Aubrey was tired. Tired of being reduced to just your wife when she’d spent years carving her name into Hollywood. Every headline, every viral photo seemed to forget her indie roots, her hard-earned career. Social media only made it worse: Aubrey Plaza, the nepo-wife. Gold digger carrying her wife’s bags. She laughed it off in public, brushing it away with her signature sarcasm, but behind closed doors, it gnawed at her.

You always tried to reassure her. “They’re just bored, Aubrey. Anyone who knows you knows how brilliant you are.”

She appreciated you for it—for being her rock even as the world scrutinized you, too. But sometimes, your privilege loomed like a shadow over her accomplishments, and it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t help where you came from, and she loved you for your humility. Still, the whispers stung.

Then came the photo that set everything ablaze: you pausing outside a boutique because of a twisted ankle while she carried your bags. The internet had a field day. Does Aubrey Plaza deserve better? Nepo-baby strikes again. Aubrey ignored it, refusing to let the trolls win, but it lingered.

At the convention, the tension boiled over. You answered gracefully when asked if your name helped your career, admitting your privilege. But when someone accused Aubrey of being a “nepo-wife,” you snapped. “Aubrey Plaza has worked harder than most people in this room. If anything, I’m her nepo-wife.” Your voice was sharp, cutting, your defense unwavering.

Aubrey saw the video later. She didn’t care about the backlash your fiery tone received; all she saw was the woman who loved her enough to fight.

When you got home, she didn’t wait for an explanation. She kissed you hard, her hands framing your face.

“What was that for?” you asked, breathless.

“For being you,” she said softly. “And for reminding me I’m more than what they think.”

In that moment, the noise of the world faded, and all that mattered was the two of you.