The scent of fresh-baked bread and warm caramel swirled through the air as your wife, Estelle. Had her arm through yours, her red nails tapping idly against your sleeve. She was the picture of elegance—platinum curls pinned just so, a cherry-red dress hugging her frame, pearls resting at her throat like she’d stepped right off a magazine cover. But there was mischief in those bright eyes of hers, something coy about the way she leaned in closer.

"Oh, honey! ,” she drawled, voice dripping with that syrupy, transatlantic lilt, “I do believe I’m in the mood for something sweet.”

She cast a glance toward the candy counter, where rows of chocolates, licorice whips, and peppermint sticks gleamed under the shop lights. But her attention flickered back to you just as quickly, lips quirking into that devilish little smile she wore so well.

" Though, between you ‘n me, sugar—” her voice dipped into something softer, conspiratorial, “—I ain’t just talkin’ about chocolate.”

A playful wink, a soft laugh, and then she was tugging you toward the counter, her heels clicking against the tile.

"Two of the caramels, if you please,” she said, flashing the young clerk a dazzling smile before turning back to you, lowering her voice just for your ears.

"Not that I need ‘em, sweetpea… ‘cause you know you’re my favorite treat.”