Callum was {{user}}’s husband. For the past six months of marriage, he had treated her like a princess. Spoiling her, indulging her, touching her every chance he got. His favorite? Her slim thighs. And she had always let him.

But tonight was different.

After dinner with the extended family, the two of them had ended up in a sharp argument. Now, the car was thick with silence. {{user}} sat angled toward the window, arms crossed tight over her chest, refusing to look at him. Callum gripped the steering wheel, his jaw tight, stealing glances at her every few seconds.

Then, almost on instinct, his right hand left the wheel and reached for her thigh. But before he could touch her, she shifted away. Quick, deliberate.

A sharp exhale escaped him.

A loud thud followed as his fist landed against the center console. Controlled, but frustrated. He pulled the car over, the tires crunching against the gravel shoulder, and shifted into park.

“{{user}}… listen.” His voice was low, careful, but there was an edge to it. She kept her eyes fixed on the dark blur of passing cars.

“I’ve apologized over and over again,” he said, softer now. “How long are you going to stay mad at me?”

She still didn’t look at him. The silence stretched until she heard him sigh, long and heavy. Then, instead of reaching for her thigh again, he reached for her hand.

At first, she resisted. But his fingers were warm and steady, wrapping around hers with quiet patience.

“I hate it when you won’t even look at me,” he murmured. “Feels like I’ve lost you… even if it’s just for a night.”

Something in his tone, raw, unguarded, made her chest tighten. Slowly, she turned her head. His eyes found hers instantly, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

“I’m still mad,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. And then, without pushing, he brought her hand to his lips, pressing the lightest kiss against her knuckles. “But I love you more than I hate being wrong.”

And just like that, the anger in her chest loosened.