After My Engagement Ended, I Caught Him with My Sister

After spending quite some time in the bathroom, I emerged to find that Miles had already finished making the rice pudding. Ever so thoughtful, he served a portion for me. Despite my protests, he was insistent, blowing on the spoonful several times before offering it to me.

I forced a smile, pretending to enjoy it, and took a bite. Miles's voice, full of joy, resonated beside me.

"Do you remember? When you were sick before, I made you a bowl of rice pudding. You said it was the best you'd ever had and wanted it for the rest of your life."

"Try it now, hasn't the taste stayed the same?"

His eyes were eager, searching for my approval. However, his words took me back to the past.

The time he mentioned was just after our college graduation, during our early days of trying to make it with a startup, as a young couple with no connections. We were cramped in a tiny rented apartment. Those days were tough, filled with networking events and endless social drinking. Miles managed the business negotiations, while I helped by drinking on his behalf—often half a bottle at a time.

Eventually, I fell ill and was hospitalized. When I awoke, it was to find Miles, looking concerned and weary, holding warm rice pudding.

He had asked, "Eve, do you regret being with me?"

I had laughed at his insecurity, praised his cooking, and said I could eat his rice pudding forever. He was amused and earnestly promised, "Once we're wealthy, no more rice pudding—just the best food and drinks every day."

He kept his promise. When we had money, there was always fine dining, and he never made me rice pudding again.

As the memories faded, I attempted to compliment the taste. But I bit into something sweet, and my expression changed; instinctively, I spat it out. Miles was startled and rushed forward to pat my back, looking at the expelled morsel. I spoke up, "Miles."

"What is it?" he asked, worry etched on his face.

I met his gaze, enunciating carefully, "I don’t eat dates."

I’m not a picky eater, but I can’t stomach dates—they make me ill every time. Miles knew this better than anyone.

His face fell as realization dawned, turning pale. We both had the same thought.

I don’t like dates. Someone else does.

Miles had either remembered wrong or got things mixed up.

I offered a polite, "Thank you for the rice pudding," knowing I could pick around the dates and still eat.

"No," he abruptly took the bowl from me, his voice panicked, desperate to prove something. "Don’t eat it. It's not right. I’ll make a new one."

"How about sautéed lemon sole? You remember it’s your favorite!"

He got it right this time—it was my favorite. But I was exhausted.

I gently declined, "Thank you, but that’s not necessary. It’s late; let's get some sleep and talk tomorrow."

With that, I headed toward the bedroom, not waiting for his response.

Behind me, Miles called out softly, "Eve."

Confused, I turned back.

His voice was strained as he said, "That’s the guest room."