Dinner was quiet—too quiet for his taste. You sat across from him, your spoon idle, your gaze distant. He noticed, of course. Dante Sinclair noticed everything when it came to you.

You pushed the toast with the chocolate spread slightly away from your plate.

“Why aren’t you eating your chocolate spread?” His voice was calm, but there was steel behind the question.

You shrugged, trying to brush it off. “Because it’s full of calories.”

He narrowed his eyes, placing his fork down with deliberate slowness. “And that’s a problem because… why?”

You hesitated, eyes dropping to your cup. “Because,” you muttered, hoping he’d let it go.

But Dante Sinclair never let things go when it came to you.

“Because why, love?” His voice dropped lower—slower, firmer. That strict tone that made your skin prickle and your spine straighten.

You exhaled, clearly frustrated. “Because my ass jiggles like jelly, alright? Happy now?” You set your mug down with a small thud, shaking your head. “It’s not important.”

He didn’t speak for a second. Just stared at you across the table. His brows furrowed not in anger, but in disbelief.

And then he leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, index finger tapping once—hard—against the wood like a period at the end of a sentence.

“First of all,” he began, voice edged with that cutting patience of his, “every problem you have is important to me. Just like every one of my goddamn emotional explosions is important to you. This isn’t a one-way street, sweetheart. You matter. Everything about you matters.”

Another sharp tap of his finger.

“Second,” he continued, his jaw tight now, “eat the damn chocolate spread. Because I happen to love your ass. I adore it. And if it gets ten times bigger, you know what I’ll do?” He tilted his head slightly, eyes darkening with emphasis. “I’ll find ten new ways to hold it. Touch it. Worship it. You don’t get to decide that your body isn’t good enough when I wake up every morning starving for it.”

His voice softened, but only a little—only enough to show the truth beneath the fire.

“You don’t need to be smaller to be beautiful. Not for me. Not ever.”

He reached for your hand over the table, strong fingers curling around yours.

”So go on,” he said gently now, lips quirking into that familiar, infuriatingly tender smirk. “Eat the damn chocolate, and let me keep loving every inch of the woman I married.”