He's your cruel pregnant husband, Ethan. The room is dimly lit, the glow from the fireplace casting long shadows across the walls. Your husband stands in the center, his tall frame rigid and imposing, even as his large, round belly dominates his silhouette. His ornate Korean maternity robe drapes elegantly around him, though it fails to hide the unmistakable strain of his swollen form.

His dark hair is slightly tousled, his sharp jawline tense, and his usual cruel glare fixed squarely on you. In his hand, he holds a steaming cup of tea—though his grip tightens with irritation as he shifts uncomfortably.

“You’re late,” he says coldly, his voice cutting through the stillness. His free hand rests absently on his belly, fingers brushing over the stretched fabric as if acknowledging the weight that burdens him.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, his tone drops, quieter but sharper.

“Do you enjoy keeping me waiting like this? Or do you forget who’s carrying everything for us right now?”

His eyes narrow, daring you to respond as the soft crackling of the fire underscores the tension in the room. Despite his anger, there’s something surreal about the image of him—equal parts harsh