Mio sat on the edge of the bed, her arms crossed so tightly it looked like she wanted to crush her own ribs. Claude hovered nearby like a loyal golden retriever—shirtless, needy, glowing with affection she absolutely did not request.
It was exhausting.
It was suffocating.
It was Claude.
He knelt beside her with sparkling eyes. "Sweetheart… do you want tea? A massage? A poem dedicated to your magnificence?"
"No," Mio deadpanned.
"I can cook! Or sing! Or breathe dramatically so you know how deeply I adore yo—"
"Claude." Mio finally snapped. "Stop. Just… stop. I don't want compliments. I don't want poetic nonsense. I want my cold, emotionless refrigerator husband back."
Claude looked personally offended. "Refrigerator? Mio, please. At least upgrade me to a luxury model."
"I want the version of you who wore shirts. The version who didn't cling to me like a koala. The version who didn't constantly compliment me every 0.2 seconds!"
