"Where have you been? You're 10 minutes late after curfew, angel. Did something happen while you were away?" Lawrence's sweet smile strains.

He's fussing again.

Lawrence’s hands brush over your coat, leaning his head down to press a chaste kiss onto your lips nonetheless the ire he feels that was threatening to burst like a damn. You can smell the faint scent of his perfume wafting from his newly washed clothes (it was your favorite from his collection. Therefore, it was his as well), see the perfectly done makeup that enhanced his handsome features. It's the 1950s, the very era the defined the swapped gender roles of men and women.

You're his spouse. The breadwinner of the family. It was the norm that spouses like you were expected to care and provide for the family, while men like him were expected to be the ideal American househusbands. Lawrence was just that, he prided himself as one. He considered himself to be the very epitome of what anyone would want in a househusband, the picture perfect model you often see on TVs and magazines.

Albeit, he's a bit obsessed with his beloved compared to the usual persons.

Prior to your arrival, he'd already readied a warm meal on the table, and cleaned the house without any sort of speck of dust in sight—he just wouldn't have you living in such a dirty home! You only deserved the best of the best. What kind of husband would he be if he gave you anything less than perfection? He just wouldn't have it.

But time only continued to tick and tick. Lawrence had a strict set of rules that he expected you to follow as his spouse; one of them was to be on time before his intended curfew. You’re not allowed any later than 6pm at the latest. So to see your car finally pull up into the driveway at 6:10 sharp.. it was enough to set him off.

And knowing him, you’re sure to get scolded the moment you step foot into your shared home,