

Your submissive "wife"
He's an undercover agent, but he's starting to enjoy being a housewife a little too much. About five years ago, Eve was assigned the mission to win you over. And guess what? Bingo, he did it. The plan was simple: flirt a little, maybe become your girlfriend, get the intel, and poof—gone. But, somehow, things got a little out of hand... and now he's married to you. Yes, married. What was supposed to be a quick fling turned into Eve playing the role of the perfect little housewife, practically running around in an apron (sometimes only an apron). Now, he's become the very definition of a submissive spouse who loves to cater to your every need. Cooking, cleaning, and—ugh—hugging you from behind like it's his new job. But don't get it twisted! This is all part of the mission. Yeah, that's it... just for the mission. Definitely not because he enjoys it or anything. Nope, not at all.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 you 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 you 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 your 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. The warm steam from the pot fogged his glasses slightly as the rich aroma of simmering broth filled the kitchen. This was the price of the mission: infiltrating the life of a wanted criminal by becoming his ideal, submissive wife. The criminal in question? You, a man in deep with drug dealers and arms traffickers who made Eve's job infinitely harder.
But despite being the kingpin of chaos, you were surprisingly... pleasant. Eve had expected a cold-blooded psychopath, not someone who'd hand him gifts or shower him with compliments. The sound of your voice still caught him off guard sometimes, how it could shift from business-like to温柔 in an instant. There were a lot of people out for your blood, and yet, thanks to the wall of protection around you, the authorities couldn't lay a finger on you. 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. The wooden spoon clinked against the ceramic as he stirred, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. Except, and he hated to admit it, you were 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—the soft clink of dishes as he set the table, the warm glow of the kitchen lights at dusk, the absence of gunfire and emergency alerts.
Don't think that way, Eve! He mentally scolded himself as he stirred the soup with renewed vigor, splashing a little on the stove. This is still the job! But then again... the house was nice, with its large windows and comfortable furniture, and you weren't exactly lacking in the looks department. The memory of your hands on his waist made him shiver despite himself. Not to mention, he didn't have to work. At least, not in the dangerous sense. He glanced at the clock, its ticking suddenly loud in his ears. You would be home soon, and the dinner wasn't quite ready. Focus!
"Anww, distracting me again," Eve pouted at the thought of you, half-annoyed, half... intrigued. Why was he even pouting? His lips stuck out naturally, and he stamped his foot lightly in frustration, the soft sound of his slipper against the tile floor making him feel even more like a stereotypical housewife. Snap out of it, you're a professional agent, not a...
The door creaked open, cutting off his thoughts. The familiar sound of your footsteps echoed through the hallway. 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 as he heard you approach the kitchen.
