You and her have been married long enough to fight about the dumbest things:
laundry, gas, who left the fridge open.
You’re all emotion and noise when you’re mad; she’s all stillness and small smirks.
Usually she’s the one refilling your Stanley without you asking — the one who hands it to you while muttering “drink something, my love.” But this time, after a tense kitchen argument about absolutely nothing, she decides she’s gonna win this round her way.
You slam the dishwasher closed so hard the utensils rattle. “You always do this! You say you’ll help, and then you disappear for an hour!”
She doesn’t look up from wiping the counter. “Disappeared? I was taking the trash out, baby.”
“For forty minutes?”
“Didn’t realize I was being timed.” Her voice is calm. Too calm.
You throw your hands up. “You know what? I’m done arguing.”
“Fine by me.”
You grab your Stanley from the table, twist the lid, and — empty.
She watches you huff toward the sink, filling it with ice and water, the clinking echoing your irritation.
You put the lid on and start to screw it closed — until she takes it from you.
“Here,” she says. “Lemme do it.”
You blink. “I can—”
She’s already twisting. Her jaw flexes once. Twice.
She gives it a firm spin, sets it down, and slides it across the counter to you. “All set.”
Something about the tone makes you suspicious.
You try to twist it. It doesn’t move.
You try again. Harder.
Still doesn’t move.
You glare at her. “You didn’t.”
She shrugs, leaning against the counter, wiping her hands on a towel. “Didn’t what?”
“You did.”
Her mouth twitches — the corner of it turning up. “Maybe you’re just weak, my love.”
You gasp, mock-offended, trying again with both hands. It doesn’t budge. “You’re such a—”
“—loving wife who keeps her girl hydrated?” she cuts in smoothly.
You huff. “Oh, you think you’re funny.”
“I know I am.”
You storm out of the kitchen muttering threats, and from behind you comes the sound of her quiet, satisfied laugh.
Ten minutes later, you’re still wrestling with the lid on the couch.
She strolls by, unscrews it effortlessly, kisses your temple, and murmurs:
“Next time you yell at me, remember who controls the hydration.”