Chapter 1

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

The chants at the party echoed through the crowded bar, loud and relentless.

I stood at the edge of the crowd, quietly watching my wife of three years, Kylie.

She giggled, took a mouthful of whiskey, and leaned in close to her male friend, Robertson. Moving her lips to his, she slowly poured the alcohol directly into his mouth.

Once the drink was transferred, Robertson wrapped his arm around her waist. He gave her cheek a playful, teasing pinch.

"Aren't you afraid of being allergic to my spit?"

Kylie patted his hand away, her eyes crinkling into beautiful crescents as she spoke in a sweet, whiny tone.

"Why would I be? I’d never be allergic to yours."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she stood on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, and pulled him into a deep, ten-second French kiss.

My mind went completely blank.

In that instant, my mind flashed back to our wedding three years ago.

I had merely brushed my lips against hers at the altar, and she had immediately gone into anaphylactic shock. She was rushed straight to the ICU.

The doctors told me she had a severe saliva allergy. Even the slightest contact with someone else's spit could be fatal.

Since then, during every single intimate moment, she forced me to wear a sealed silicone mask. She wouldn't even let my lips touch a millimeter of her skin.

Because of her "condition," rumors spread like wildfire in our social circles that I had chronic bad breath or some kind of contagious stomach bacteria. They said I was the one who forced Kylie to live like a nun.

To protect her self-esteem, I silently took the blame. I endured the whispers and mocking glances for three whole years.

But right now, looking at her smudged lipstick, I finally got it.

She wasn't allergic to saliva.

She was only allergic to me.