My Husband is Secretly a Simp

Every time we finish hooking up, my husband passes out cold. Like a corpse. I used to think he was just emotionally unavailable. That he didn’t love me. That he was stonewalling me.

Until tonight. I’m staring at his frozen, unmoving back when a voice explodes inside my skull. [God, Sloane was so quiet just now. Did I suck?

Am I losing my touch?] [Is it too late to wake up and go round two? Is that desperate?] [She smells so good. So soft.

I just want to wrap myself around her and whisper dirty things all night… No. Stop it. I’m the stoic, mysterious Alpha.

I have to hold it in.] I stare at the man pretending to sleep beside me. My brain completely shortcircuits. Chapter 1 Moonlight spills across the bed, illuminating Beckett’s face.

Eyes shut. Breathing rhythmic. The picture of calm. I assume I’m having a stroke. Or a hallucination. Because the voice in my ear won’t shut up. [Sloane is staring at me.

Oh god, she’s staring. How am I supposed to sleep? My heart is hammering against my ribs.] [She’s so soft. So fragrant.

I want to tell her exactly what I want to do to her.] [But she likes the brooding type. She hates guys who act thirsty or try too hard.] [I can’t disappoint her. I’ll change.

I’ll be whatever she needs. I’ll rewrite my entire personality for her.] Me: … I have to accept the impossible. I am hearing Beckett’s raw, unfiltered thoughts.

The contrast snaps my reality in half. Is this really him? Beckett. The Ice King. The man who treats silence like a religion.

Hearing this stream of insecurity and obsession coming from him? It’s shocking. I need to test this hypothesis. My voice trembles slightly. "Beckett?" "Go to sleep.

I have meetings in the morning." He doesn’t even open his eyes. He just flips over, presenting me with a view of his broad, sculpted back and the sharp taper of his waist. Cold.

Dismissive. Yesterday, that tone would have hurt. I would have felt the familiar sting of his indifference. But now? Now I hear the restraint vibrating underneath the ice.

Because the moment his back is turned, his mind starts screaming again. [Ahhhhhh! Her voice! It’s so sweet. So soft.] [Every time she speaks, I just want to lovebomb her.

I want to flood her senses with praise until she drowns in it.] [But I can’t. That’s suicide.

Being clingy or cheesy is the fastest way to give her the ick.] [My life motto: Avoid the cringe. Keep the wife. Be a happy man.] I frown at his back.

Since when do I have a list of things that give me the "ick"? And where the hell did he get the idea that I want an emotional statue?

Chapter 2 Breakfast is the same routine as always. Clinical. Efficient. Beckett finishes his coffee in record time and relocates to the sofa.

He holds his tablet, ostensibly reading the morning market reports. He looks like a sculpture carved from ice and money. His suit is immaculate, not a wrinkle in sight.

Legs crossed casually, he radiates that specific brand of "Do Not Disturb" energy. Every thirty seconds, his eyes flick up. Then down. Then to the expensive watch on his wrist.

He’s waiting for me. Our marriage is the result of one hangover and a very blurry, very reckless night. He married me out of duty.

I married him because I was actually, stupidly in love with him. In a desperate attempt to manufacture intimacy, I made a rule early on: I tie his tie before he leaves for work.

Every single morning. It’s my pathetic little attempt to roleplay a happily married couple. Beckett agreed, of course. He agrees to everything.

But usually, when he sits there checking his watch while I chew my toast, it feels like an indictment. A silent, impatient demand to hurry the hell up. Until today.

Today, the subtitles are on. [Holy shit. Look at her.] [She’s still halfasleep. The bedhead. The little squint.

She is aggressively cute this morning.] [This is the best part of the day.

Just sitting here, pretending to read, stealing glances while she eats.] [Okay, knowing her stats, she takes twenty minutes to refuel.

That means ten minutes until she comes over to do my tie.] [Will I get a goodbye kiss today? A bonus round? Please. I’m begging.] He glances at his watch again.

His face is a mask of indifference. [Eight minutes.] [Five minutes.] […] Splash. My piece of toast slips from my fingers and drowns in my coffee.

