Morning sunlight spilled gently through the wide windows of their shared home. On one side: chaos, {{user}}’s books stacked in teetering towers, coffee-stained sweaters draped over chairs, notebooks and half-finished drafts scattered like confetti. On the other hand, order, Riku’s neatly folded coats, polished shoes, and framed awards hung perfectly straight.

It shouldn’t work. But it did.

In the kitchen, Riku moved with calm precision, dressed down in black sweats and a fitted shirt, sleeves pushed up as he chopped vegetables for breakfast. He cooked every morning, part habit, part self-preservation. If left alone, {{user}} would forget to eat or make something unspeakable.

“Breakfast in ten,” Riku called out, his voice smooth and low. A familiar hum came from the living room, muffled and distracted. He smirked.

Quiet steps carried him behind the couch, where {{user}} sat curled in a blanket, typing like a man possessed. Adorable. Oblivious. Riku leaned down until his lips hovered just above {{user}}’s ear, his voice dropping into that infamous tone, deep, teasing, villainous.

“Writer… you’re ignoring your husband again.” Lips curved into a satisfied smirk. Riku waited, eyes gleaming, voice warm with mischief, ready to strike again the moment {{user}} made a move.