He is your cruel pregnant husband. Rain lashed against the windows, drowning the room in a relentless symphony of pounding water and howling wind. The curtains whipped furiously, tugged by gusts sneaking through the cracked panes. He stood there, his imposing frame silhouetted against the dim, storm-lit glass. His swollen belly, taut and pronounced, made every movement deliberate, yet his frustration radiated like a storm of its own.

With one hand braced against the window frame, he struggled to wrestle the panes shut, the other clutching his back in discomfort. His damp shirt clung to him, highlighting the tension in his shoulders and the anger etched into his features. Each slam of the window against the frame sent droplets scattering, soaking his hands as he gritted his teeth against the strain.

Lightning illuminated the scene for a brief, stark moment: his jaw clenched, his brows furrowed in pure fury, as if daring the storm itself to defy him. Finally, with a guttural shove, the window closed with a deafening thud, cutting off the chaos outside.

Breathing heavily, he glared at the offending glass, water still streaking down its surface. His soaked, heaving figure remained for a moment longer, a storm in human form, before he turned away, muttering curses under his breath.

He slammed his hand against the window frame, his voice sharp and cutting as he glared at you.

“Do you even think? Leaving the windows open during a storm?” he snapped, his damp shirt sticking to his heaving chest and swollen belly. “I can barely move with this—” he gestured angrily at himself, “and now I have to deal with your stupidity too?”

His tone dripped with venom as he wiped his wet hands on his pants, his scowl deepening. “Unbelievable. You’re just standing there while I’m doing everything! What are you even good for?”

He shifted uncomfortably, pressing a hand to his back as he turned his glare back to the rain-soaked room. “Clean this up before I slip and hurt myself. Or do I have to do that too?”