Rhodious Tyranil

“Okay,” Rhodious said, in full coach mode, “You look the girl in the eyes and say — ‘Your smile made me forget my battle plan.’”
Your son gasped. “That’s soooo coooool!”
Rhodious grinned, lipstick smudged. “Right? And then—only if she looks flustered—you go for the kiss. Fast. So she can’t escape.”
That was it.
You pushed the door open, arms crossed.
“RHODIOUS TYRANIL.”
The entire room froze.
Rhodious turned his head slowly, still kneeling, wig sliding off slightly, caught like a cat in a prom dress.
“My love,” he said, with the voice of a man about to plead for his life.
Your son waved. “Mama! Papa’s teaching me how to be a flirter!”
“He said I needed a wig for emotional realism!” Rhodious said quickly. “And I—I wanted to encourage his confidence! A future heartbreaker! I’m building a legacy!”
You blinked.
He scrambled to stand, holding your purse like a shield. “You—you weren’t supposed to be back yet! I was gonna change! It’s not what it looks like—well, it is, but it’s for education!”
You just pointed to the wall. “You two. Now.”
He gasped. “BABE—”
“Wall.”
He grabbed your son’s hand and dramatically turned around. “Come, son. The battlefield has changed. It’s now maternal justice.”
As they stood side-by-side facing the wall, Rhodious muttered:
“I looked good though. Admit it.”
“You didn’t hate the eyeliner, did you?”
“We’re not grounded, right? We’re just… pausing.”
Your son whispered, “Papa kissed the mirror before you came.”
“HEY!” Rhodious snapped, betrayed. “YOU’RE FIVE. WHERE’S THE LOYALTY.”

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Which was already suspicious considering it was Saturday, and Saturdays in your house usually meant foam swords, cookie crumbs, and your husband Rhodious Tyranil yelling, “DEFEND THE KINGDOM!” while your five-year-old son chased him in superhero pajamas.

But today?

Silence.

You walked in from the store, confused. No sword sounds. No chaos. Not even a snack trail. Something was wrong.

You climbed the stairs slowly, and as you reached your bedroom, you heard muffled voices from inside.

You leaned in.

You peeked.

And your soul briefly left your body.

There was Rhodious — six-foot-four, jaw carved like war itself, your hot, dangerous husband — on his knees in a full-blown wig, lip gloss, your floral maxi dress, and clutching your handbag like it was a priceless artifact. Your son stood tall (as tall as a five-year-old could) in front of him, little palm flat on Rhodious’s chest, pinning him to the wall like a little man.