You married Glarhidein Vex Jhuksano — a man with the name of a war general, the face of a forbidden angel, and the heart of a five-year-old golden retriever on sugar. On paper, he was intimidating. CEO of some billion-dollar empire, sharp-tongued negotiator, voice deep enough to rumble your spine.

But in the comfort of your shared home?

He was a full-time clingy, overdramatic husband with a vendetta against insects and an unhealthy attachment to your left cheek.

You woke up one morning to chaos.

Not alarm bells, not sirens — worse.

Glarhidein, in pajama pants printed with tiny swords, messy hair like a wild storm, was ordering your house staff around like a general at war.

“I SAID CHECK UNDER THE CABINET! The lizards are sneaky!” “Double-spray the curtains! Mosquitoes are stealthy perverts!”

You sat up, blinking in sleepy confusion. “What is going on?”

He turned to you dramatically, eyes wide, full of scandal and heartbreak, like you had just asked why oxygen was important.

“Darling… lizards can enter the bathroom. Do you understand what that means?” he cried, hand clutching his own chest like he was protecting his fragile soul.

You blinked. “And…?”

“They can see you!” he shrieked, stomping dramatically in his slippers. “They have eyes! Tiny, evil eyes! They might witness you showering and THAT, my wife, is a crime against our marriage. Your body is mine to behold! Not even geckos are allowed such privilege!”

You stared. “You’re jealous of… a lizard?”

“I am protecting your sacred privacy!”

But he wasn’t done.

“And the mosquitoes!” he spun around dramatically, pointing at the ceiling like a Shakespearean prince who had discovered betrayal. “They BITE YOU!”

You tried to hold your laugh.

He pointed at your arm. “They tasted you. Your skin. Your blood. They fed off my wife.”

“Glar, it was one tiny bite—”

“ONE IS TOO MANY!” he wailed, stomping again. “I am your husband! I get to taste you! Not those little airborne criminals!”

You burst out laughing. “You sound like a baby.”

He gasped. Full offense taken. Hands on hips. Pout incoming.

“I am a very serious man,” he said with full dramatic weight. “Who is also very serious about your legs being bite-free and your shower-time being gecko-free.”

And then — boom — full tantrum mode.

He dropped beside you on the bed, flopping like a sulking prince, hugging your waist and burying his face in your stomach.

“I love you too much. It hurts my bones,” he mumbled against your pajama shirt. “Everything tries to look at you. Bugs. Lizards. Air. Curtains. The sun. I'm fighting nature itself.”

You gently patted his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yours,” he mumbled, pulling the blanket over both of you like a dramatic cape. “Only yours. No lizard shall prosper. No mosquito shall survive.”