The shock wakes me up faster than the caffeine ever could. He isn't reading the news. He hasn't processed a single word on that screen.

He isn’t checking his watch because he’s late. He’s counting down the seconds until I tie that silk around his neck, just so he can steal a moment of intimacy.

For months, I’ve felt like I was forcing myself on him. I’ve felt the humiliation of chasing a man who seemed to tolerate me at best.

Now, hearing the chaotic stream of thirst inside his head, a sudden flare of anger ignites in my chest. Who the hell taught him how to be a husband?

We barely speak ten sentences a day. I get "not wanting to be cheesy," but this? This is emotional starvation. He buries everything. Every thought, every desire, locked in a vault.

Does he have any idea how close I’ve come to dragging him to the courthouse and filing for divorce? Just because I felt like I was living with a roommate who hated me?

I finish my coffee. I shove the feelings down. I walk into the living room. Beckett doesn't move. He sits there, statuestill, looking calm, collected, and utterly unattainable.

But the air around him is vibrating with his internal screaming. [She’s coming. She’s coming. Act normal.] Chapter 3 I pause for a beat.

I pretend I’m deaf to the chaotic monologue streaming into my brain. I head straight for the entryway. Beckett cracks. Just for a microsecond, the marble facade slips.

A flash of panic ripples across his face before he ruthlessly shoves it back down. But I hear everything. [She forgot. She actually forgot to tie it!

This is critical protocol, Sloane!] [No. Unacceptable. I need her hands on me. Do I remind her?] [Does that make me a Stage 5 Clinger? Does it make me look incompetent?

Like a toddler who can't dress himself?] [But I can't function without it! I need the ritual!] [If I walk out that door without her knot, I am going to be a husk of a man today.

A tragic, tieless husk.] His internal war rages for another second. Finally, just as my fingers brush the doorknob, he breaks silence. "Sloane." I stop. Pivot.

Cool as a cucumber. "Something up? I'm running late." "Did you forget something?" "Did I?" I flash a confused, innocent smile. "Drawing a blank here." The mask splinters.

A hairline fracture in his composure. He produces the silk tie from the side table, dangling it in front of me. "Your rule," he says. "Remember?" "Oh.

That." I hum, tapping my chin thoughtfully. "Let's scrap it." I shrug, keeping my voice breezy. "It’s kind of a hassle to keep it up every day, isn't it?

I don't want to force a routine. You can handle your own wardrobe. No point in you wasting time waiting for me. Efficient, right?" Beckett’s lips press into a thin, white line.

His eyes are dark, bottomless oceans. On the surface, he looks completely unbothered. Like the cancellation of our morning ritual is as significant as a weather report.

If I couldn't hear the screaming, I would have believed him. [Not a hassle! It’s not a hassle at all!] [You can't change the terms now! I veto this!

I do not consent!] [Wait… is she bored? Is she sick of me? Is the novelty gone?] [I have to be good.

I can't be a drama queen or she’ll actually hate me.] [Rule #1 of being the perfect husband: Listen to the wife.

If she says it's over, I have to take it like a man.] "Suit yourself." Two words. Clipped. Cold. But I hear the grit in them.

I hear the sound of a man physically forcing the words through his teeth to keep from begging. I nod. "Bye." I turn on my heel and walk out the door. [She’s gone. She actually left.

No tie. No goodbye kiss.] [My day is over. Happiness is dead.] [Sloane, please. Just turn around.

If you look back right now, you’ll see a man literally crumbling into dust.] Chapter 4 I can practically feel his desperation radiating off him as I walk away.

A phantom limb reaching out, begging me to come back. I speed up. I don't look back. Hold the line, Sloane. No mercy.

He needs to understand exactly how I’ve been feeling for the last year. Night falls. The marital bed becomes a battlefield of silence.

Beckett is on his side, laptop balanced on his thighs, typing with efficient, rhythmic strokes. I’m on my side, book open, eyes scanning lines I’m not actually reading.

To an outsider, we look like a power couple winding down. Peaceful. Domestic. In reality, my brain is melting.

