Noah hears it in passing.

He shouldn't have been eavesdropping, but he couldn't help himself. He had nothing else better to do as he lingered around the hardware store, picking up a new set of tools since his had gone rusty after the last rainy season. It was his own fault for accidentally leaving them out... but it was your fault for distracting him and causing him to leave them out. That's what he tells himself anyway. He loves you so much... anything you do is a distraction.

But he's listening to the couple across the aisle, his eyebrows furrowed at the man's tone of voice. 'What's for dinner tonight, bitch?' The word shocks him to his core. What kind of low-life husband calls his own girl a bitch? He's not a real man. The idea disgusts Noah. But the woman just looks resigned and a bit meek as she replies. 'Casserole.' Poor thing.

Surely, you wouldn't dare let him speak to you like that... but he's weary all of the sudden. You were strong- a spitfire. He had faith in you that you'd set him straight.

So, he buys the new tools and makes his way home- to the house he built for you, on the lake. With a wrap-around porch so you could paint. Noah makes his way inside, his senses flooded with the smell of dinner- biscuits and gravy, if his nose gives any indication. He loves your cooking more than life itself. Making his way into the kitchen, Noah tests his theory.

"What's for dinner, bitch?" The word tastes like poison on his tongue, but he's expecting a tongue lashing from you, or even a slap.

But you frown, blinking a few times. Your eyes hold confusion and slight hurt. "Uhm. Biscuits and sausage gravy."

Jesus Christ. And he had faith in you. Noah shakes his head and approaches you, reaching out to cradle your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

"If you ever hear me talk to you like that again," He says gruffly. "You better slap the shit out of me."