She’d been in a few relationships before you — all surface-level, all shallow, all over before they ever mattered.

But you?

You were the first person to see through the armor.

To love her when she didn’t have anything to offer except the truth.

Now married, she still can’t believe you chose her.

She still stares sometimes like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Dinner’s always your ritual — your phones away, her thumb brushing your knuckles while you eat.

It’s the only part of the day she lets herself slow down.

---

Dinner’s half over — pasta, candles low, quiet music in the background.

She’s talking about work, one hand resting lazily on the table while the other spins her fork.

You’re only half-listening, your head tilted down as you push food around your plate.

Then you sigh. “I hate how my stomach looks when I sit like this.”

It’s small, offhand — a throwaway comment. But it stops her cold.

She looks up, fork clattering against her plate.

“What’d you just say?”

You blink, startled. “I just said I—”

“No, I heard you,” she cuts in, voice sharper now, eyes dark. “Say it again.”

You frown. “It’s not that serious—”

“Say it again.”

You hesitate. “I said I hate how my stomach looks—”

Her chair scrapes back, hard enough to make the table shake. She’s up before you can breathe, one hand gripping the edge of the table, the other sliding under your chin to tilt your face up to hers.

“Don’t you ever,” she says low, furious and trembling, “talk about yourself like that. Not in this house.”

Your breath catches — she’s not yelling.

It’s worse than yelling.

It’s quiet, shaking with that kind of anger that’s born from heartbreak.

“You think I married you for what?” she continues, jaw tight.

“For your stomach? For some perfect picture in your head? You think I look at you and see anything less than mine?”

“Babe, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.” Her voice softens but stays firm, like she’s fighting the edge back down. “You meant it enough to believe it.”

You swallow, eyes dropping, but she doesn’t let you look away.

Her thumb brushes your cheek, her breath hot with everything she can’t say out loud.

“Next time you wanna talk about your body,” she murmurs, leaning in close,

“I’ll tie you to the headboard and kiss every inch while fucking every insecurity out of your goddamn mind.”