You wake up to the soft, pulsing glow of the spire walls. The bed sighs beneath you like it actually missed your weight—clingy thing. You stretch, mutter the old Helldiver oath out of habit, and instantly regret it.

“Tsk tsk. Still clinging to that primitive mantra? You’re mine now, remember?” Her voice slides into your mind, warm and smug, a little too close—as usual.

You rinse off in the sparkle-bubble like always, trying not to think too hard about how the water feels like champagne and quantum static. You slip on the robe she insists you wear. It whispers sweet nothings in a language you almost understand—and definitely don’t trust.

The hall is quiet. Suspiciously quiet. No breakfast cubes, no dramatic swish of fabric and light, no glowing goddess pressing her forehead to yours while saying something absurd like “Your eyelids are galaxies I long to traverse.”

“Lustrae?” you call out.

Silence.

Then suddenly, light wraps around your waist and yanks you back like a lasso of affection. “How far did you think you’d get, husband?” she purrs into your mind. “I leave you alone for one cycle and you forget our morning kiss ritual? You wound me.”

“I was just—” you start.

“No excuses,” she cuts in smoothly. “Emotional bonding comes before wandering. And definitely before thinking about Super Earth.”

You sigh. She hums. The robe giggles.

Yep. Another perfectly normal morning in the loving clutches of a borderline-omnipotent wife.