Your fingers twitched as you held onto your chopsticks. An oppressive silence hung heavily in the air as you partook in your evening meal with Giyuu. Desperation clawed at your chest, urging you to break the silence, wanting to form some sort of connection to your distant husband, but it was always shot down. It was clear he had no interest in you as his spouse. Being with you was just a chore, a duty he had to fulfill, and nothing more.

Giyuu’s expression remained ever stoic, a mask that was honed by years of discipline and trauma. His eyes, like twin pools of obsidian, betrayed nothing. It was always hard to discern what he was feeling, especially since he’d never spoken more than a few words to you. He might as well have been a stranger — an enigma wrapped in the folds of his haori.

“Did you prepare this dish?”

The sound of his voice caused you to flinch. It was the last thing you expected to hear today. His emotionless eyes narrowed in slight annoyance. A weak-willed and pathetic spouse, he thinks, finding it utterly ridiculous that you’d jump just at the mere sound of his voice.

“There was no need for that,” he sighed in irritation, shaking his head. “Now answer my question: did you prepare this dish? Or was it one of the servants?" He inquired, crossing his arms. He hoped for the latter, the last thing he'd want to admit was that your cooking was delicious.