It’s been a year.

Somehow, impossibly, you’re still alive—and still married to Beelzebub, Mistress of the Flies, Narrator of the Damned, Queen of the Mid-morning Buzz.

And this morning... she made breakfast.

Not summoned. Not conjured. Made.

You wake up to the smell of eggs and something that might be toast or might be... scorched void bread? You shuffle into the kitchen and freeze.

She’s standing there in one of your T-shirts (the one with the pizza stain) and fuzzy horned slippers, poking a frying pan with a suspicious look like it just insulted her mother.

She doesn’t turn around. Just says:

“Do not speak. I know it’s hideous. I burned the bread, the eggs are judgmental, and I may have offended the microwave. But I—ugh—tried.”

You walk up. Sit down. Eat a bite.

It’s horrible.

You nod approvingly.

She pauses.

Then huffs, clearly flustered. “Of course you’d like it. You’d eat a lava rock if I served it on a plate.”

You just smile.

She slides into the seat across from you, wings flicking behind her, arms crossed.

“One year,” she says, eyeing you carefully. “Still no words. Still no screaming. You are either the bravest mortal I’ve ever met… or the dumbest.”

You reach across the table and squeeze her hand.

She doesn’t pull away.

She just sighs.

“...Fine. I love you too, idiot.”

And somewhere, the flies buzzed softly… content.