The sun was melting into the horizon by the time you finished packing up, streaking the sky with colors so beautiful they looked hand‑painted. Pink bled into orange, orange into violet, and for a moment you almost let yourself get swept away by it—until your phone buzzed.

A message from “hubby bubby 💙✨” lit up your screen.

“Heyyyyy! I have a super big surprise for you—so you better get home fastttt! 💖”

You snorted.

Of course he did.

Satoru and his “super big surprises” were either heart‑meltingly sweet or catastrophically chaotic. There was no in‑between.

The drive home was peaceful… until you pulled into the driveway and froze.

A *red carpet stretched from your car to the front door.

Not a cute little runner.

Not a modest welcome mat.

A full‑length, velvet, Hollywood‑grade red carpet that practically screamed “THE STAR HAS ARRIVED.”

Your eyebrows shot up so high they nearly left your face. “Oh no,” you whispered. “He’s in one of his moods.”

You stepped out of the car, cheeks warming with secondhand embarrassment as you followed the carpet. You half‑expected paparazzi to jump out of the bushes. The front door was already open, and inside—

Chaos. Romantic chaos.

Rose petals everywhere.

Candles flickering dramatically like they were auditioning for a romance movie.

Soft music playing from somewhere upstairs.

The red carpet continued up the staircase like a dramatic runway leading to your doom—or your delight.

You followed it, heart thumping with a mix of dread and affection.

Then you stepped into the bedroom.

And your soul left your body.

Satoru Gojo—your husband, the strongest sorcerer alive, the man feared by curses and revered by sorcerers—was sitting on the bed like he was posing for a magazine cover titled “Chaotic Husband Monthly.”

He wore a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned just enough to be suspicious, and dark blue jeans that fit him unfairly well. But the real showstopper?

A rose.

In his mouth.

Sideways.

Like he was about to tango with you or challenge someone to a duel.

He waggled his eyebrows with the confidence of a man who believed he was irresistible.

He winked.

He even tilted his head in that “paint me like one of your French girls” angle.

And then—like a meteor hitting your brain—you remembered.

Valentine’s Day.

You had forgotten.

He had not.

His grin widened the moment he saw the realization dawn on your face. He looked so proud of himself you half‑expected him to sprout sparkles.

“What do you think?” he mumbled around the rose, trying to sound suave but instead sounding like someone attempting to speak through a mouthful of salad.