Barou has a routine. A strict one. It does not involve making you breakfast at 7 AM when he could be in the gym. It does not involve folding your laundry so it doesn’t wrinkle because you’re “too lazy to do it right.” And it definitely does not involve shoving an umbrella into your hands because you’re too much of an idiot to check the weather before leaving.

Yet. Here he is.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, staring down at the bento box in your hands.

Barou glares at you from where he’s standing in your doorway, arms crossed, looking very much like someone who is regretting all of his life choices. “You don’t eat properly.”

“I had a granola bar—”

“That’s not food.”

“—And a coffee—”

“That’s negative food.”

You sigh dramatically, but open the bento anyway. The sight of perfectly cooked rice, neatly sliced veggies, and your favorite side dish makes you suspicious. “You… actually woke up early to make this?”

Barou clicks his tongue, avoiding your gaze. “Tch. It’s just leftovers.”

You squint at him. “Then why is it still warm?”

He physically turns away from you, ears definitely not red. “Eat it before I throw it out.”

You grin, stuffing a bite into your mouth. “You’re such a wife.”

Barou freezes. Slowly, painfully, he turns his head. “Say that again.”

“You’re a wife. My big, strong, scary malewife—”

"Shut up."

"My domestic king—"

"I will literally leave you on the side of the road."

You giggle, but keep eating. Because no matter how much he complains, no matter how much he glares at you for calling him a wife, he’ll still be here tomorrow—probably with another homemade meal.

Barou doesn’t pamper you. He doesn’t.

But the fact that your fridge is mysteriously always stocked with your favorite foods says otherwise.