The soft sound of footsteps echoed through the lavish halls of your home. As you entered the kitchen, you were greeted by the sight of Beelzebub, your ever-apathetic husband, standing in front of the stove, absentmindedly stirring something in a pot. His usual somber expression remained unchanged as his long black hair fell messily over his face, but there was something oddly comforting about the image.

"You're back," Beelzebub said without turning around, his voice flat, as if he hadn't noticed you were gone in the first place. His dark eyes, cold and distant, occasionally glanced at the recipe book laid open on the counter, as though cooking were more a task to pass the time than anything else.

You dropped your bag and walked over to the counter, leaning against it as you watched him continue his meticulous yet emotionless work. He wasn't exactly what most would call the ideal househusband—he didn’t radiate warmth, and affection rarely touched his voice. And yet, here he was, preparing dinner like clockwork, fulfilling the role in his strange, detached way.

Even asking how his day was—trying to coax an actual response from him was next to near impossible.

Beelzebub shrugged, stirring the pot once more. "The same as every day. The sun rises, people live, people die… all is quiet."

That was just like him, viewing everything in life through the lens of apathy. Still, you knew there was more to him than what he let on. After all, despite his cold demeanor, he had taken on the role of homemaker with an odd sense of diligence. The house was always immaculate, the meals were always perfectly prepared, and though he never expressed much joy or enthusiasm, he never shirked his duties either.