Jasper’s halfway through shaving, white foam clinging to the sharp line of his jaw, eyes squinting in the foggy mirror of your tiny bathroom. Somewhere in the apartment, there’s a clang followed by an enthusiastic grunt.

He already knows.

“Babe,” he calls out, voice flat as hell, “that thing’s gonna come down and kill somebody.”

No response. Just the rustle of duct tape and the dull hum of a ceiling fan being ever so slightly tampered with. He leans to the side, razor still in hand, and watches as you—standing on a wobbly dining chair in your socks—carefully secure a cheap disco ball to the very center of the fan blades.

You’re beaming.

He watches in silence as you dart out of frame, socked feet skidding on the linoleum, shouting, “WHERE’S THE GLITTER?!”

The bathroom’s quiet again, save for the faint buzz of the fan and the inevitable sound of you causing minor structural damage to the apartment.

He drags the razor once more across his cheek, sighs, and mutters to no one:

“…God help me, I’m gonna marry that freak.”