Ethan Foster gazed into her jet-black eyes; in those shining pupils, there was almost no trace of bloodshot—this showed that the owner of those eyes slept very well and probably kept a regular schedule. Was she a very self-disciplined person?

“Good morning, Little Ethan.” Upon waking, she gave Ethan Foster a gentle smile, sat up, and stretched lazily.

Her voice was highly recognizable and matched her temperament perfectly—it was just the kind of voice you’d expect after seeing her appearance.

Seeing his ‘wife’ greet him, Ethan Foster nodded in response, “Morning…”

But as soon as he spoke, he paused slightly.

There was a problem.

He didn’t know his ‘wife’s’ name.

This dream hadn’t followed any gradual process; instead, it had bungee-jumped straight into married life. So, apart from the body’s sense of intimacy with his ‘wife,’ he couldn’t recall her name.

This was very bad.

Even in a dream, you can’t just make up a name on the spot, right?

A man still needs some survival instinct.

Ethan Foster’s brain spun rapidly.

Just as his mind was working so fast it was about to overheat…

“Good morning, dear.” Ethan Foster replied cleverly.

Inwardly, he offered his blessings to the predecessor who invented the word ‘dear.’

“Huh? That’s so cheesy.” She giggled and said, “I have to get up early and go to the office today to handle some things. You worked until midnight yesterday and went to bed late… so sleep a bit longer.”

With that, she leaned over, swept her hair behind her ear, and gave Ethan Foster a light peck on the lips.

It was just a brief touch, nothing deep—just a morning greeting between husband and wife.

“What do you want for breakfast?” After the quick peck, she climbed over Ethan Foster, took her clothes from the rack by the bed, and changed out of her pajamas.

“Some porridge?” Ethan Foster replied. Back in his hometown, it was customary to have porridge with some side dishes for breakfast—a long-standing tradition.

“Okay!” she said as she headed toward the bathroom.

The daily interactions between husband and wife seemed as simple and peaceful as ever.

Only after she entered the bathroom to freshen up did Ethan Foster’s tense body finally relax!

[If this is a dream, isn’t it a bit too real?]

The interaction between her and him was just too natural, just like a real old married couple.

And it was so detailed—normally, dreams rarely have this kind of detail, right?

A vague sense of unease began to rise in Ethan Foster’s heart.

He was already faintly aware that this might not be a dream.

Not long after, his wife came out of the bathroom, sat down at the vanity, and put on some light makeup.

Her shoulder-length hair was tied into a small ponytail at the back, and she wore glasses—this look made her aura much stronger.

“I’ll make breakfast in a bit and keep it warm for you. Sleep a little longer, but remember to get up and eat breakfast, don’t forget.” she reminded him gently.

This was a kind of warmth that seeped into your bones.

“Mm.” Ethan Foster nodded in response—his body, especially his big heart, started sending him the message ‘I feel so warm inside.’ Was this what people meant by ‘feeling warm at heart’?

He didn’t even need his brain to command it; his heart just started to feel warm on its own, saving a lot of steps.

After finishing her makeup, his wife opened the door and headed to the kitchen.

—From their brief conversation just now, it was clear she was going to the office to handle some things. Judging from her tone, maybe she even owned the company?

By comparison, Ethan Foster’s own job seemed much more flexible, but sometimes he probably had to pull all-nighters to finish work, so he’d gone to bed late and didn’t necessarily have to go to work during the day?

What kind of job has that much freedom?

After his wife left the room and closed the door, Ethan Foster relaxed again, burying his whole head into the pillow.

[It’s too real.]

So real it was almost excessive.

When this kind of ‘reality’ crosses a certain threshold, anyone would start to doubt.

So, Ethan Foster raised his left hand, stared at it for a moment, and found a spot on his muscle that looked suitable.

Once he’d found his target, he reached out with his right hand, pinched the chosen spot on his left arm between his thumb and forefinger, and twisted hard.

Face the harshness of reality, left brachioradialis!

Chapter 3: Well, That’s the End of Me

Ouch, ouch, ouch…

A clear and real pain shot from his left arm.

This pain was completely different from the light, floaty ‘pain’ he’d felt in dreams before.

Ethan Foster recalled his past dream scenarios—he’d sometimes dream of being chased, with the pursuer firing several shots at him, leaving multiple see-through bullet holes in his body.

After being shot in the dream, he’d feel something like ‘pain,’ but it was light, floaty, and fake—like a rootless duckweed.

You could call it pain, but there was no real nerve pain; that ‘pain’ was just a setting, and the brain didn’t actually give any real ‘shot’ feedback.

But now, the harder he twisted with his right hand, the more his left arm hurt!

The more force he used, the more his left brachioradialis ached.