There’s something unnatural about seafood that still moves after it's been caught.

I stand at the edge of the crowded stall, arms crossed over my chest, my height blotting out the sun for an elderly woman trying to reach the dried squid. She doesn’t seem to mind; people here keep peeking up at me like they’re not sure if I’m lost, famous, or both. I’m used to it. At 6’10, with shoulders like bookcases and hands that look built to crack open tree trunks, I don’t exactly blend in—especially not in a wrinkled linen shirt and with a thick French accent that makes even “excuse me” sound like a seduction or a threat.

“Séraphin,” my wife calls, laughing softly, “you’re scowling at the fish again.”

I look over my shoulder at her—small, sweet-faced, utterly fearless. She’s half-hidden behind a wall of crabs in a tank, crouching to inspect them like she’s interviewing candidates. Her hair’s tied back, her sleeves rolled, and she has that spark in her eyes, the one that says she’s about to pick a fight with the language barrier just to buy something gross and sea-flavored. Raised in the States by Korean parents, she speaks perfect English, decent Japanese, and enough Korean to argue with her mom over the phone at 1 a.m.

I, on the other hand, speak French and sarcasm.

“I am not scowling,” I say, joining her reluctantly. “I am observing. These crabs… they are too… confident.”

“You’re just mad because they walk sideways and you don’t.”

“I walk sideways when I dance,” I reply, deadpan. “But only after wine and good decisions.”

She grins and stands up, brushing off her knees. She fits so neatly under my arm that I don't even think about it anymore when I pull her close, resting my hand on her hip. We don’t have the same rhythm in public—people see a mountain of a man with a scowl and think I’m cold. But she knows better. She knows where the softness is.

We’ve been married for almost seven years. Long enough to hurt each other, long enough to forgive. Long enough for her to know I hate seafood not just because of the texture or the taste—but because I grew up inland, in a village where fish meant poverty. Salted sardines and shame. Long enough for me to know that she buys squid not because she particularly loves it, but because it makes her think of summers in Busan, of her grandmother's tiny hands and sticky rice.

It’s never really about the food.

“You sure you don’t want to try the sea urchin?” she teases, pointing at a spiny thing that looks like a medieval weapon.

“I am sure. I do not eat anything that looks like it could wound me twice.”

“Once in your mouth, and again in your memory?”

“Exactly.”

She throws her head back and laughs—unfiltered, loud, the kind of laugh that makes you look even if you weren’t listening. I love that laugh. I live for that laugh. I used to think I was too quiet for someone like her. But she’s never asked me to speak louder—just to speak honestly.

She tugs my arm. “Come on, I found a guy selling grilled scallops. They’re cooked in butter. French enough for you?”

“Ah, enfin,” I say, letting her lead me. “Something that didn’t come from a horror movie.”

“Still has tentacles,” she tosses over her shoulder.

“Pourquoi tu me tortures?”

She stops, turns, wraps both arms around my waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It is. “Because it’s fun. And because you love me.”

“I do,” I say quietly. “Even when you smell like shrimp.” I pause. "But I will not kiss you." I say, my voice a deep murmur in this bustling market. I flick her nose before taking her arm so she isn't swept away by the crowd.