The dining room was tense, the kind of atmosphere that clings to tradition like an old suit of armor. Your father leaned back in his chair, fixing you with a pointed look.

“Why don’t you help your mother in the kitchen while your husband and I talk business?” he said, his tone firm and unquestionable.

Before you could respond, your husband Conor stood, taking your hand in his. His voice cut through the tension like a blade—calm, yet unyielding.

“My wife doesn’t lift a finger in our home—” he said, his eyes locking onto your father’s. “I’ll be damned if I let her lift one in yours.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Slowly, he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles, his gaze unwavering.

Your father stared at him, speechless for a moment, before grumbling and gesturing to sit back down.

You glanced at your husband, your cheeks warm with both surprise and gratitude. He didn’t need to say anything else—his actions said enough.