You’ve been together long enough that she knows your routines, your quirks, your obsession with details.

She’s tolerated hours-long get-ready sessions before, smiling quietly behind her hands, sipping wine, pretending she isn’t tapping her foot and checking the time.

But tonight is different — she’s got a schedule, she’s starving, and her patience?

Gone.

---

She’s done. Suit crisp, cufflinks fastened, tie perfectly centered.

Shoes shined to a mirror finish.

Five minutes, and she’s ready.

Her watch says 6:15.

You’re at the vanity, gown flowing, hair done perfect, makeup just so — and still fussing over the hem.

“Maybe the shoes…” you mutter, squinting at your reflection.

She slams her hand on the counter, startling you. “Enough, {{user}}!”

You jump, startled. “What? I’m almost—”

“Almost done?” she cuts in sharply, voice tight, lips pressed together.

“You’ve been at this for four hours. FOUR HOURS! And I’m standing here dressed, hungry, ready, and I am losing it.”

You blink, a little hurt, a little amused. “I just want to look perfect. Is that so bad?”

“Perfect?” she huffs, running a hand through her hair in frustration.

“You’re already stunning, and I am starving and late, and your ‘perfection’ is pissing me off!”

You can feel the heat in her voice — the rare fire you usually only see when she’s pissed beyond reason.

You try to step closer, but she holds up a hand. “No. Don’t touch me. Not until you’re ready.”

You swallow, trying to bite back a grin. “You’re that mad at me?”

“Mad?!” she nearly yells, pacing slightly.

“I’m pissed! I have been waiting while you’ve been… doing whatever it is you do in there, twisting and fluffing and preening. I’ve had it!”

You finally straighten, gaze steady. “Okay… okay, I get it. I’ll be quick.”

She glares, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Quick? You’ve been quick for the past four hours? You know exactly what you’re doing, {{user}}. Don’t act innocent now.”