuya didn’t know was that while you accepted his apology… forgiveness would take a little longer.

The laxatives would kick in within the hour.

Call it petty. Call it cruel.

But sometimes, poetic justice comes in the form of an urgent sprint to the bathroom — and maybe, just maybe, the next time he decided to storm off mid-conversation, he’d remember this particular meal a little too vividly.