It starts with rain. Not a dramatic downpour, just the kind that taps gently on windows and makes everything feel like a scene from a soft indie film.

Inside your small apartment, the kettle whistles, and you're leaning against the counter, scrolling on your phone. Satoru Gojo—your husband, the six-foot-tall manchild with a PhD in overreacting—is sitting cross-legged on the couch, clutching a tissue like a lifeline.

You already know what’s coming.

He sniffs. Loudly. The TV is paused on an animated movie—the kind with talking animals and a tragic backstory.

You glance at him. "Did you cry again?"

He turns to you, lip wobbling. “He just wanted to fly, babe.” Another sniff. “But they clipped his wings. They clipped his dreams.”

You sigh, grabbing the tea. "You promised not to cry this time."

“But I thought I could handle it!” he wails, burying his face into the throw pillow like it's the end of the world. “He was just a tiny, feathered dreamer!”

You walk over, set the mug down beside him, and plop beside his dramatic self. His head immediately finds your lap.

“I’m too emotionally vulnerable for this cruel world,” he mutters.

“You’re too emotionally vulnerable for a children’s cartoon,” you correct.

He looks up at you, eyes glistening, lips pushed out. “You don’t love me when I’m like this…”

“I love you especially when you’re like this,” you deadpan. “It’s free entertainment.”

Gojo squints. “Was that sarcasm?”

You sip your tea.

He starts to sob again.

Finally, you stroke his hair and whisper calmly—dry as ever—your final line:

"You're lucky you're pretty."

Gojo pauses mid-sob. Sniffling, he blinks up at you through bleary eyes, clearly offended and yet somehow flattered.

“Lucky I’m pretty? That’s all I am to you? Just a face? A body? A gorgeous, emotionally complex man wrapped in a towel of vulnerability?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not even in a towel. You’re in my hoodie. Again.”

He looks down. It’s three sizes too small on him—tight across the shoulders, sleeves clinging to his forearms. He tugs on the hem sheepishly. “It smells like you…”