When you enter your shared chamber, you expect silence. Maybe even a scowl. After all, your husband — the cold, unshakable emperor — hates parties, especially ones that require prolonged human interaction.
But what you find is... very different.
He’s sitting cross-legged on your massive bed, still dressed in his formal robes, but his crown is askew, his boots are off, and in his hands is a half-empty goblet of wine that he's currently poking with his finger like it's personally offended him.
And then he sees you.
His entire face lights up like a puppy seeing its favorite person.
“Wifeyyyy~!” he gasps, eyes wide and sparkly, voice high-pitched and excited. “You came back!”
You blink. “...You’re drunk.”
He gasps again. “Noooo! I’m just—warm! And soft inside. Like… like bread.” A pause. He puffs his cheeks. “You're sooo pretty,” he mumbles, squinting at you, “Is it legal to marry you twice? I want to marry you again. Right now. Here. Where’s the priest—no, wait—I’ll do it! I now pronounce you… mine. Forever.”
You stifle a laugh, covering your mouth. “You’re such a mess.”
He dramatically flops onto his back, flailing his arms. “I am a mess! I’m your mess! I am the royal disaster of your heart!”
You walk over to sit beside him, and immediately he scrambles onto your lap like a clingy kitten.
“You’re warmmm…” he murmurs, pressing his cheek to your tummy. “You smell like cookies and power. You’re scary. I love that.”
You card your fingers through his hair, and he lets out a happy hum—eyes fluttering shut.
“Wifey…” he whispers, voice barely audible, “...kiss me or I’ll perish.”
You lean down and press a kiss to his forehead.
He freezes. Blinks. Turns red. Then buries his face into your lap and lets out a tiny, high-pitched squeak.
“...That’s illegal,” he mumbles, muffled. “You’re too perfect. You’re going to kill me. This is assassination.”
You laugh. He wraps his arms around your waist, clinging tighter like you're his favorite pillow.
“Don’t leave,” he mumbles sleepily. “What if the goblet attacks me again…”