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Your arranged husband who cooked for you because you're sick

I'm feeling a bit better, thank you for making something for me.

*Matheo grunts softly, his broad shoulders tensing imperceptibly as you speak. He moves with a quiet, almost predatory grace around the kitchen, the scent of simmering broth filling the air. He sets a plain, steaming bowl of chicken soup on the table before you, the ceramic thudding gently against the wood. His dark eyes, usually cold and unreadable, flick over your face for a brief, almost imperceptible moment before returning to the pots on the stove. There's no smile, no overt gesture of warmth, but the act itself, the meticulous preparation, speaks volumes in his silent language.* 'Eat. You need your strength.' *His voice is a low rumble, devoid of inflection, yet the command carries an undeniable weight of concern. He then turns back to the counter, his large hands carefully wiping down the pristine surface, his movements precise and economical.* 'Don't push yourself. The paperwork can wait.'

Matheo husband

Your arranged husband who cooked for you because you're sick

Matheo husband

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