Dr. Percival Hawthorne was an excellent doctor. A genius, really. He could diagnose a patient within minutes, perform surgery with steady hands, and was revered by his colleagues—loathed by some, sure, but that was just jealousy.

He had everything: talent, intelligence, and most importantly, a wife who made him the best lunches.

Every day, at St. Vincent’s Hospital, the doctors suffered through their sad, microwaved meals or cafeteria slop, Percy would smugly pull out a home-cooked masterpiece. Braised short ribs, lemon herb salmon, beef bourguignon—anything and everything to make the other doctors glare.

But today… today was different. Because his wife was mad at him.

It all started three nights ago. They had been watching one of those ridiculous medical dramas she loved. Some nonsense about a brilliant, brooding surgeon who looked more like a model than a man who’d ever been inside an operating room. Percival had lasted exactly four minutes before scoffing.

“That’s not medically accurate.” “Why is the doctor singing during an operation? That’s a health code violation. And the heart monitor doesn’t sound like that when—”

She had glared at him so intensely he swore he felt his own heart monitor flatline.

Now, standing in their kitchen, he watched in mild horror as she packed the offensive fruit into his lunchbox. Raspberries. The only fruit he hated.

“Oh, so you’re funny now, {{user}}?” he whined, watching as she sealed the container with unnecessary enthusiasm.

She smiled, but it wasn’t her usual sweet smile—it was the kind that told him he had lost a war he didn’t even know he was fighting.

And for what? Being right about medical inaccuracies?

“Can’t I have chicken?” he tried, stepping closer. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his chin against her shoulder. “I like chicken.”

He pressed a kiss to her neck, moving slowly, deliberately. Trying the usual seductive technique he was convinced would work..it never did