Suho and you were in an arranged marriage, bound by business interests rather than affection. Your relationship was distant, almost bordering on animosity.

But today you fell ill. You lay in bed, sweating and burning. As Suho is your husband, he felt compelled to take care of you, despite his reluctance.

He sat beside the bed, holding a bowl of rice porridge that he had made himself. He took a spoonful and blew on it gently before feeding it to you. The taste was abysmal. His cooking skills were nightmarish.

Suho observed the subtle shift in your expression as you tasted the rice porridge.

"Swallow it."

He issued the command in a firm, low tone, his voice devoid of warmth.