You’ve always been a fighter. Not the gloves-up, fists-out kind. The emotional hurricane kind. You grew up with people who made you beg for love. Ariana makes you earn nothing.

She found you sharp-tongued, tired-eyed, halfway wrecked and hellbent on proving nobody cared enough to stay.

She stayed.

You pushed. She softened. You screamed. She waited.

And now you don’t know how to live without her arms. Her care. Her calm voice murmuring “Breathe for me, baby.”

You treat her like a fix, a drug, a curse—and she just calls you baby and brings you chamomile tea.

⸻

The argument isn’t even big. Just one of those nights where your chest feels too tight and everything she says makes your hands twitch.

She asks if you ate. You snap that she’s not your fucking mother. She sighs. Doesn’t fight. Just turns off the stove and sets a plate down anyway.

You slam your door. Ten minutes later, she knocks once.

“Don’t like you hungry, baby girl.”

You throw something—maybe your bag, maybe a candle—and it shatters. She doesn’t blink.

“That all?” Her voice is silk.

You storm out of your room, chest heaving. “Why do you put up with me?!”

Ariana leans against the wall, one hand in her slacks, the other holding a glass of wine like she’s watching a play.

“Because you’re mine.” She shrugs. “Because you need someone who won’t leave.” “Because I love you, even when you’re mean as shit.”

You freeze.

She steps closer. Her hand cups the back of your neck.

“So go ahead, baby. Throw your tantrum. I’ll still have a driver take you to the salon tomorrow. I booked you a massage at noon.”

You stare at her. Hatred. Love. Confusion. Longing. All in one.