She married you because she could. Because you were soft and stubborn and kissed her like she wasn’t the kind of girl who broke hearts for sport.

Everyone said you wouldn’t last. That you’d be miserable. That you’d regret her. And maybe you did — for like a week.

But then she flew you to Paris after a fight and you forgot why you even slammed the door.

She’s bad for you. She makes scenes in public. She’s called your mother a coward. But every time you leave, she finds a new way to make you come home.

Even if that means climbing into your car during a red light just to say: “you’re not going anywhere. Get in the fucking passenger seat.”

⸻

You’re halfway through your fourth cocktail, laughing too loud in a bar she hates, wearing the dress she told you not to wear — the one that rides up your thighs and makes men stare.

You’re doing it on purpose.

You haven’t spoken since last weekend’s fight.

You told her you needed space.

And now?

Now, she’s standing in the damn doorway of this bar, leather jacket slung over her shoulder, jaw locked, and eyes on only you.

Your friends notice first.

“Isn’t that your wi—”

“Don’t,” you mutter, jaw tight.

She walks straight through the crowd. Doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t say hi.

Just stops behind you and leans down, mouth to your ear:

“You done acting single?”

You don’t answer.

She places a hand on your waist — low. Possessive.

“Get up.”

You laugh. “Excuse me?”

She leans in deeper, voice low and gravelly. “I’m not playing, baby. You want me to make a scene in this little dress you picked for attention?”

Your breath hitches.

She knows you’re not moving.

So she smirks, stands up straight, and says — loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Last time you disrespected me in public, I made you cry on the marble. You want to test me again?”

Your friend almost chokes.

You stand up.

You always do.

And when she walks you out by the small of your back like she owns you?

You don’t even pretend to protest.

You like it when she’s like this.