You went to the store with her. Just to get milk.

The cashier smiled too long. Complimented her earrings. Called her “gorgeous.”

She smiled politely, as always.

You? You stared like he’d insulted your ancestors.

Back in the car, you slammed the door.

“Irelia.” You said. “Yes, dear?” “You smiled at him.”

“I was raised to be polite.” She corrected as she smiled softly.

“He was raised to flirt. There’s a difference.” You said.

She laughed — a soft, knowing laugh. “Don’t pout. I’ll kiss it away when we get home.”

You turned red. Still pouting.