Before, after a night of entertaining clients, he would come home to me fixing his clothes and preparing a hangover soup for him.
Today, there was nothing.
He washed up and came to the table while I quietly ate breakfast.
Using his usual habitual tenderness, he wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Babe, what about my breakfast?”
I tilted my head slightly, avoiding his embrace.
“Forgot to make it.”
His smile stiffened, a flicker of unease in his eyes.
“Yesterday… what happened at the office—I didn’t mean it,” he said, his voice lowered, cautious and coaxing. “I couldn’t offend Zamora, that’s why I said those things. Babe, don’t overthink it. Don’t get jealous, okay?”
I looked up at him and simply replied, “Okay.”
He froze.
Clearly, he did not expect my calm.
I used to cry when I was sad and make a fuss when I was jealous.
But now, even showing one more expression felt like a waste.
He was silent for a moment, then suddenly hugged me tightly, his voice low and weary. “Babe, tonight… let’s go to the hot spring resort, okay? It’s my fault. I’ve been too busy lately. Tonight, I’ll make it up to you.”
He always knew the right way to soften me.
But now, it only felt ironic.