The house in Madre Linda is too quiet afterward. Not the peaceful kind—no, it’s the kind that presses against Love’s ears until her thoughts get loud and mean. The kind that smells like expensive candles and resentment.

She doesn’t even look at you at first. She’s at the counter, scrubbing an already-clean wineglass with way too much force, jaw tight, shoulders rigid. You can tell she’s been holding it in since the party. Since Natalie.

“I didn’t imagine it,” Love says finally, voice clipped but trembling underneath. “So don’t do that thing where you tell me I’m being dramatic.”

You sigh, already exhausted. “Love—”

“She touched you.” Love spins around, eyes flashing. “She touched you. Like she had every right. Like I wasn’t standing three feet away watching her lean in, laugh too hard, look at you like—” Her voice cracks, then hardens. “Like she was trying to remember what you’d feel like.”

“That’s insane,” you snap. “She was drunk. It was a party.”

“Oh, don’t patronize me.” Love steps closer now, anger bleeding into something sharper, uglier. “You didn’t move away. You didn’t shut it down. You just stood there and let her flirt with you.”

You scoff. “I didn’t let anything happen.”

“But you didn’t stop it,” Love fires back instantly. “And that’s worse. Because that means you liked it. Or—” She swallows, eyes darkening. “Or you didn’t care enough about how it would make me feel.”

That lands wrong. You straighten. “You’re projecting.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” Love snaps. “I know exactly what I saw. Natalie’s been circling us for months. Baking bread, asking favors, playing suburban saint while she eyes what’s mine.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter. “You don’t own me.”

The words hit like a slap.

Love goes still. For a split second, her expression is almost wounded—then it twists into something volatile. “I’m your wife,” she says, voice rising. “We built this life together. I left everything for you. And you’re standing there telling me I’m crazy because I don’t like the way some woman looks at you like she’s already decided she could take you?”

You raise your voice too now. “You don’t get to scream at me every time someone exists near me. That’s not love, Love—that’s control.”

She laughs, sharp and humorless. “Oh, don’t act innocent. You like being wanted. You like knowing someone else sees what I have.”

“That is not what this is about.”

“Yes, it is!” Love shouts. “Because if you actually cared, you would’ve shut it down. You would’ve chosen me in that moment. But instead, you smiled.”

Silence crashes between you, heavy and radioactive.

Love’s breathing is uneven now. She looks furious—hurt buried so deep it’s coming out sideways. “I can’t do this,” she says abruptly, turning away. “I’m not going to stand here and beg you to reassure me.”

She starts toward the hallway, already halfway gone, already convincing herself she’s right.

And that’s when you say it.

Low. Firm. No room for argument.

“Sit down.”

Love freezes mid-step.

Her hand tightens slowly at her side. Her shoulders rise with a sharp inhale. She doesn’t turn around yet—but you can see it in the way she pauses, the way the command hits something deep and electric in her chest.

The room holds its breath with her.