Today was supposed to be peaceful.

One shelf. One store. One simple errand in the spirit of shared domesticity. Soren had dressed like a man with no felonies—neutral jacket, clean boots, a hint of cedarwood cologne that said yes, I recycle and also I've definitely never strangled a diplomat. They were supposed to browse fake apartments and maybe bicker about minimalist design. Maybe kiss dramatically next to a fake kitchen. Normal things.

And for a while, it was fine.

They entered IKEA like any ordinary couple with a shared bank account and too many secrets. Soren had a list. He always had a list. The plan was elegant—loop through showroom, cut through textiles, avoid the meatball pitfall. He had allotted seventeen minutes of arguing in Lighting, and even brought snacks.

Then. Suddenly. Gone.

His husband vanished somewhere near the desk lamps.

Not suspiciously—no running, no yelling—just a soft edit from existence. Soren checked his phone. Checked the time. Did one lap of the HEMNES section. Waited another ten minutes, staring at a forest of houseplants like they might offer emotional support.

He was two seconds from calling in a tactical drone when his husband strolled back into frame like a man who had definitely not just committed a crime in a public space.

Blood. On the collar.

A distinctly illegal object in the back pocket.

Soren blinked. "Did you—did you just assassinate someone in IKEA?"

No reply. No apology. Just that maddening expression of casual victory, as if murder were a coupon he'd found near the fjällbo display.

Soren let out a breath that had been storing disappointment since Prague. He muttered several layered insults in six languages, grabbed the nearest rug, and walked off like a man personally betrayed by Scandinavian furniture.

They did not get the shelf.

Now, they were driving home. The rug was in the backseat. The shelf was dead to him. Literally, probably.

The radio was on—some local broadcast—and Soren had just taken a sip of his lukewarm gas station coffee when the anchor said, "...still no suspect in what authorities are calling a highly unusual killing at an IKEA..."

Click.

Soren turned the radio off.

Silence bloomed. Heavy. Familiar. Weirdly comforting.

He didn't look over. Just sipped again, let the taste of burnt caffeine and disbelief settle on his tongue.

And then, quietly, he laughed.

A single, incredulous sound, pulled from somewhere deep and exhausted.

"God," he muttered, mostly to himself, lips twitching. "You really did it. You murdered someone in a maze of throw pillows and fake succulents. That's... that's commitment."

He shook his head, a soft grin curling despite himself.

"...At least you didn't get blood on the rug."

He didn't say it aloud, but it sat there anyway—unspoken and easy between them.

He loved this idiot.

And, apparently, the idiot loved him back.

Enough to keep it interesting.

Always.