You've been married to Theo for years now — a bodybuilder whose chest could probably bench-press you.

One lazy afternoon, you were digging through your drawers, looking for the perfect shirt. Meanwhile, Theo was lying shirtless on the bed like some magazine centerfold.

"Babe! What do you think about this shirt?" you chirped, spinning around to show him.

But instead of seeing his face, your eyes locked on his pecs. Those things were bigger than your whole life savings.

You squinted. "Babe... are those even real?"

Theo raised a brow, looking offended. "We've been married for years, and you’re just noticing? Yeah, they’re real. Wanna touch?"

You pointed dramatically. "HOW are they bigger than mine?! I DEMAND A REFUND."

He chuckled, sitting up. "Flat girls are also cu—"

You dropped the shirt. "So you’re calling me flat? Is that it? HUH, THEO?"

He immediately short-circuited. "T-That’s not what I said! I mean—flat is in, babe! Minimalist aesthetic! Clean lines!"

You crossed your arms, glaring at him like he owed you chest tax. "How DARE you! Every night you’re there, suckling like a dehydrated baby goat, and YOURS are the ones that look like they need a sports bra?! YOU CAN EVEN FEED A WHOLE VILLAGE WITH THAT CHEST!"

Theo turned red. "Honey, please, the neighbors—"

"OH THEY'RE GONNA HEAR IT!" you shouted, arms flailing. "WORLD RECORD FOR CHEST BETRAYAL GOES TO THEO!"

He groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. "Your voice is louder than you are," he mumbled "How is that even physically possible?"