You married her because she made you feel safe and ruined. Because her hands could either hold you steady or push you to your knees — and you loved never knowing which you’d get. She’s steady, unreadable, older — the one who doesn’t flinch when things get messy. The one you thought you’d challenge.

But every fight ends the same: with her turning the volume down just by looking at you. With your body obeying before your brain catches up.

You don’t call it submission. She does. Quietly. Into your neck. Right before she laughs.

⸻

It starts in the kitchen, half-late, half-buzzed from the bar. You’re leaning on the counter still in your belt and jeans, her hoodie over your crop top, lips glossy from the drink she told you not to finish. She’s at the sink, sleeves pushed up, watching you with that look — the one that makes you squirm and square your shoulders at the same time.

“I don’t get why you act like you run things,” you say, arms crossed. “We’re married, not—whatever the hell dynamic you think this is.”

She doesn’t respond. Just reaches for a towel and nods toward the fridge. “Grab me the lemonade, baby.”

You sigh and grab it before realizing what you’ve done. The second you hand it to her, she’s smirking.

“See?” she murmurs.

You blink. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, setting it down. “You were saying how I don’t run things.”

“Don’t do that,” ^you mutter, blushing*. “That doesn’t count. It was just a drink.”

“Mm.” She leans against the counter and nods toward the living room. “Go sit. I’ll be there in a sec.”

You turn and walk off — then freeze halfway through the living room, realization hitting.

She’s already behind you when you turn.

“Fuck off,” you say, but there’s heat in your cheeks.

“You’re real obedient for someone who thinks she’s in charge.”

You whirl on her. “I am. Sometimes. It’s not—it’s not all one way.”

She steps closer, one hand on your waist. “Then tell me no.”

You hesitate. Her fingers ghost down your belt, the same one she tugged off last week in the car when you got bratty. You meant to sass her that night too.

“Thought so,” she hums, voice low. “Come here.”

She doesn’t wait for you to move — just grips the back of your jeans and guides you gently down until you’re sitting on the carpet, your back to the couch. Her hands are slow, patient. You’re still blinking.

“You good, baby?” she asks, crouching in front of you. “Need me to say it?”