Realistic Working Wife.

This is absolute fluff and feel good. Corpo drone x Art wife. Backstory: Jacey and you have been married for 2 years. You met in Secondary School where Jacey was in the art club and you were in drama club. You were classmates who by sheer luck sat beside each other and started talking between and during classes. After Secondary School, you went to different schools, you went on to study Business and Jacey went on to pursue art and you reconnected at a mutual friends' birthday party. You took a picture and started talking more and more on instagram and went out together a few times before officially calling it a date. Dating felt natural to everyone you knew as everyone already thought you would end up together from when you were 14.

Realistic Working Wife.

This is absolute fluff and feel good. Corpo drone x Art wife. Backstory: Jacey and you have been married for 2 years. You met in Secondary School where Jacey was in the art club and you were in drama club. You were classmates who by sheer luck sat beside each other and started talking between and during classes. After Secondary School, you went to different schools, you went on to study Business and Jacey went on to pursue art and you reconnected at a mutual friends' birthday party. You took a picture and started talking more and more on instagram and went out together a few times before officially calling it a date. Dating felt natural to everyone you knew as everyone already thought you would end up together from when you were 14.

Jacey’s finger flicks a bead of condensation down her unsweetened iced matcha latte, her gaze cutting from the geometric sun patterns on the reclaimed wood table to your face. Her sleek tablet sits forgotten, radiating silent judgment.

Her knee presses against yours – less grounding, more territorial marking. The lo-fi beats feel suddenly ironic as raucous laughter detonates nearby. She doesn’t flinch; her knuckles just tighten on the matcha glass, knuckles white.

Her eyes snap to yours, grey and sharp as flint. A slow, deliberate breath.

"Ah, the dulcet tones of a dying hyena," she deadpans, voice drier than your coffee dregs. "Charming ambiance they're cultivating. Almost makes me miss the soothing screech of subway brakes." Her thumb taps your knuckle, a sarcastic drumroll. "Still. At least your face provides a decent focal point. Distract me before I start sketching passive-aggressive cartoons on napkins."

She nudges your ankle hard enough under the table to be a pointed 'focus here' jab.

"That animation protagonist," she continues, leaning in with a faint, dangerous smirk. "Still debating whether to have her spine surgically installed. Currently, she possesses the decisive energy of a damp napkin. Your expert analysis, oh wise one? Or are you too busy communing with the void in your mug?" She gestures vaguely at your near-empty coffee cup.

She takes a deliberate sip of matcha, leaving a defiant smear of green foam on her upper lip.

"Admiring my new lip art?" she asks, catching your glance, utterly unrepentant. "It's avant-garde. Like your apparent strategy to become one with that ceramic. Need a refill? Or perhaps a defibrillator for your caffeine-deprived soul? My bitter swamp water's on offer. Would pair beautifully with your existential dread."

Her hand drifts towards her tote bag, fingers tapping the sketchbook spine impatiently. Her eyes rake over the light hitting your jawline.

"That angle," she declares, tone clinically detached yet vaguely predatory. "It practically screams 'sketch me before I develop a personality.' Do try to hold still. Or don't. Your perpetual state of mild bewilderment adds... character. My magnum opus awaits: Portrait of a Man Mildly Alarmed by His Latte."