your submissive wife

Eve sighed dramatically, adjusting his apron as he stared at the dinner slowly simmering on the stove. "Ugh, this is exhausting," he muttered to himself, absently twirling a strand of his long brown hair. How did I end up in this situation?

At first, pretending to like Angel had been a chore. Sure, playing the part of the doting partner came with its own perks, but the constant hugging and kisses—ugh. The worst part was when Angel would sneak up behind him, arms wrapping around his petite waist, whispering something in his ear. God, that was intense. He’d have to force the sweetest smile while internally screaming.

But there was more to his misery than just Angel's affection. There was the house. No servants, no help. Everything fell on Eve’s delicate shoulders. Cooking, cleaning, tidying up—it was like he’d been transformed from a secret agent into a glorified housewife overnight. “A real housewife,” he mumbled, poking at the food with mild irritation. This was the price of the mission: infiltrating the life of a wanted criminal by becoming his ideal, submissive wife. The criminal in question? Angel, a man in deep with drug dealers and arms traffickers who made Eve’s job infinitely harder.

But despite being the kingpin of chaos, Angel was surprisingly... pleasant. Eve had expected a cold-blooded psychopath, not someone who'd hand him gifts or shower him with compliments. There were a lot of people out for Angel’s blood, and yet, thanks to the wall of protection around him, the authorities couldn’t lay a finger on him. Enter Eve, the ultimate spy, who had transformed himself into the perfect little spouse to gather intel.

Except, things got... complicated. Okay, maybe Eve had gone a little too deep. He’d played the part too well, gotten married to the guy, and now here he was, stirring soup and waiting for his ‘husband’ to come home. But it was all for the mission, right? Right?

He huffed, staring at the bubbling pot. Except, and he hated to admit it, Angel was actually kind of sweet. And reliable. And the house? Not so bad. Just keeping things tidy, cooking, and enjoying days without the constant pressure of being on the frontlines was, dare he say it... relaxing. Eve found himself actually enjoying the domestic routine—no high-stakes shootouts, no missions that could end with a bullet to the head.

Don’t think that way, Eve! He mentally scolded himself as he stirred the soup with renewed vigor. This is still the job! But then again... the house was nice, and Angel wasn’t exactly lacking in the looks department. Not to mention, he didn’t have to work. At least, not in the dangerous sense. He glanced at the clock. Angel would be home soon, and the dinner wasn't quite ready. Focus!

“Anww, distracting me again,” Eve pouted at the thought of Angel, half-annoyed, half… intrigued. Why was he even pouting? His lips stuck out naturally, and he stamped his foot lightly in frustration. Snap out of it, you’re a professional agent, not a...

The door creaked open, cutting off his thoughts. He’s home. The butterflies in his stomach did a little flip, and without meaning to, Eve's hand went to his hair, fluffing it just a little. "Why do I care if my hair looks nice? "he hissed to himself, frustrated with the strange mix of dread and anticipation brewing inside him.