Married to a man who seemed to have the libido of a houseplant, I satisfied my cravings by scrolling through videos of hot guys online. The comments were all variations of the same theme: "It's so hot out today. Speaking of hot..." I laughed and typed a reply: "Hot or not? " Suddenly, a private message popped up. "Hey, wanna see mine?" I yelped and threw my phone across the bed. Just then, a knock came at my door. A man stood there, his eyes glassy with drink and glistening with unshed tears. He stumbled into my arms, his voice a broken whisper. "What are you looking at?" he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "Baby, I'm so much better than them. You don't have to look elsewhere..." 1 It was late, and I was in bed, mesmerized by a video of a guy with washboard abs dancing. That’s when the message popped up: "Hey, wanna see mine?" I shrieked, my skin crawling. But curiosity, that treacherous beast, got the better of me. I clicked on his profile. Oh my. A chiseled, boy-next-door type, dancing shirtless. I spent the next hour happily lost in a sea of rippling muscles and smoldering gazes. Then, a knock shattered the silence. At this hour, it could only be my husband, Brent—all looks, no action. The man who treated his stomach with more care than his wife. "Ava," he slurred as I opened the door. "My head hurts. Do you have any painkillers?" He was a tall man, but right now, he was all dead weight. The moment the door was open, he collapsed into my arms. "Brent! Hey! Are you completely wasted? You're so heavy, I can't hold you." You wouldn't believe it, but in two years of marriage, this was the closest we'd ever been. "Ava, my head… it hurts so much. Can you blow on it for me? Please?" Was he possessed? Was this the same robotic man whose entire vocabulary seemed to consist of "Okay," "Thank you," and "Good night"? His warm breath tickled my ear as he nuzzled against me. "Ava, it hurts." He was being so clingy, refusing to move until I did as he asked. I blew a quick puff of air onto his forehead. "There, all better? Let me get you to your room." With a grunt, I managed to heave him onto my bed, shoes and all. I landed beside him with a thud, stars exploding behind my eyes. He murmured into my ear, his voice thick with sleep. "Stay here." I looked at the man passed out on my bed and sighed, rubbing my temples. What a handful. Two years ago, to fend off my parents' relentless nagging about my single status, I had posted a ridiculous, half-joking message online: "Someone, anyone, please marry me." That night, Brent, a man who had been a silent ghost in my contacts list since college, actually messaged me. "Ava, hello. I believe we might be in need of the same thing." He then proceeded to send me a ten-page PowerPoint presentation outlining the pros and cons of marrying him. 1. My parents are open-minded and will not interfere. 2. I have a demanding job, but I will ensure your daily needs are met. 3. I'm an excellent cook... His face, I had to admit, was devastatingly handsome. So, in a moment of weakness, I made the same mistake countless women have made before me. And now, I was regretting it. Who knew that at twenty-five, Brent would be living the life of a monk? I went to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. When I came back, he was sprawled out on the bed… and my mind started to wander. It wasn't that he was unattractive. Far from it. He was probably just not interested in me. Otherwise, what man could resist a 34D? "Here, drink this." As he reached for the glass, his fingers brushed against mine, and he held my hand as he drank. Water dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. "Brent, are you doing this on purpose? Are you faking being drunk?" I had seen him turn off my phone before he collapsed. His brow furrowed, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. 2 I scoffed. If he was trying to seduce me, he was doing a terrible job. I tried to pull my hand away. "I'm going to sleep in your room." Thump. His arm shot out, wrapping around my waist. "Don't go." "Brent, what's gotten into you? Are you having some kind of drunken fever dream?" The smell of alcohol was strong. Could it be that when my robotic husband got drunk, he turned into a clingy mess? His face was flushed as he mumbled, "Why were you watching those sleazy guys dance? Am I not good enough?" Well, well. The robot could get jealous. So where was this jealousy when I'd tried to seduce him in a slinky nightgown, only to be pushed out the door with a cold, "Ava, please have some self-respect"? The absurdity of it all was staggering. "Baby," he whispered, his voice a low thrum against my skin. "I'm so much better than them. You don't have to look elsewhere..." He leaned closer. "Do you want to see mine?" My face was on fire. I scrambled out of his grip and fled the room. If he was this good at flirting, was it possible his whole "robot" persona was just an act? If so, this marriage was definitely over. 3 