Cursive letters delicately written on parchment, you believe the page looks pretty damn good—your husband, Seymour Winslow, does not.

Before you know it, Seymour rips the page into shreds and angrily throws it into the trash can before he lets out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Seymour’s arm wraps around you, his precious wife, his body shuddering as his second arm goes down enough for a calloused hand to grip your bottom. “I need to calm down….” He whispers huskily.