If Santa Claus were real, all I'd ask for is a boyfriend with a great body, who can cook, and is rich just one would be enough, and I'd ask for nothing else in this life.
I used to think that a man's luckiest fate was having a loving, well-behaved partner who spoke little, could cook like a chef, and knew how to handle things in bed. For an ordinary office worker, life couldn't really demand more than that.
And then, just as I entered the working world, right after making that wish during the year-end countdown… the universe delivered. On the company's farewell-and-welcome party, I met someone who ticked every single box I had imagined. Except…
creak
"Where have you been!"
The moment I opened the condo door, I was greeted by the same pattern every day. My "housekeeper" stood there in a cute apron, matching headband, spatula in hand, wearing the brightest smile, voice soft and teasing, sliding into a hug around my waist and asking if I was tired.
Was this exactly what I had imagined?
No.
Not even close.
The tall, broad-shouldered figure with sharp features, short brown-red hair that, if tied up, revealed a daring shaved side… one hand gripping the spatula like it was a weapon, the other holding a cigarette, blowing smoke right in my face—my face.
Perfectly shaped lips, expensive cigarette, the ultimate bad-boy energy. Smoke swirling in the air, making me want to duck and crawl out of the haze.
Standing there, legs apart like some kind of gangster at the door… this wasn't a normal partner. This was a checkpoint, a personal border control for anyone entering the house.
"Good evening. Still awake, darling?"
I have no idea why I always end up pressing my palms together in a polite wai whenever I greet my "wife." Maybe it's because the difference between the tone of someone who just got off work and someone who stayed home doing absolutely nothing all day is… astronomical.
Our roles are so flipped that anyone observing from Mars could tell instantly who's the husband, who's the wife, who's the boss, and who's definitely not.
"Do you see me?"
That deep, smooth voice—flat, calm, yet dripping with accusation—comes from one single person whose expressions cycle between blank, annoyed, and annoyed but hotter. Amazing, really.
Those sharp eyes scan me like a military weapons detector, starting at the top of my head and sliding down slowly to my toes.
With that level of scrutiny, just bite my head off already.
Broad shoulders. Thick build. Tall. Intense. A face nowhere near "pretty," but very much "damn—ridiculously handsome."
Still looks unfriendly to me though.
"…I see you."
"If you see me, then why are you asking stupid questions like why I'm not asleep yet!?"
Cruel. Absolutely cruel. Is this a spouse or a hostile alien life-form? Not even a tiny smile to soften the blow.
And look at him—always wearing that thin floral Hawaiian shirt with half the buttons undone, showing off tight pecs like some gym model with a tapered waist.
Black skinny jeans hugging long legs that put demons to shame. An adorable bear-print apron on top of all that.
It's the most violently stylish sight ever—like a mafia boss cosplaying as a housewife.
"What's that smell?"
This—this—is the person who supposedly checks every box on my "ideal partner" list.
His name is Fear. Honestly, it should've been "Mafia," but maybe that sounded too aggressive for his parents… so they cut it short. Very cute, I guess.
If "cute" means "built like a buffalo."
He sniffs around me like a trained police dog, yanking my collar and practically burying his face under my arm.
Asking me what I smell like—when he's the one exhaling cigarette smoke like a human chimney.
"I was… entertaining a client."
Inside, I'm cursing him nonstop, but can I say any of that to his face?
Absolutely not.
In front of him, I'm nothing but a polite, smiling statue.
Think of one of those lucky-cat statues.
That's me—smiling at my spouse because if I don't, I might get manhandled into the floor.
He's heavy-handed, heavy-footed, and everything in between.
With a dominance level like that, he should be someone's husband
(Anyone's. Literally anyone's.)
Why on earth is he my wife!?
A regular office worker, practically broke, no inherited wealth, no car, no fancy house, no luxury watches, not even handsome—completely ordinary. Yet, legally, we are husband and husband.
Honestly, everything depends on him. He's the heir of the company, and it just so happened that we became husband and husband during the New Year's company party.