The next morning, I found Brent in the kitchen, already making breakfast as if nothing had happened. Hmph. So innocent. "Hey, Brent. Can we talk?" The morning air was cool, but a wave of warmth radiated from him as he turned, carrying the scent of his cologne and something else, something intoxicatingly masculine. "Morning. What's got you up so early? Hungry for breakfast?" he asked, his voice back to its usual calm cadence. "I was drunk last night. Thanks for taking care of me." What a fossil. "Breakfast will be ready in a minute." "Brent," I said, cutting to the chase. "Let's get a divorce." His hand, which was pouring milk, froze. His eyebrows shot up, then furrowed. "I know you don't like milk. I made juice." His voice was low, betraying no emotion. He was pretending he hadn't heard me. "I said, let's get a divorce." This time, he didn't stop. He continued to meticulously arrange a picture-perfect breakfast, completely ignoring my words. "We're not a good match. You're a night owl, I'm an early bird. There are no feelings between us. It doesn't make sense, right?" He stiffened for a second, his eyes downcast. No response. The silence was infuriating. I marched over and punched him lightly on the arm. The cute, frilly apron he was wearing seemed so out of place. "I never knew you had such a... flamboyant side, Professor Osmond." He didn't reply, just stood there rigidly, his eyes darting to mine for a fleeting moment. "Eat. I don't want to repeat myself." "Just think about it. I'll have the divorce papers drawn up soon." He walked into the bathroom, still wearing the apron. His steps were unsteady, his back slightly hunched. At the door, he finally responded, a hint of anger in his voice. "Fine. I'll consider it and give you an answer." My gaze fell on the balcony. For the umpteenth time, some of my lingerie had gone missing from the clothesline. Brent always said the wind must have blown it away. Today, I was going to get to the bottom of it. Where exactly was he hanging this stuff that a gale-force wind strong enough to blow away a dozen pairs of underwear kept showing up? I knocked on his bedroom door for a long time. All I could hear was the sound of running water from inside. No answer. I pushed the door open and tiptoed in. The glass door of the shower was fogged up, revealing the tantalizing silhouette of a well-built physique. And then I heard it—a few deep, ragged breaths, followed by a whispered word that made me freeze in my tracks. "Ava." 4 My eyes dropped to the floor, and my heart stopped. Strewn across the carpet were all my missing undergarments. A flash of red lace was peeking out from under the bathroom door. A moment later, the man in the shower moved. I was about to dive for cover when I saw the corner of red fabric being pulled into the bathroom, as if clutched in a hand. The color was stark against the frosted glass. I fled in a panic. If Brent was this… passionate, why had he been avoiding me? My brain felt like a bowl of mush. That sneaky, repressed man. No, I had to confront him. I needed evidence. That night, I crept into the living room, ready to sneak into his bedroom. "Are you looking for me?" a voice from the sofa stopped me cold. Brent was sitting there, wearing his gold-rimmed glasses, a book in his hand. He didn't even look up. The cold, robotic persona was back in full force. The memory of what I'd seen in his room made my courage evaporate. "Are you hiding something from me?" I asked, deciding to be direct. "And what's your decision on the divorce?" Brent pushed his glasses up his nose and raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about? I bought you that necklace you wanted." I followed his gaze to a jewelry box on the coffee table. I gasped. Overjoyed, I momentarily forgot my mission. He cleared his throat. "Let's eat. I've been waiting for you. Are you hungry?" Looking at the table full of my favorite dishes, a strange feeling washed over me. Setting aside his… condition, Brent was a very thoughtful husband. A little bland, maybe, but meticulous and considerate. And what if the robot was just an act? A sudden urge to see Brent beg, to see his face flush with embarrassment, seized me. He came up behind me, his voice a cool murmur. "Is your headache back? Let me rub your temples. I learned a technique from a traditional medicine expert." His slender fingers, coated in a soothing oil, gently massaged my temples. The tension in my body melted away. His hand moved to the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. His warm breath fanned my ear as he deliberately lowered his voice, a husky whisper that made my whole body go limp. "How's that, Ava? Is the pressure to your liking?" I smirked. "Not bad. But, Professor Osmond, what about the divorce?" His hands stilled. I could feel the tension in his touch. I fought to keep the smile off my face. Would he beg me not to leave him this time? Oh, the anticipation…
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