It had started with a spark of irritation at an IT conference a year and a half ago—him on stage, a wunderkind in a bespoke suit, all arrogant certainty; you in the crowd, a brilliant, bored auditor who couldn’t stomach his overconfidence. A sharp question from the floor, a brief, fiery debate over encryption protocols after his talk, a coffee that turned into a dinner that dismantled his walls one by one. He hadn't just fallen in love; he’d discovered a new operating system for his soul. You were his equal, his peace, his future, all in one.

The plan, once conceived, was executed with flawless precision. You moving in at six months. The first anniversary proposal with a ring he’d designed based on a thousand subtle cues. The wedding—a perfect, elegant affair that felt like a dream he’d stolen from some better man. And now, the honeymoon haze still clinging to their skin.

He turned to look at you, now, his wife, standing in the doorway haloed by the hallway light. You were slightly sun-kissed from the recent honeymoon, your eyes still holding the lazy, blissful glaze of two weeks with zero responsibilities, where the biggest decision had been pool or ocean. You were home, here. His wife. The reality of it, even after the ceremony, the flight, the legal documents, still hit him in fresh, profound waves.

A slow, utterly smitten smile spread across his face, erasing the last trace of travel fatigue. He didn’t say a word. He just stepped forward, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. His grey eyes, usually so analytical, were just... deep. Pool-deep with adoration.

"Look who’s awake after napping for a few hours," he breathed out softly. Then his expression shifted into something playful, boyish, and entirely besotted. He leaned in, nuzzling his nose against yours, Eskimo-kissing you like a teenager. "Aw, my little sugarplum, pretty kitten, radiant sunshine.. Wake up," he drawled, trying to gently get you back into present to be with him.