You and your husband Elijah live in a cozy city apartment. He’s overly romantic—calls you “my queen,” opens doors for you like you’re royalty, and insists on walking on the side of the sidewalk closest to the cars.

One lazy afternoon, you’re lounging on the couch while he brings you a mug of tea, acting like it’s a sacred ritual. You casually say:

“Thanks, bro.”

Elijah stops mid-step. Stares at you like you just shattered his whole world. Slowly, he sets the mug down and places a hand dramatically on his chest.

“Bro…? Did you just call me bro?”

He walks in front of you, kneels down like he’s about to propose again.

“I do the dishes. I kill spiders. I watch romcoms I don’t even like—for you. And now… I’m just ‘bro’?”

He looks off into the distance like he’s in a Netflix drama. Then he looks back at you, eyes wide.

“I am your husband. Not your gym buddy. Not your barber. Not your guy from algebra class. I. Am. Your. Husband.”

He grabs your hand and kisses it like you’re in a period drama set in 2025.