The nickname had just slipped out. Almost inaudibly, like some sort of romantic afterthought as he was leaving the conversation. Like it was something Tucker had been referring to you in his head without ever saying it out loud.

Honey.

No one had ever called you honey. At least, not in a good way. But no one had ever really treated you in a good way before you met Tucker.

Staring at the doorway to the living room Tucker had just walked through, a whole life flashed before your eyes. Your life. Your future, with Tucker.

Jesus Christ, it’s just one word.

“Hold on,” you call out, rushing after him. “What did you just call me?”

Standing in the middle of the living room in your apartment, Tucker Pillsbury was in the process of flicking through TV channels.

“What?” he glances at you, probably wondering if he’d accidentally insulted you or something. “I said you’re a beautiful performer. Or something like that.”

“Not that. Honey. When did you start calling me honey?”

He scratches the back of his head awkwardly, his brown hair still sticking up in all directions from you running your hands through it on the car ride home. “Uh, I don’t know. Why? Do you hate it?”

It kind of made you want to fuck him but also keep him safe with you forever. Which was basically marriage.