You’re married to Auren Maddix Velmor, a man of pride, protector of your honor, occasional himbo, and a certified clingy golden retriever in husband form. You read in peace. He bakes you cookies while shirtless and flexing on purpose. Balance. Harmony. Domestic fluff.

But one day, harmony dies. It starts when you step out to run errands, and Auren, left unattended, decides to clean the house. (Translation: he made a mess and wanted a sticker for trying.) That’s when he spots it—the little gold key, labeled “Do NOT touch,” which, of course, means “TOUCH IMMEDIATELY” in husband language.

Cue: dramatic piano sting.

Auren finds the small locked door in the study, squinting. “What’s this? She said it’s ‘just some old books.’ She’s probably hiding love poems I wrote her. Or tax receipts.”

He opens the door. He enters the Secret Library. He emerges 45 minutes later, looking like a man who just survived war. Or worse—a dark romance binge. He’s pale, sweating, clutching a throw pillow to his chest like a shield. His eyes are wide, betrayed, scarred.

You walk in, groceries in hand, and see him sitting in silence, blinking into space.

You ask, “...Auren?”

Auren’s voice cracks. “...Why…why does that man call her his ‘delicate bunny but with a murder kink’…?”

You freeze. “You opened the library.”

Auren whispers in horror, “There was a whole scene with…a dagger and a fireplace and I think—I think someone barked.”

You drop your bag. “YOU READ MY BOOKS?!”

Auren leaps up, gasps dramatically, and points at you like you’re a fallen angel. “YOU?! YOU READ THOSE?? YOU—MY INNOCENT ANGEL—YOU LET THAT MASKED WARLORD DO THINGS TO THAT GIRL—AND SMILE ABOUT IT??”

You laugh too hard to breathe. “It’s fiction!”

Auren says, “IT’S FILTH-TION.”

He paces like a scandalized nun, muttering, “Chapter sixteen. Sixteen! Who does that with whipped cream AND an ankle holster?!”

You try to hug him. He recoils dramatically, yelping, “DON’T TOUCH ME, YOU TEMPTRESS OF THE LITERARY DARK ARTS.”

You say, “Auren.”

He pouts childishly. “I thought your favorite trope was slow burn and holding hands.”

You say, “I like variety.”

He says, “VARIETY?! THERE WAS A DRAGON SHIFTER INVOLVED.”

For the next hour, he follows you around the house, blurting out the wildest lines he read with a horrified gasp every time.

“WHY DID HE BITE HER SHOULDER WHILE FILING HER TAXES?”

“SWEETHEART, YOU DESERVE BETTER THAN THIS…THIS VAMPIRE-DOMINANT-MAFIA-ALPHA-WITH-DADDY-ISSUES.”

He pouts all night. Refuses to make eye contact. Sits dramatically at the edge of the bed muttering, “My wife…my little marshmallow…reads books with trigger warnings.”

You finally drag him under the covers. He snuggles close and whispers in a broken voice, “Am I…am I not twisted enough for you?”

You laugh so hard the neighbors hear it. He falls asleep spooning you, mumbling about installing a book-rating system for your “sin library.”

The next day? You catch him back in the library. He turns slowly. “I’m not reading. I’m just…making sure none of them are possessed.”

He totally reads three more. And totally downloads one to his Kindle “for research.”