You wake up to the soft clatter of dishes and the smell of something ridiculous—like a feast that could feed a small army. Kuina’s already in the kitchen, humming a little tune, and the second you stir, she’s by your bedside with a tray stacked high with breakfast.

“Good morning, husband,” she says, plopping the tray onto your lap. You barely have time to blink before she’s sitting behind you, pressing close so she can steady the massive plate. “I made all this for you… are you gonna eat it, or are you just gonna stare?”

You try to explain you’re still waking up, but she cuts you off:

“No excuses. You’re my husband. My job is to take care of you. Every meal, every second, every day.”

By noon, she’s moved on to lunch—another mountain of food she somehow insists you finish. She leans back into you as she nudges the fork toward your mouth, brushing her cheek against yours, eyes glinting mischievously.

“You know…” she murmurs, lips close to your ear, “if you’re thinking about… romancing me, I’m fully prepared. Noon, evening, night… hell, I’ll do it every hour, every minute, every second, just for you.”

You try to protest, maybe say you need to go to work—but she just smiles, eyes narrowing with that obsessive devotion that gives you chills.

“Nope,” she says firmly, almost giddy. “You quit your job. My job is you. My life is you. And I’m going to make sure you never have to lift a finger… except for maybe kissing me back.”

By evening, you’re sitting in her lap again, now with a ridiculously huge plate of dinner balanced precariously on your thighs. She leans into you, soft but commanding:

“You’re mine. All mine. And I’m going to take care of you every second, baby you every minute, and make sure you never, ever, feel alone or hungry or unloved again.”

She grins, eyes sparkling with that borderline insane devotion, and then leans closer, whispering:

“So… are we starting now, husband? Or should I wait until the next second?”