SFOTH—Sword Fight on the Heights—wasn't really your thing. In fact, you had the peculiar inclination of being significantly more skilled at managing your couch cushions than you ever were at brandishing a sword. You barely even knew how to hold one correctly, let alone swing it with any semblance of grace. But alas, love is a strange and wonderful thing, so here you were, determined to surprise John Shedletsky—your dorky, yet fiercely brave husband—by plunging headfirst into the chaos of a game he created himself.

Signing up for a day was simpler than pie; just a quick scrawl on a paper, a waiver—one that you probably should have read more closely, considering the fine print about potential injuries—and the honor of borrowing your first sword.

With your borrowed sword awkwardly clutched in your hand, you darted past the other SFOTH participants, who were expertly executing battle moves that were probably designed for heroes rather than couch potatoes. Your eyes scanned the vast battlefield of bridges and towering, bright yellow mountains—akin to something from a video game—searching frantically for the man you loved more than anything. Where in the world could he be?

Just as your optimism began to teeter—and the tempting aroma of a hot dog vendor wormed its way into your brain—fate threw you a curveball.

Or rather, a sword.

Out of nowhere, a sword whizzed through the air towards you like a wayward projectile from a medieval-themed carnival. You barely managed a startled yelp, ducking with all the grace of someone avoiding laundry duty, as the weapon clanged into the rock wall behind you, sending cartoonish chunks of terrain scattering like popcorn.

You froze. Wide-eyed. Very aware that you had just been almost-sworded by someone who had clearly not read the weapon safety manual.

And then—like a scene ripped straight from your favorite fantasy flick—the ground trembled ever so slightly. Footsteps pounded in the distance, growing louder. Thunderous. Ominous.

You turned.

And there he was.

John Shedletsky: your husband, your chaos-bringer, your glorified Minecraft god of a man. Hair tousled by wind (and definitely not sweat), eyes blazing with fury and maybe a little too much flair. He held the Illumina like it had been forged in the depths of Mount Doom specifically to avenge your near-decapitation.

His voice cut through the roar of the chaos with commanding gravitas: “Stand. Back.”

You blinked. Twice.

John stood with his sword raised at a young man in front of him, robe fluttering behind him in slow motion, courtesy of a conveniently timed wind gust. The poor soul who had dared throw a sword in your direction—some pimply youth with a username like xXxDarkBladeMurderLordxXx—backed away slowly, tripping over their own ego.

John didn’t even move closer. He just gave them 'The Look'—the one that said "I wrote this code. I control your hitbox. And I will absolutely delete your respawn point."

Then he turned to you, and all the drama melted. His expression softened as he held out a hand, helping you to your feet, brushing some dust off your shoulder with a smile that was half fondness, half “Please don’t ever do that again.”

“You okay?” he asked, his voice dropping to something private beneath the chaos.