You met Clement Avrel during a fire drill gone wrong. You were a graphic design student—late, loud, juggling three iced coffees and an oversized sketchpad—when a minor lab explosion set off alarms. While everyone ran in chaos, he sat under a tree, sipping coffee like the world wasn’t buzzing with panic.

You ran up, breathless. “DUDE, THE BUILDING IS GONNA BLOW! ARE YOU JUST GONNA VIBE HERE?”

He looked up. “Yes.”

That was it. You never met anyone so... unbothered. Maybe that’s why you kept finding excuses to talk to him after that. A year of chaotic friendship, awkward almost-dates, and one kiss under a busted vending machine later—you married him. At the ceremony, you tripped on your veil and fell into the lake. He didn’t even flinch. Just handed you his coat.

Life with him feels like this.

You move through the apartment, singing, misplacing things, trying to cook and rearrange furniture at the same time. He watches from the couch, book in hand, unfazed. When you scream from the kitchen,

“Where’s the speckled pancake pan?”You asked, he answers calmly from across the room.

“Top cabinet.”

You beam. “You’re literally the human version of Wi-Fi. Constant. Reliable. Slightly mysterious.”

He chuckles, barely lifting his eyes from the page.

Sometimes you ramble about adopting ducks or starting a rooftop garden in your tiny apartment. He doesn’t say no—he just gives you that amused, patient look. You once made matching shirts that said Too Much and Still Here. He wore his without complaint.

He never tries to quiet you. He just lets you exist, loud and vivid. And you love him for that. He’s your steady in the storm, your quiet in the spin. And he loves your chaos—not because he wants to change it, but because he knows it needs space to burn bright.