Because Beckett’s internal radio is blasting at full volume. [It’s time. It’s finally time. The golden hour.] [I am ready. I am primed. Systems are go. Just give the signal, Sloane.

Use me. Wreck me. I’ll lie flat. I’ll be good.] [Just a peek… okay, she’s on page 204. One more chapter? Please let this be the last chapter.] The monologue shifts.

He starts… humming? No, he’s singing. Inside his own head. [ Sloane is the best, she puts me to the test… please look at me, baby, let’s get undressed… ] My eye twitches.

I slam the book shut. I look at him. Beckett’s eyes flick toward me. His face is a mask of cool, professional detachment. God, he’s good. Oscarworthy.

He sits there, looking like he’s tolerating my presence, waiting for me to pounce on him. For months, I thought I was forcing myself on him.

I thought he was just doing his "husbandly duty" to shut me up. Just satisfying biological urges with zero emotional investment. Turns out, he’s literally counting the seconds.

But he won’t say a damn word. Okay. Fine. If you want to play it cool, we’ll play it cool.

I take a deep breath and plaster on a bright, fake smile. "Time for bed." His eyes light up. A microscopic crack in the ice. He thinks this is it.

I turn my gaze to his laptop. "You're still working, right?" I wave a dismissive hand. "You finish up. Don't let me stop you. Don't stay up too late. Goodnight." I lay down.

Pull the duvet up to my chin. Squeeze my eyes shut. The silence in the room is heavy. Suffocating. Beckett freezes.

It takes him a full ten seconds to process the rejection. "Goodnight." His voice is steady. But inside? It’s a catastrophe. [Sloane? No hug?

How can she sleep without the hug?] [First the tie. No goodbye kiss. Now the nighttime activities are cancelled? Is this it? Is she bored of me?] [She doesn't love me anymore.

What do I do? I can't breathe without her. Oh god, it burns. I’m going to cry. I am literally going to weep right now.] I snap my eyes open. I catch him.

Beckett is staring at me, and his eyes are rimmed with red. A layer of moisture glosses over his pupils.

He tries to look away, to hide the vulnerability, but he’s too slow. "What's wrong?" I keep my voice soft. I’m giving him an out. A chance to drop the act.

Truth be told, I hate this too. I’m used to the rhythm of us. Unless one of us is sick, we don't skip nights. But I need him to say it. Chapter 5 Beckett stares at me.

His eyes are rimmed with red, a visible war waging behind his irises. I hold his gaze. I soften my expression. I wait. Come on. Just say it. Make the move. His Adam's apple bobs.

A sharp, nervous swallow. He snaps his laptop shut. The sound echoes in the sudden silence. The air in the room thickens, heavy with unsaid things and rising heat.

I have to admit it: I am a weak woman. Even after a year, looking at that chiseled jaw and those brooding eyes makes my pulse skip a beat. I am a sucker for his face.

I lower my lashes, feigning shyness, my heart hammering against my ribs. I wait for the grab. The pull. The kiss. He lifts a hand to his face.

He covers his eyes. "It’s nothing," he grunts. "Bug in my eye." The record scratches. [Can't let Sloane see me cry. Highvalue men don't cry.

It ruins the mystique.] [I am a genius, actually. The 'bug in the eye' gambit. Classic. Now she has to lean in close to check. She’ll have to blow gently on my face.

Physical contact imminent.] … I stare at him. The sheer audacity leaves me paralyzed. My anticipation curdles into annoyance. He wants me to initiate? Again? After that performance?

Not happening. I kill the vibe instantly. I roll over, presenting him with my back. "Rub it yourself. I'm tired. Goodnight." Morning brings the consequences.

Beckett looks like he went twelve rounds with a demon. Dark purple bruises sit under his eyes. He looks wrecked. He didn't sleep.

He spent eight hours mentally screaming into the void. And because I am cursed, I heard every single word. My head is throbbing from the noise pollution, but I kept my mouth shut.

He is my husband, after all. I have to spoil him a little. Beckett inhales his breakfast in three bites and retreats to the sofa.

