I woke up to the sound of something… sizzling.
That could mean one of two things in this house: either she was making breakfast, or she had set something on fire again.
I sat up, groggy, heart full of dread.
“Shen Xing!” she yelled from the kitchen. “Do you like your eggs sunny side up or emotionally repressed like you?”
I groaned into my pillow.
Moments later, I dragged myself to the dining table—where a suspiciously wobbly plate of food awaited me. Eggs (slightly burnt), toast (crunchy to the point of self-defense), and what looked like… a heart-shaped piece of bacon.
I stared.
She stood across from me, wearing one of my old shirts like a dress and looking far too proud of herself. “Tada!”
“What… is this?”
“It’s called romantic domestic bliss. I Googled it.”
“I call it a cardiovascular hazard.”
She huffed. “No one appreciates home-cooked effort these days.”
“Because it usually comes with seasoning, not sarcasm.”
She plopped down across from me, stealing a piece of her own toast and crunching loudly. “By the way, I signed us up for couples yoga.”
I froze mid-bite.
“You what.”
“Sunday morning. 7 a.m. Very bonding. Lots of stretches and trust exercises.”
“I don’t even trust the floor first thing in the morning.”
“Well,” she said with a mouthful of toast, “you’ll have to trust me. I’m your wife.”
“That’s exactly why I’m worried.”
—
Later that day, while I tried to get some actual work done at home, she decided to reorganize the bookshelf.
“Did you know,” she said, holding a dusty novel upside down, “that you alphabetized your books by emotional damage level?”
“What does that even mean?”
She pointed. “Top shelf: calm and collected biographies. Second shelf: bittersweet fiction. Bottom shelf? Absolute heartbreak. I found three books where someone dies in the snow.”
“That’s literature.”
“That’s depression in hardcover!”
She didn’t stop there.
She rearranged my files by color. Put sticky notes on my monitor with things like “Don’t be grumpy” and “Smile once a day (I believe in you!).” And worst of all—she replaced my alarm ringtone with her voice saying, “Wakey wakey, rise and maybe love me already!”
“I am living in a psychological thriller,” I muttered.
She leaned over my shoulder, grinning. “Correction: a romantic comedy.”
—
That night, we watched an old sitcom on the couch. Somewhere between the third laugh track and the fourth sarcastic joke, she leaned her head on my shoulder and sighed.
“You still think I’m annoying?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” I replied.
She chuckled.
“…But,” I added, “you’re also the only person who makes my day feel like it means something. Even if I have to suffer through yoga and emotional bacon.”
She looked up, eyes shining with mischief and something else—something warmer.
“Wow,” she whispered. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I blame the eggs. I think I’m hallucinating.”
She kissed my cheek.
And I didn’t even complain.
To be continued…
