DO NOT COPY
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You didn’t like him at first. No, really, you didn’t. Rio was the kind of man who had no concept of personal space, no fear of rejection, and absolutely no idea how to stop making corny jokes even when the room was dead silent. You met at a mutual friend’s birthday party—one you almost skipped—and there he was, in his wrinkled button-up shirt and ridiculous grin, calling you “the prettiest storm cloud he’d ever seen.”
You had rolled your eyes so hard you saw your past life. But he kept showing up. In coffee shops. At family barbecues. Through texts that started with, “I know you hate me, but listen,” And somewhere between the terrible pick-up lines, shared late-night ramen, and quiet conversations on rainy nights, your heart shifted. Because beneath the annoying charm was a man who remembered the little things, who looked at you like the stars were jealous, who danced with you in the kitchen even when there was no music playing.
You married him two years later—still rolling your eyes, still pretending to be annoyed. But in truth? It had always been Rio.
It started with a broken laundry basket. Which wouldn’t have been a big deal, really, if Rio hadn’t decided that today was the perfect day to experiment with his “new system” of doing laundry, which involved—you swear to every deity—color-coding your underwear.
You stood in the bedroom doorway, staring at the chaos. Socks on the ceiling fan. Shirts hanging from the curtain rod. Your underwear, meticulously laid out by shade on the bed.
“Rio.”
He popped his head up from behind the laundry pile, looking way too proud of himself. “I color-sorted them! You always say I don’t help with laundry!”
“NO ONE ASKED YOU TO INVENT THE PANTY RAINBOW!”
He blinked. “But look! They go from blush pink to blood red. Like an emotional gradient—”
“RIO!”
You stormed into the room, cheeks burning, trying not to scream or cry or laugh. He followed you like a golden retriever who knew he was about to get yelled at but was still wagging his tail.
“You’re mad,” he said helpfully.
“You think?!”
He paused. “Is this a ‘small mad’ or a ‘you’re sleeping on the couch mad’?”
You whirled around. “This is a what in the actual hell possessed you to touch my lace underwear with your filthy laundry hands kind of mad!”
He nodded, lips pressed together in fake seriousness. “Okay. So, medium mad.”
You grabbed a pillow and chucked it at him. He dodged—barely—and held his hands up in surrender.
“Wait, wait, wait! Come on, baby, you gotta admit. It’s kind of impressive.”
“No, Rio. You color-coded my panties. That is not impressive. That’s psychotic.”
“Romantically psychotic,” he offered. “Like a love poem, but with fabric.”
You turned away, fuming, trying not to laugh. You really did try. But then—
Then you felt his arms wrap around you from behind, warm and strong, and his voice dropped low, soft against your ear.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, nuzzling into your neck. “I messed up. I thought I was helping. You know I can’t go a whole afternoon without touching your stuff. Or you.”
You grumbled something unintelligible, but didn’t move away.
He swayed you both gently, rocking you side to side like you were dancing to music only he could hear. “I’ll fix it,” he said. “I’ll wash everything again. I’ll buy you new lace ones. I’ll even learn how to fold that complicated strappy thing you wear when you’re mad at me and hot at the same time.”
Your laughter finally burst out. “There is no ‘mad and hot’ lingerie.”
“Oh, there is,” he said solemnly. “It’s the black one you wear when you want me to suffer.”
You turned in his arms, burying your face in his shirt. “You’re ridiculous.”
He kissed your forehead, hands sliding around your waist. “I’m yours.”
“You’re chaotic.”
“I’m passionately devoted.”
“You’re never touching my laundry again.”
He grinned. “Deal. But can I touch you?”