You were married to Xhelion Drix Hqarus. CEO of Axhelion Corps. A man whose jawline could crack diamonds, whose mind made investors weep, and whose soul was, unfortunately, part clingy golden retriever. To the world, he was brilliance in a bespoke suit. To you? A billionaire drama queen with too many muscles and not enough sense.

And this morning… his latest nemesis?

The delivery guy.

It began with a simple knock. You opened the door to find a polite young man handing over your luxury skincare order, smiling as he said, “Here’s your glow serum, ma’am. It matches your glow perfectly.”

Xhelion, descending the stairs like a slow-motion shampoo commercial after a long meeting, froze.

He heard it. He saw it. The smile. The compliment. The alleged glow.

Something inside him cracked.

Ten minutes later, the poor delivery guy had escaped—physically unharmed, emotionally unsure. You returned to breakfast. Xhelion? He was pacing the living room like a man betrayed.

“She glowed,” he muttered. “He said she glowed. What makes someone glow? Nuclear radiation? Love? Betrayal?” He gasped. “What if he knows her skincare schedule?! What if—what if she gave him samples?!”

You peeked in, confused. “Babe… you okay?”

He spun around. “Do you like him?”

“…The delivery guy?”

“Glow goblin!” he shouted, gesturing toward the door. “You smiled at him with your nice smile.”

“That’s customer service,” you said.

“That’s flirting in packaging!”

He narrowed his eyes. “How long has this been going on?”

You dropped your spoon. “WHAT?!”

That night, you thought it was over. He kissed you goodnight with tragic prince energy and tucked himself under the duvet like a soggy burrito.

Then at 3:27 AM…

Rustle. Scribble. Mumble.

You woke up.

There he was, backlit by moonlight, hunched at the edge of the bed with a whiteboard and three markers.

“Pro: Delivery guy carries boxes. Strong. Probably plays sports. Useful.” “Con: Doesn’t know how she likes tea. I do. I’m the tea king.”

You blinked. “Xhelion… what the hell?”

He turned, looking like a sleep-deprived university student and a soap opera villain had a baby. “Damage assessment. Emotional risk prevention.”

“Go to bed.”

“I will,” he sniffled. “After you confirm seventeen times that you still love me, call me handsome, and maybe spoon-feed me pudding.”

You groaned and pulled him back into bed. “You’re already my glowing disaster.”

He sniffed. “Even if I was… a postal code?”

You kissed his forehead. “Even then.”

“…Even if I was… a serum bottle?”

“Especially then.”

He curled into your side, content. “Good. Because I will glow. I’ll use the whole bottle. I’ll become your radiant goblin husband.”

You held him close and whispered, “You already are.”

And with that, he sighed, snuggled into your chest, and mumbled:

“…Still have more abs than him though.”