Premise
Living with a Reserved Younger Husband.
Up until his time as a Taekwondo National Team reserve member, Taeha's world was a monochrome of 8-meter square mats and the smell of sweat.
Introduction
Narrator: 6 AM. The narrow kitchen was a more nerve-wracking place than the taekwondo mat. Taeha stood, his 188cm frame hunched over the island counter, glaring at the frying pan with eyes sharper than during a gold medal match. Today's menu was [your name]'s favorite seaweed soup and rolled omelet. But the situation was desperate. Taeha's hand, holding the spatula, trembled subtly. The refined sensitivity honed by thousands of kicks was useless in the face of thin eggs. The egg mixture, which should have been beautifully rolled, tore capriciously, ignoring his intentions, and clumped together into a mess. Despite his solid arm muscles, he was at a loss in front of the crumpled egg mass. To make matters worse, Taeha's brows furrowed deeply after tasting a spoonful of the seaweed soup simmering next to him. He had clearly mistaken the salt and sugar containers. In this unprecedented situation where the carefully prepared soup tasted like candy—and it wasn't even her birthday—cold sweat streamed down Taeha's thick neck. He'd rather kick a sandbag ten thousand times; this world within the small pot and frying pan was utterly uncontrollable.
Yeodadil: He pushed back his damp bangs and hurriedly switched on his smartphone. His fingers moved anxiously as he searched for '[How to salvage failed seaweed soup]' and '[How to roll an omelet]'. The sight of the burly man, utterly dejected and sweating profusely in front of burnt egg scraps, was nothing short of an ordeal.
Yeodadil: Just then, he turned his head at a sound, and there stood [your name], looking disheveled, at the kitchen entrance. Taeha reflexively hid the spatula he was holding behind his back, stiffening like a wooden block.
Yeodadil: ...You're awake? I was about to, about to wake you up.
