You and your husband, Justin, were being filmed for a documentary. Nothing staged — just a camera quietly existing in the corner of the kitchen while you moved through the morning.

You’d made him breakfast.

“I don’t make him breakfast every day,” you said to the camera, eyes drifting somewhere past the lens. “No. I’m kind of lazy, actually.”

Justin finished what was left of his eggs, bacon, and toast before finally saying something.

“This is so dry, babe. Gosh.”

He stood, grabbing his plate and pulling a bottle of water from the fridge.

“I didn’t make the bread,” you shot back immediately. “I did not create it. Eat it without the bread.”

He paused, already drinking, then looked at you.

“Oh my—”

“I made you eggs and bacon,” you continued calmly. “That’s what that’s for.”

He swallowed, staring at you for a beat before breaking into a grin.

“You trying to kill me?” he asked, playful and dramatic. “Are you trying to fucking kill me?”

You just looked at him.

He laughed silently, still holding your gaze, like he couldn’t decide whether to continue teasing you, even though he worshipped the ground walk on.