He Swore He Hated Seafood, So Why Did His Lips Taste Like Oysters? - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

My husband went out for a business dinner and came home late at night.
I went to greet him and gave him our usual welcome-home kiss, but caught a faint fishy smell on his lips.
"Why do you taste like oysters?"
"Had dinner with clients at a seafood restaurant."
But... my husband Nash has a deadly seafood allergy—he'll vomit just from smelling fish.
How could he willingly go to a place like that?
I took his coat with confusion, and a bright red lipstick mark on the collar caught my eye.
It turned out that what was full of holes wasn't just his lies, but our marriage too...
Midnight.
Nash finally was home.
He shrugged off his coat, draping it casually over his arm.
The movement stirred up a light breeze, carrying with it the faintest trace of... ocean.
Barely, but enough to make me instantly sit up straight on the couch.
"Working late again?"
I walked over, reaching for his coat.
He sidestepped me, tossing the coat onto the couch as he yanked at his tie.
"Last-minute client dinner. Couldn't get out of it."
His voice dripped with irritation—all directed at me.
I followed behind him, that smell hitting me again.
"Is that..." I hesitated, "Do you smell like... the ocean?"
Nash's hands froze on his tie.
He spun around, eyebrows drawn tight.
"Just changing perfumes." His tone was sharp. "Bulgari Aqva - you don't even know that?"
He'd never spoken to me with such raw impatience before.
"But you hate—"
"Lila," he cut me off, his voice turning ice-cold, "can you not overthink every damn thing? I'm dead tired from work. I didn't come home to get the third degree."
Without another glance, he stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
The rush of water cut off any chance for conversation.
I stood there, staring at that expensive tailored suit on the couch, feeling something cold settle in my chest.
The Nash I knew... wasn't like this.
Back in college, during a club dinner, the second a plate of garlic scallops hit our table, he started sneezing uncontrollably.
Within minutes, angry red welts broke out across his face and his breathing got all wonky.
We totally freaked out, scrambling to get him to the ER.
It was a whole nightmare that lasted until the crack of dawn.
From that point on, everyone around him knew he was allergic to seafood—and that it was life-threatening.
When we got married, I made it my mission to remember this.
Our dinner table was a seafood-free zone, period.
But my mom didn't know about this.
She came to visit me once, bringing lots of seafood from my hometown of Carmel, and spent the whole afternoon preparing an elaborate feast.
Steamed grouper, salmon salad, lobster pasta.
When Nash and I came home and opened the door, the rich aroma of seafood hit us immediately.
So good~
But the next second I became alert and looked at Nash—
Sure enough, his face had turned serious, cold as ice.
He froze in the doorway, staring at the table full of dishes from a distance with an expression of utter disgust.
"Who told you to make this crap?"
Mom was still all smiles, walking up to greet him.
"Nash, honey, you're home! Come try Mom's cooking, I promise you'll—"
"GET IT OUT!"
He suddenly exploded, his voice so loud Mom actually flinched.
Before anyone could react, he rushed to the dining table, grabbed the tablecloth and yanked it violently.
In an instant, all the dishes went flying to the floor.
The sharp, piercing sound of plates shattering made me instinctively cover my ears and scream.
"I told you I CAN'T handle that fucking smell!"
His eyes were bloodshot as he pointed at my mom. "Are you deaf? Trying to kill me or something?"
Mom went pale as a sheet, standing there speechless.
I rushed over to grab his arm, tears welling up.
"Why are you screaming at her? She didn't know—she was just trying to be nice!"
"Nice?" He let out a bitter laugh. "Save it!"
That night, Mom locked herself in the guest room and caught the first flight home the next morning.
Later, Nash probably realized he'd gone too far.
He pulled a Tiffany bracelet from his pocket and awkwardly pressed it into my hand.
"About Mom..." he said quietly, "explain it to her for me. I really... couldn't control myself. I'm sorry for scaring you all..."
I opened my palm—the bracelet was delicate and beautiful, exactly the style I liked.
But somehow I couldn't feel happy about it.
I comfort myself: He'd lost control in a life-threatening moment, that was all.
But tonight, Nash—the same guy who'd lose it over the faintest ocean smell—had somehow managed to wear that scent home.