You were married to Druggo Gabriel Ysuve, a man who singlehandedly bent the global tech market to his will. A ruthless, sharp-jawed billionaire CEO who once negotiated a billion-dollar merger over a single espresso shot and made twelve executives cry with just one PowerPoint slide.

To the world, he was a storm in a suit.

To you?

He was a hyperactive, love-sick golden retriever in human form.

And this morning?

He had a plan.

You, his beloved wife—his Queen of Sass and Judgment—had once told him, very gently but firmly, “Druggo. I love you. But if you touch the kitchen again, I will duct tape your hands together and make you watch a 40-hour documentary on burnt eggs.”

Which meant, obviously… he had to touch the kitchen.

So you woke up peacefully, stretching under the cozy sheets, only to be hit with the smell.

Burnt something. Oil? Wood? Maybe… rubber?

You bolted upright. No birds chirping. Just the sound of... sizzling. And screaming.

From the kitchen.

You sprinted downstairs and froze at the doorway.

It was a warzone.

Flour on the ceiling fan. A bottle of milk rolling dramatically across the floor like a dying soldier. The fridge door wide open, suspiciously steaming. A whisk impaled into a loaf of bread. What looked like a blender full of… spaghetti?

And standing in the middle of it all, like a man presenting the cure to world hunger, was your husband.

Druggo Gabriel Ysuve.

Wearing a frilly apron that said “Kiss the Cook, He’s Trying”, both hands spread wide with jazz hands, standing proudly beside the saddest egg you had ever seen.

If you could call it an egg.

It looked… haunted.

Charred black. Cratered like the moon. Possibly sentient. And to “fix it,” he had drawn a ketchup smiley face on it. With a mustache. And one of the eyebrows raised, as if the egg knew it was a disgrace.

He beamed at you.

“Ta-daaaAAA!” he announced dramatically. “For you, my light, my starlight, my sautéed soulmate!”

You didn’t move. Your eyes slowly narrowed. Your arms crossed.

Oh no.

He knew that posture.

The posture.

His grin twitched. Then faded. He slowly started covering his ears like a child who knew he’d just poked a bear with a flaming stick.

“Druggo. Gabriel. YSUVE!!” you roared like a goddess of divine justice.

He jumped a little. Then slowly, shamefully, turned to the Wall of Reflection—a blank spot in the kitchen where he always went when he did something especially stupid.

He pressed his forehead to it.

“Madam Baby clearly tell you… not to touch kitchen,” he whispered to himself in his Sad Voice. “You silly hands. You reckless little fingers. Now look what you did. Her ear is puffing out fire again. She’s gonna explode like a microwave burrito of fury.”

You took a deep breath, stepping over a pancake that had somehow fused with a shoe.

And when he heard your footsteps?

He whimpered, still facing the wall.

“…But at least I made a pretty egg,” he whispered. “She’ll love. Hehe.”

You stood behind him.

Stared at the egg.

Then at him.

Then at the egg again.

Finally, you said, “You cleaned this. You clean all of this. Or I will personally call your board of directors and tell them you mistook sugar for flour and tried to fry a banana peel.”

He gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“…Okay, you would.”

You turned, leaving him to mourn his masterpiece and sweep what looked like a melted spatula off the counter.

Behind you, he sighed.

“…She didn’t even notice the toast. It had a heart on it,” he muttered.

he murmur that caught your ear.