I was an hour deep into a late-night webcomic binge, blush-reading a scene I definitely wouldn't want anyone to see over my shoulder, when I hit the last panel. And instead of "Next Episode," it just said: On indefinite hiatus. I felt a primal scream build in my chest. No. No. He couldn't stop there. Not when the male lead was finally about to trick the heroine into confessing! I was desperate. I scrambled to the author's DMs. Me: Bawk bawk! Please, author-nim, just a few crumbs? We're starving out here! Just pretend you're feeding the chickens! Bawk bawk! To my shock, he actually replied. Author (Handle: "Chickadee"): I'm so sorry. The comic's inspiration came from my wife. But she's been so cold to me lately. She keeps talking about this other man... telling me to "know my place." I'm terrified she's going to leave me. I'm so depressed I can't even pick up my pen. Oh. Oh. This was... juicy. But more importantly, it was a problem. My problem. I needed that update. Time to work some magic. Me: That's rough. But you know, it just so happens I'm a certified relationship coach. I'm amazing at this stuff. Why don't you send me your number? We can text, I'll give you a few pointers. Pro-bono, of course. He sent his number instantly, thanking me like I'd just saved his life. I punched the digits into my phone. And my contacts list helpfully pulled up an existing entry: Julian. ...Julian. My husband. My fake, cold, "let's-keep-our-distance-and-never-interfere-in-each-other's-lives" husband. The man I married three months ago in a panic to get my mother to stop trying to set me up with her dentist's weird son. That Julian. Which means... I'm the cold wife. And... wait, what "other man"? Oh, god. He must mean my new boss, Mark, the one I'd been complaining about nonstop. This was a disaster. But... my webcomic... That night, I knocked on his bedroom door (on the opposite side of the apartment). He opened it, looking startled. He was already in his pajamas. I put on my best damsel-in-distress face. "It's... it's kinda cold tonight. My room is freezing. Could you maybe... come warm up my bed for me?" The normally stoic man stared, and the tips of his ears turned a fascinating, brilliant shade of red. 1 I got home from work, exhausted. The smell of garlic and soy hit me as I opened the door. Julian was in the kitchen, his back to me, untying an apron. Wide shoulders, narrow waist... not half-bad. I quickly looked away and made a beeline for my room. The food smelled incredible, but it wasn't for me. Our agreement was clear: we were roommates who shared a marriage certificate. Separate lives. Separate everything. "You're home late again," his voice, surprisingly, came from the living room. "Have you eaten?" I stopped. "Just a long day. I was going to order a delivery. Did I bother you?" "No," he said. He was standing there, looking awkward. "It's just... I made way too much. If you want some, there's plenty." I raised an eyebrow. He immediately backpedaled. "Don't misread this. I just hate wasting food." "Got it, got it. We're not a real couple. I won't get any ideas." There were five dishes on the table, including my absolute favorite—spicy kung pao chicken. Since he offered, I wasn't going to argue. A long, pale-skinned hand reached over and picked up the ladle. "I'll get you some soup." "Oh. Thanks." In three months, this was the first time we'd ever eaten together. And damn, he could cook. I kept my head down, shoveling rice, my mind flashing back to when I'd begged him to marry me. I'd overheard him complaining to a friend about his own family's marriage pressure. I was desperate. He was... convenient. I hadn't expected him to be gorgeous. Six-foot-one, sharp nose, and pale skin that seemed to glow. When he'd first looked at me, I'd blushed like a total moron. He'd laid down the law immediately. "We only act like a couple in front of our parents. I'm a programmer, I'm busy, and I'm not interested in marriage. Don't interfere in my life, and I won't interfere in yours." When my lease was up, he'd even let me move into his spare bedroom, rent-free. I'd been so grateful, I spent the first month trying to be nice to him. He misinterpreted it as a crush and got even colder, finally telling me, "Mia, if you cross this line again, our contract is terminated." I'd apologized profusely. "Got it, Julian! Won't happen again." 2 So, I ate this meal in total, anxious silence. Then my phone rang. I scrambled to the balcony to take it. It was Mark, my new boss, asking why my progress report wasn't in his inbox before the deadline. I went back to the table, my mood ruined. Between my job from hell and my favorite webcomic being dead, life just felt bleak. To my absolute horror, my nose started to sting. I was going to cry. Right here. "Mia? Are you okay?" Julian looked terrified. He shot up, grabbed a box of tissues, and sat in the chair next to me. I sniffled. "Can I... can I vent? You won't find it annoying?" "Of course not. Go ahead." He looked a little guilty, probably remembering his "don't talk to me" rule. I took a deep breath. "It's that bastard, Mark! He's awful! He calls me into his office for 'updates' ten times a day, and then he texts me after hours. I swear, my entire life is just reporting to him. I told him he should spend more time with his wife, and you know what he said? 'I'm single.'" I was sobbing now, and I didn't notice Julian's expression hardening. "Is he young?" he asked, out of nowhere. I wiped my eyes. "Uh, yeah. Not yet thirty." "Younger than me?" I froze. Oh, crap. I had no idea how old Julian was. I'd been so nervous at the courthouse I forgot to even look at the license. He saw me hesitating and said, "I'm twenty-six." "Oh! Then he's older. He just turned twenty-nine," I blurted out. I only knew because my work friend Chloe and I had just been gossiping about him. Julian didn't say anything. The air got weird. "I... I didn't mean you're young. I mean, he's old. And annoying. You're... you're great. Age-wise." I was babbling. I shut up. He looked down, his voice going flat. Back to the cold stranger from day one. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed." It was 8:15 PM. "The dishes can wait," he said. "Goodnight." "Oh. 'Night." I'd screwed it up. I'd made dinner weird. 3 Back in my room, I couldn't sleep. I just kept staring at the last panel of "Chickadee's" webcomic. It was so good. The male lead was this perfect, sly, green-tea type, always subtly manipulating the oblivious heroine, and the cliffhanger was him this close to finally getting her to confess. I DMed him again on my main account. Me: Bawk bawk! Just one more page? I'll give you my firstborn! And he replied. Chickadee: Sorry. I just can't. My wife... she mentioned that other man again. I'm in agony. My heart throbbed for my comic. This poor, lovesick, secretly-talented man. My brain kicked into gear. I had one year of experience as a volunteer community mediator. I knew how to handle domestic disputes. This guy was a hopeless romantic. He was a project. Me: You know, this app is terrible for giving real advice. I'm actually a certified relationship coach. Add me on this burner number. We'll get your wife back. He sent his info immediately. 4 I typed the number in. Contact "Julian" already exists. I stared. I searched again. And again. The profile picture: a fluffy white Samoyed. Julian's profile picture. No. My stoic, boring, programmer husband... was "Chickadee"? The author of the spiciest, sweetest romance comic on the internet? And I was his "cold, cruel wife" who was "leaving him for another man"? I wanted to die. But I really wanted that update. I created a new burner account and sent him a message.
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