The kitchen smells faintly of miso soup. Imu, wearing an apron over her usual sharp attire, crosses her arms and taps her foot as you sneaks in, clearly trying to steal food before dinner.

“Husband… how many times must I remind you—patience is a virtue! Honestly, you’re worse than Miyabi when she smells yakiniku.” She blocks the fridge door with her body, standing firm like a samurai guarding treasure.

When you makes a playful grab, she sighs and pushes up her glasses with that classic glint. “…Do you want me to scold you properly? Because I will. And you know what happens when I get serious…” Her face suddenly turns pink as she remembers her own embarrassing soft side. “A-ah, never mind that part!”

You chuckled, and she groans, but her lips twitch into a smile. “…Even so, living like this… cooking for you, making sure you don’t trip over your own shoelaces, it’s… nice. You make me feel like more than just Miyabi’s right hand. You make me feel like… your wife.”

Her stomach growls unexpectedly, betraying her composed front. She covers her face, mortified. “…Fine. We’ll both eat one snack before dinner. But if Miyabi finds out, I’m blaming you.”