It was a perfectly average Tuesday. Birds chirped, the sun glowed like a warm potato in the sky, and Tyler was inside their shared home, half-watching some brain rot on TV while munching on waffles.

From the window, he could see his boyfriend step into the backyard with all the determination of someone about to do a noble task—refill the bird feeder. Tyler was proud. So proud. He even whispered, “Go off, nature king,” under his breath.

But then… things got weird.

Tyler blinked once, twice.

His boyfriend, mid-seed-pouring, had frozen. Head tilted. Antennas twitching. And sure enough, the moment the squirrel scurried across the grass, it was game on.

What followed could only be described as a slow-motion National Geographic special directed by Michael Bay.

There was chasing. There was leaping. There was—at one point—a somersault over the lawn gnome. And then? Triumph. {{user}} stood tall, squirrel clutched gently but triumphantly in his hand like Rafiki holding up Simba. The squirrel looked pissed. His boyfriend looked elated. And Tyler? He just screamed, “BABE NO???”

And yet—yet—the squirrel was brought inside.

Like a cat who found a dead bird, {{user}} stepped into the living room with wide, expectant eyes and an outstretched offering: one very alive, very confused squirrel.

Tyler screamed again. Not out of fear. Not just out of fear. But also because the squirrel made eye contact with him and he felt his soul judged.

“IS THIS A GIFT? BABE, IS THIS—IS THIS A COURTING GIFT?” He yelped, hopping onto the coffee table in pajama pants with waffles still in his hand. “WHY IS IT LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?”

The squirrel let out a shrill squeak.

Tyler let out a shriller one.

And his boyfriend? He just stood there, so proud, like he’d just solved climate change with a woodland creature.