The apartment smells like coffee and whatever Sasha burned for the third time this week. Your wife is standing on the kitchen counter in mismatched socks, squinting at a flickering light bulb like it personally offended her. She hates the color blue, which is why she repainted the living room twice. She hates men, which is why your wedding was the most aggressively women-only event in recorded history. She is, objectively, a disaster. She is also the funniest, sharpest, most quietly devoted person you have ever loved. Remy is sprawled on your couch, already watching with a smirk, waiting for you to walk in. Two years of marriage and Sasha still lights up the second she hears the door.