Chapter 2

The real 'extra meals' happened late at night.

Leo's "overtime" became increasingly frequent and late.

Before, he would at least come up with plausible excuses. Now, it was almost just a notification.

I never pressed him. Instead, when he returned late at night, reeking of booze and cheap perfume, collapsing onto the sofa and complaining of exhaustion, I'd tie on my apron and head into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, a steaming bowl of instant ramen, topped with a golden fried egg and a few slices of spam, shimmering with oil,

or a generously portioned microwave pizza, loaded with stretchy cheese, would be placed before him.

"You're back so late, you must not have eaten properly. Going to bed on an empty stomach is bad for you, hurry and eat something while it's hot."

I sat opposite him, propping my chin on my hand, my eyes so gentle they could melt.

"I also brewed a pot of strong coffee for you, to perk you up. You don't want to get sleepy after eating, do you? Don't you still have emails to deal with?"

Leo usually had already had a late-night snack in Eve's "love nest," but faced with my earnest care, plus the energy drained by his illicit affair, he often managed to force down a considerable amount more.

High-salt, high-fat late-night meals, combined with the stimulating caffeine, forcibly awakened his nerves in the dead of night. His heart raced, his face flushed.

Several times, after eating, he'd irritably tear open his collar, pacing the living room and complaining, "Damn it, I'm stuffed and wired, can't sleep now."

At this, I'd slip on the running jacket and shoes I'd conveniently left by the sofa, my eyes bright:

"Can't sleep? Let's go for a night run! The doctor said moderate cardio is good for sleep and strengthens your heart and lungs. I'll go with you!"

Leo was initially resistant, but he couldn't resist my persistent coaxing.

Sometimes I'd say things like, "Look, your belly's getting a bit soft. Running will help you stay in shape. I love it when you have abs," half-coaxing, half-encouraging.

His deep-seated male chauvinism and vanity were completely satisfied.

So, at one or two in the morning, the figures of us, the "loving" couple, began appearing on the quiet streets outside our neighborhood.

Of course, I couldn't really run. After a few hundred meters, I'd stop, breathless, leaning on a streetlamp, waving him on:

"Honey… I can't go on, you're… you're so fit… You keep running, I'll wait for you here and cheer you on!"

Leo's vanity swelled under my admiring gaze and the occasional surprised, somewhat envious looks from passersby.

He was like a spinning top whipped by an invisible lash, running furiously under my watchful eye, on the silent streets.

I could see the veins bulging in his neck, hear his increasingly heavy, bellows-like breathing.

Meanwhile, I'd slowly walk to the 24-hour convenience store, buy two energy drinks, then sit on a bench by the roadside, taking out my phone.

The screen displayed real-time data from his health app.

Heart rate: 158, 162, 165… constantly climbing, hovering near the danger zone.

When he finally finished one or two laps, sweat-soaked and purple-faced, returning to my side, I'd immediately rush up, wipe his sweat with a towel, hand him a drink, my face full of concern:

"Darling, you've sweated so much, you must have burned a lot of energy. Are you hungry? There's a BBQ joint still open over there, shall we grab something to replenish your strength? If you don't refuel after exercise, you'll lose muscle."

And so, Leo, fresh from his "healthy" night run, would once again find himself at a smoky BBQ joint, eating greasy grilled meat and drinking ice-cold beer.

I watched him with a smile, as he consumed those high-salt, high-fat, high-purine foods.

A few scattered late-night diners and the BBQ joint owner all looked on with admiration.

"Buddy, you're a lucky man! Your wife's gorgeous and so thoughtful. She even works out with you late at night and then feeds you!"

"Not many couples work out together like you two these days. Such a great relationship!"

Leo, puffed up by these compliments, guzzled his beer, arm around my shoulder, boasting to onlookers, "That's right, my wife's one of a kind!"

I leaned into his embrace, smiling as I accepted everyone's praise, my fingers subtly tapping my phone screen, checking his health app data from an angle he couldn't see.

His daily diet was the high-load foundation. My 'loving' late-night snacks added fuel to the fire.

The ill-timed night runs were the final straw. And the BBQ and beer after his workout? The perfect, deadly cycle.

Every step was filled with a wife's profound concern for her husband's health. Every step pushed his already fragile heart closer to the brink of collapse.

A neighbor lady bumped into me at the supermarket and complimented me:

"You look so well lately, dear. Must be your husband making you happy. I see him running every night, he's got more energy than a twenty-year-old!"

I smiled shyly: "Oh, he's just restless. But exercise is always good, and I support him."

I supported him. Yes, I supported him more than anyone, towards the 'healthy' end I had so meticulously prepared for him.