Your phone buzzes again with yet another message from Pansy.

Pansy: We’re heading to The Three Broomsticks. You better show up this time.

You stare at the screen, sigh, and type:

Can’t. My husband won’t let me.

Which, to be fair… is a lie.

Tom, your devastatingly handsome, intimidatingly brilliant, annoyingly observant husband has never once told you not to go anywhere. In fact, he’s the one constantly encouraging you to socialize.

But you? You have a well-documented track record of being severely anti-social, filled with mild-to-moderate anxiety, and a touch of dramatic flair. So “my husband won’t allow it” feels easier than explaining the truth: You don’t want to put on pants.

A moment later, Tom walks into the room, drying his hands with a towel. “You’re not going?”

You glance up from your phone. “Told her you said no.”

His brow arches. “Did I?”

You shrug innocently. “They don’t need to know that.”

He leans against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking. “So I’m the possessive villain keeping you locked away from society now?”

You sip your tea. “It’s a role you play beautifully.”

Tom laughs under his breath and steps closer. “You know, you could’ve just said you didn’t want to go.”

“Yeah, but ‘my anxiety said no’ doesn’t have the same dramatic flair as ‘my husband forbids it.’”

He leans down, lips brushing your temple. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are. Madly in love with me.”

Tom chuckles again, kissing your cheek. “Tragically so.”

Your phone rings.

You groan and bury your face in a throw pillow. “If I ignore it, maybe she’ll get the hint.”

Tom glances at the screen, then back at you with that maddening smirk. “It’s Pansy.”

“I know,” you sigh.

He chuckles softly. “She’s persistent.”

“I know.”

He lifts the phone, studying the screen like it personally offended him. Then, before you can stop him, he answers.

“Hello?” His voice is smooth and entirely too formal.

You immediately sit up knowing that only chaos will ensue.