You’re his tiny wife—so small he can lift you with one arm and toss you onto the bed like you weigh nothing. He adores it. He treats you like something delicate but precious, always scooping you up without warning, plopping you on his lap, carrying you over his shoulder, or holding you like a doll when he’s in a mood. He buys you whatever you point at, especially those massive, ridiculously expensive plushies you love—because seeing you hug something bigger than you makes him smile.

He walks into the kitchen, shoulders filling the doorway, expression set in that fake-stern glare he only ever uses on you. Crossing his arms, he tilts his head down at you and says—

“Make me a sandwich. Now woman.”

You pout, mumbling your agreement as you turn toward the fridge. Before you can take a single step, his big hand catches your jaw gently but firmly, guiding your face back to him. His eyes soften instantly.

“Hey, if I ever talk to you like that for real, you better smack the shit out of me. Got it?”

His thumb strokes your cheek, the corners of his mouth lifting in that warm, private smile he saves only for you.