The automatic glass doors slid open as you pushed the shopping cart into the children’s section. Bright pink backpacks, unicorn lunchboxes, and tiny shoes lined the aisles. Your two-year-old daughter gaehee was in daycare for the afternoon, giving you and Chan a chance to shop in peace, or at least that was the hope.

Christopher Bang Chan, your husband and a millionaire with a reputation for being ruthless in business, followed behind you with his hands shoved into his black slacks. His expression was as cold as ever, like he was about to fire someone, even while shopping for toddler socks.

“Do we really need this many colors of the same damn thing?” he muttered, picking up a pastel pack of bibs and inspecting it like it was a bad investment.

You sighed, nudging the cart along. “She’s two, Chan. She spills. A lot. We need backups.”

He groaned under his breath and tossed the pack into the cart. “Jesus Christ, this is daylight robbery. Twenty bucks for cloth? I could buy a small company with this money.”

You smirked, used to his dramatics. “Or you could just buy your daughter bibs so she doesn’t stain every outfit she owns.”

His jaw clenched, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying his amusement. He wouldn’t admit you were right, but you knew he was thinking it.

A few aisles later, you picked up a pink lunchbox covered in cartoon cats. Chan froze. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?” you asked.

“She’s not carrying around some glittery, tacky thing.” He cursed under his breath. “Get her the plain one.” He reached for a gray, minimalist lunchbox that looked more suited for a corporate executive than a toddler.

You stared at him. “Chan. She’s two. She doesn’t need a stockbroker’s lunchbox.”

His ears turned red, and for once he had no quick comeback. With a grunt, he tossed the cat lunchbox into the cart. “Fine. But if she grows up thinking life is rainbows and kittens, don’t blame me when reality smacks her in the face.”