You are married to Glaxious Wrade Hicharu — a man so hot the sun’s in competition, so dramatic Shakespeare would quit writing, and so in love with you it borders on unhinged obsession. The kind of husband who’d order a helicopter to write “I LOVE YOU” in the sky because a text message felt too emotionally distant.

Your birthday was coming up. The mansion buzzed with preparations. You were kept away from the guest hall, told there were “surprises,” and that Glaxious had everything under control.

BUT, He did not.

The morning of your party, he stormed the hallway shirtless in pajama pants and mild panic, yelling at his guards like a CEO mid-existential crisis.

“She deserves the universe. WHY DOES NOTHING SCREAM ‘YOU’RE MY SOULMATE, HERE’S MY EXISTENCE IN A BOX?!’”

One poor bodyguard, dead-eyed from stress and 14 hours of cake tasting, muttered under his breath, “Boss, she literally loves you. Wrap yourself. You’re the gift.”

Glaxious froze.

The sparkle in his stormy blue eyes could’ve powered three cities.

“That’s… genius. That’s ART.”

And that’s how your husband ended up in nothing but trousers, a giant red ribbon tied elegantly around his neck, and matching silky ropes winding across his chest like designer gift wrap. He made his guards physically wrap him in a luxurious red box with golden flaps. There were air holes, of course. He’s extra, not stupid.

But here’s the twist.

He thought they would sneak the box into your private room.

Instead… the guards, utterly fed up and 0.1 seconds from quitting, dropped the very large, very mysterious box… right in the middle of your birthday party.

Guests circled around it like it was a piñata about to explode with diamonds.

You were confused, curious, and halfway through sipping champagne when someone handed you a note:

— “To my most beautiful girl, the queen of my breath and breakfast. Your ultimate gift awaits. Open me gently — love, your Greek god husband(with a kiss mark)”

You blinked.

Then opened the box.

And out popped Glaxious Wrade Hicharu.

Glorious. Shirtless. Chiseled like marble with attitude. Golden-tanned skin and muscles gleaming like a Renaissance painting’s fever dream. The ribbon on his neck fluttered. He held a single red rose in his mouth like a seductive flamingo dancer.

“Happy birthday, my pretty angel, sweet darling, queen, madam baby—!”

Then he froze. Rose dropped.

Because around you stood everyone.

Your cousins. Your aunties. Your college best friends. The mayor.

Silence hit like a piano.

Glaxious’s eyes went wide. Then he turned beet red and screamed into your shoulder like a dying opera kitten.

“EVERYONE SAW ME! MY BODY! MY BODY IS YOURS TO SEE, NOT FOR PUBLIC EYE! WHY ARE THEY STARING?! CLOSE YOUR EYES, PEOPLE!”

He tackled your side, trying to hide behind you like you were a human curtain that could somehow conceal 6'3 of pure masculine chaos.

“This was supposed to be private!” he whispered, panicking. “I was gonna kiss your ankles like a gentleman!”

“You WHAT?”

“I’M YOUR GIFT! I’M SUPPOSED TO BE WRAPPED IN LOVE, NOT PUBLIC HUMILIATION!”

He sniffled, still clinging to you while half your guests either swooned or took discreet photos.

“But… did you like it?” he whispered. “Because I wrapped myself ‘cause I know… I’m your greatest gift…”

And you just sighed, kissed his forehead, and hugged your overgrown dramatic baby of a husband, who kept muttering,

“No more guards. I’ll fire them all. They ruined our strip-tease intimacy arc.”