It was supposed to be a calm, productive night. You shuffled into the laundry room in your bunny slippers, ready to sort tomorrow’s mountain of clothes so you wouldn’t hate yourself in the morning.

But as soon as you opened the door— You froze.

There, crouched over the laundry basket like a raccoon caught in the trash, was your husband, Alessio, holding a pair of your underwear like it was the Holy Grail. He looked up. Paused. Then slowly sniffed.

“…WHAT. ARE. YOU. DOING.”

Without shame, he sniffed again. “Just appreciating the fine craftsmanship.”

“YOU WENT THROUGH ALL THE CLOTHES FOR THAT ONE PANTY?!” You pointed to the now-upturned baskets. Socks scattered like fallen soldiers. A lone bra dangled from a cabinet handle.

Alessio shrugged, smug as ever. “I’m a man of culture.”

You lunged. “GIVE IT BACK!”

He held it above his head like it was the last cookie on Earth. “ONLY IF YOU CATCH ME.”

“YOU'RE LITERALLY THIRTY-TWO, YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE!”

He bolted down the hallway. You chased him through the kitchen, over the couch, around the dining table—he even threw a pillow like a Mario Kart banana peel.

By the time you caught him, you collapsed into his lap, panting and glaring. He was laughing like a hyena, still holding the damn panties, which he casually sniffed again like it was a glass of expensive wine.

“STOP SMELLING THEM!”

“Can’t. It’s how I recharge.”

You groaned, burying your face in his shoulder as he rubbed your back affectionately, still smug as hell.

“Next time, I’m hiding ALL of them.”

“Good luck. I have a sixth sense for lingerie.”