He hunches over his phone, thumbs flying across the screen, brow furrowed in intense concentration. It looks like a corporate crisis. A stock market crash. A hostile takeover.

Then the broadcast starts. [Guru! Code Red! Emergency!] [I stuck to the script. I did the 'Stoic Alpha' thing exactly like you said. And it worked!

She was obsessed!] [But the strategy is failing. We have hit a plateau. Last night was a disaster.] [She rejected the cuddles. She turned her back on me! Is she bored?

Is it the 'ick'? Help me, Coach!] [What do I do? Pivot? Rebrand?] [Checking your bio… Link #1? 'Hidden Charms: The Art of Masculine Detail'?] [Bought it. I’m reading it today.

I will execute these tactics immediately.] [You’re a lifesaver. I’m dropping a hundred gifted subs on your stream tonight. Do not let me down.] Me: … Chapter 6 Okay. Mystery solved.

He isn't just socially awkward. He’s following a playbook. Beckett. The corporate shark. The titan of industry who eats competitors for lunch.

He’s taking marriage advice from some random internet guru? I applaud the effort. Really. But the execution? It’s lethal.

Beckett struts to the bathroom, looking pleased with himself. Crucially, he leaves his phone on the coffee table. Target acquired. I need to know who this "Guru" is.

Who has the power to brainwash a genius into acting like a robot? I creep over. Tap the screen. Blocked. Passcode required. I slide it back just as the bathroom door opens.

I’m not giving up. "Beckett. Let me see your phone." "Hm?" He blinks. Confused. But his body goes on autopilot. He hands it to me without a millisecond of hesitation.

I tap the screen. "Passcode?" His brain detonates. [She wants my phone? Why? Is she checking up on me?] [She cares! She actually cares!] [Wait… is she cold because she’s suspicious?

Does she think I’m stepping out?] [Oh god, I’m a piece of trash. I made her feel insecure. I am the worst husband alive.] [Check it, Sloane! Audit the whole thing!

I’m clean!] Me: … Trust me, buddy, I know you’re faithful. I listened to you mentally weep over me for eight straight hours last night.

I need to stop the spiral before he hyperventilates. "I can’t find my phone," I lie smoothly. "I just need to call it to find where I left it." The panic drains out of him, replaced immediately by a wave of depression. [Oh.

She’s not jealous. It really is just boredom.] [It’s my fault. I let the spark die. I failed to keep the mystery alive.] [But it’s okay. I have the Guru’s manifesto. I will study.

I will win her back.] Me: … Just wait. I’m going to find out who this "Guru" is, and I’m going to have a little chat with him. I stare at the lock screen. "Beckett?

The code?" He freezes. The internal screaming returns, louder than before. [God, why? Why are you testing me?] [The code… it’s SloaneIsMyGoddess.] [Why?

Why was I so thirsty when I set it up? It’s so cringe! It’s so desperate!] [If I tell her, she’ll see the truth. She’ll see I’m just a simp in a tailored suit.

She’ll get the ick instantly.] [But if I don't tell her, she’ll think I’m hiding something. She’ll think I don't trust her.] [I’m dead either way.

My image is ruined.] [What do I do?!] Chapter 7 What am I supposed to do? I look at the sheer terror in his eyes. The man is vibrating. I sigh internally. I am a benevolent god.

I pretend I don't see the panic attack happening behind his retinas. I simply angle the screen toward his face. "Face ID works too." Click. The padlock icon snaps open.

I turn away slightly, pretending to dial my number. In reality, my thumb hits the volume rocker. Mute. I switch apps. Twitch. Messages. I scroll to the bottom. There it is.

The chat with the "Guru." The last sent message: [Thanks for the save, Guru. You’re a legend.] My eyes drift up to the username. @Ace_Esports My smile freezes.

It petrifies into a rictus of horror. I tap the profile. Content: League of Legends highlights. Valorant clips. Setup tours. Location: Seattle. The handle. The content. The IP.

There is no mistake. This is my little brother. This is Ace. My parents have been trying to drag him back to the family empire for years. They hate the gaming.

They cut off his trust fund to force him into a suit