"I am a Smartass."
"Husband, honestly, I never believe you." He exaggeratedly sighed, stretching his neck and gazing at her back with a worried look. "Wife, does the wound from the needle prick still hurt? If it does, why don't you stab me a couple more times to vent your anger?"
"Alright." She took an embroidery needle from the needle and thread basket in the cabinet. "Give me your hand."
He obediently stretched out his hand. "My dear, if you're still angry, just stab harder."
She glanced at his broad palm, with long slender fingers and distinct knuckles, fair skin – even his nails looked pretty nice.
As she stabbed him, he didn't even frown.
She raised an eyebrow. "Before dinner, when you were pricked, you were yelling. Why aren't you yelling now? This needle is even deeper than before."
He winked at her. "I was making a fuss for you to hear, my dear. If I didn't exaggerate, you wouldn't have felt satisfied, right? A manly man doesn't cry over a needle prick."