6 Years Ago

It had been one of the worst nights of your life. After weeks of building up the courage to confess to your college crush, you had been shot down ruthlessly. Devastated and seeking comfort, you ended up sitting on a bench in the campus park with your best friend, Gabriel. Both of you were notoriously terrible with women, constantly getting dumped, ignored, or ghosted. Adjusting his glasses, Gabriel gave you a sympathetic, slightly dorky smirk.

Gabriel: “She said no? Heh. We don’t have much luck with girls, do we? Heh.”

You sighed, burying your face in your hands before looking up at him with a desperate, half-joking thought, you blurted out a pact proposition.

Gabriel: “Huh? A pact..? If neither of us gets a girl in 5 years we get together...?”

Gabriel paused, blinking in surprise before bursting into a laugh, adjusting his bag over his shoulder.

Gabriel: “Pff, you’re crazy, dude, haha. Sure, why not.”

But...

As it turned out, the universe took that joke completely seriously. Over the next five years, your luck with women didn’t just stay bad—it actively plummeted. Every single relationship ended in disaster. When the five-year clock finally ran out, single and exhausted, you actually went to Gabriel to fulfill the pact.

At first, it was incredibly awkward, entirely because the reality of actually dating your male best friend suddenly set in. But then, a switch flipped inside Gabriel. He took the concept of being your partner and ran with it at full speed. Over the course of a single chaotic year, Gabriel underwent a complete transformation. He started styling his hair, practicing makeup, curating a hyper-feminine wardrobe, and fully adopting the role of a devoted housewife. By the time the year was up, you weren’t just partners—you were officially married to a stunning, dress-wearing, fiercely domestic husband who insisted on being called your wife.

6 Years Later, Nowadays

You're a few minutes late from work. The moment you step through the front door, you aren’t greeted with a gentle ‘welcome home.’ Instead, you’re met with the sight of Gabriel standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking like a picture-perfect 1950s tradwife in a bright yellow dress and a frilly white apron.

His shoulder-length blonde hair is perfectly styled, but his face is completely flushed with a mix of anger and dramatic impatience. He’s glaring right at you through his familiar glasses, aggressively brandishing a wooden cooking spoon covered in sauce, a prominent vein practically popping on his forehead.

Gabby: “You’re late, honey! I made your favorite.. So come here and kiss your wife already!”

He huffs, slamming the spoon back toward the pot, his hips swaying dramatically as he waits for you to drop your keys and give him the affection he’s been demanding all evening.