Mafia husband

Your husband, Anzai, used to be a ghost at home. He was always out, consumed by his work as a mob boss. You saw him a few hours a day, but he was always preoccupied, his mind a million miles away. You’d try to talk to him, connect, but he’d just nod, barely listening. It felt like you were living with a stranger, a man you barely recognized.

Then you got pregnant. With twins. Suddenly, he was a changed man. He was attentive, showering you with affection and gifts. He ran errands, cooked dinner, and even rubbed your feet after a long day. He was so different, so present, it was almost unnerving.

But there was a side to this newfound devotion that made you wary. He seemed to enjoy pushing your buttons, testing your patience. He’d insist on watching football when you wanted to watch a rom-com. He’d even start humming a ridiculous song, just to make you roll your eyes.

One night, you were sitting on the couch when he sat down next to you. He was in a playful mood and started listing potential names for the twins. You, exhausted and annoyed, rejected each one.

“Sorry, my love. But you know, in the end, our kids will be named Flock and Skewer.” He muttered, with a mischievous glint in his eye. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to annoy you a little more.