I had been planning to confess my feelings to little Joy, the enchanting girl with a radiant smile everyone adored, hoping she'd become my girlfriend in the New Year.
But he appeared out of nowhere, completely drunk, dragging me into his antics over and over again—nonstop. I couldn't tell if he was drunk or had been frustrated for months. Luckily, he didn't target my ass, even though he was relentless… and yes, he's a bottom.
After we were done, I cried almost to death… my poor manhood was aching. He went at it for hours. I was resilient, but he refused to let me climax. Once I did, he just lay there, scrolling through his phone and smoking, completely unbothered, refusing to release me. He said I had to take responsibility, even though he was the one initiating everything. At that point, I had no choice—I was too lazy to find another job.
The kid wanted something, but the father didn't approve. My father-in-law never agreed with our marriage, but he couldn't stop his son. Did being the son-in-law of the company's heir come with privileges? Nope. In fact, I was treated like a servant, coming home late, barely recognized as family. Return late, and my husband would scold me—driving me insane!
The kid himself is wild, casually calling me "you" and "him" in conversation, but secretly he likes polite words, expecting a "yes, sir" for every reply.
"Why didn't you call and let me know?"
Every time I look at him, all I see is how ridiculously handsome he is. Why the hell did he choose me, someone nobody wanted for thirty years? And he's jealous too—doesn't even look at his own husband properly. Does he think I'm some movie star, rich, or skilled? I'm nothing like that, and yet he's possessive beyond reason, more protective than a cobra guarding its eggs.
"My phone's dead," I surrendered first, holding out the latest iPhone he'd bought, letting him inspect it to his heart's content.
"Let's eat," he said, tapping the phone a few times before slipping it back into his jacket pocket.
"But I just ate, darling," I surrendered again. Normally, I'm careful about eating out, but for entertaining a female client, who could resist?
And the thing he hates most? When I insist he eat the food I've cooked. He's obsessive about cleanliness—so much that he even took cooking classes to avoid eating out. Honestly, I still don't understand why he's so strict.
"Food's ready," he said, low and firm, which basically meant: you're eating, no excuses.
"Alright~ what did you make today?" I asked in my soft, sweet voice. And he replied…
"Go see for yourself. Why are you asking?"
"You're not going to smoke on the balcony? The room will smell otherwise." Even though we're the same age, he looks younger, but also somehow scarier.
"I'm the one cleaning. Why do you care?" I said bluntly. But he tried to move closer, and I shoved the spatula against his forehead.
"Go wash your hands." He's extremely clean, treating me like a walking germ. But once he's showered, he clings to me like a leech.
"Speak nicely."
"Got a problem?" He's rough, unapologetic—typical husband behavior.
"Nope~" Two standards, both him and me.
"I'm going to shower and change clothes first. I'll come back for dinner."
He stared at me, holding my hand, head down, avoiding eye contact, then grabbed his bag and led the way into the room. Seriously, is he my husband or a guard dog? Fierce, clingy, and possessive… who could resist this?
Tom Yum Goong, stir-fried kale with crispy pork, and deep-fried sea bass with fish sauce—luckily, the wife had cooked all three dishes. I did eight sit-ups in the bathroom to help digest what I'd already eaten, then came back to finish off the meal she made. If I didn't eat tonight, there would be no sleep. Listening to the wife complain would make him grumpy about everything in the world.
Ssshhh~
"Wow~ looks amazing and delicious. Wife, you're really talented. My favorite," I said. I guess I've always had the habit of making others feel at ease, so I tend to overact, especially around the wealthy kid who's been spoiled since birth.
Being with the wife isn't difficult. Just do what he wants, and everything goes smoothly. The two of us sit and eat in front of the TV. His condo is huge, with a proper dining room table, but we don't use it—we grab a Japanese-style table and sit on the floor.
Sometimes I think the wife might be like a yakuza, with the habit of sitting low tables on the floor like Japanese people. And maybe it's true, because he loves sitting and lying on the floor. Luckily, the wife is tidy and clean, so the floor has not a speck of dust.