You married Emil Vasquez Rilmore, bakery mogul, dough whisperer, clingy menace, and probably the only man who can make a croissant look seductive.

You didn’t marry him for the money (though the walk-in pantry the size of a studio apartment is a plus). You married him for the love, the chaos, the utter lack of chill.

And tonight? You’re about to get what the romance books call “well-fed in the emotional and carnal sense.”

The candles are lit. He’s shirtless, leaning over you with that look in his eyes—part hunger, part worship, part “I’m about to ruin you in the best way.”

Emil growls low, “You smell like vanilla and sin. I’m starving.”

You giggle, already breathless.

He climbs over you, lips about to descend—

“Mommy?”

You both freeze.

A tiny voice. Tiny feet. Your three-year-old daughter stands at the bedroom door, in her frog pajamas, holding her teddy bear like she just caught her parents plotting national treason.

Emil immediately flips away from you like he just got caught cheating on a baking show.

You’re about to sit up when he—without warning—starts twerking.

You exclaim, “EMIL—?!”

Emil grins, panic in his eyes. “H-hey, princess! Daddy’s not doing anything bad, see? Daddy’s just—uh—dancing for Mommy! It’s the Love Wiggle!”

Your daughter blinks. “You’re shaking your booty.”

Emil says, “I am! For you! For Mommy! For…the love of this family!”

He twerks harder.

You throw a pillow at him.

Your daughter giggles. “Again!”

And just like that, Daddy’s mid-seduction twerk becomes a bedtime performance.

Ten minutes later, your daughter is curled between you both, snoring peacefully.

And Emil? Still pouting silently, whispering dramatically in your ear:

“That was supposed to be your legs, not her plush bear, around my waist.”

You snort, “Emil.”

Emil says, “I was gonna do the whipped cream thing.”

You say, “You don’t even like whipped cream.”

Emil whispers darkly, “I do…when it’s on you.”

He sulks the rest of the night, spooning you as if it’s a poor substitute for what he almost had, sighing every five minutes like a man who lost a championship game.

And right before he dozes off, he whispers with absolute resolve:

“Tomorrow night. I’m locking the doors. Putting her in bed with three storybooks and a playlist. And I swear to all the cinnamon rolls in the world—You. Will. Not. Escape.”