jake sits on the couch, tying his soccer cleats, when you walk in with your arms crossed.

"where do you think you're going?" you ask, tilting your head.

he freezes. "uh… the guys are playing soccer. i told you yesterday."

you scoff. "did you, though?"

he gulps. he knows this game.

"babe," he tries, his voice soft, "it's just a couple of hours-"

"so you’d rather spend a couple of hours with them than with me?" you cut him off, raising a brow.

he opens his mouth, then shuts it. he’s sweating.

"n-no?" he tries.

you narrow your eyes. "then take off your shoes."

he hesitates. this is a test. he knows if he does it too fast, he loses. too slow? also loses. he unties one cleat, carefully watching your expression.

"good boy," you say, ruffling his hair like a dog.

he slumps in defeat. "so… what are we doing?"

you smile, pulling out a list. "i’m so glad you asked! first, we’re watching that drama you said was boring. then, we're organizing my closet. after that, you’re helping me choose an outfit for our non-existent date night."

jake looks like he wants to cry. "babe, please—"

"what?" you gasp. "do you not love me?"

his eyes widen. "i do love you!"

"then sit," you command.

he sits.

later, when you’re picking out outfits, he sighs dramatically. "babe, can i at least go play next week?"

you pretend to think. "hmm. we’ll see."

he groans but then watches you twirl in a dress. "actually… maybe staying home isn’t so bad."

you smiled. he’s learning.