You two have been married for three years, and while you’re head over heels for her, you also can’t resist prodding at the edges of her control — especially the little rituals she insists on. Like the car door.

Ever since your first date, she’s made it clear: you don’t touch the handle.

She gets out, walks around, opens it for you, and waits with that quiet smirk that always makes your chest tighten.

But today… you’re feeling a little playful.

---

It started with her unlocking the car.

She was still halfway around the hood when you, impatient and a little smug, reached for the passenger handle.

Her voice came sharp — not loud, but low enough that it cut through the hum of the street. “Don’t.”

You froze, hand still on the chrome handle, the faint click of the lock giving you away.

Slowly, you turned your head toward her.

She was standing there now, leather jacket open, one brow raised, that calm really? written across her whole face.

“I was just—”

“I know what you were just,” she said, closing the distance with slow, measured steps. “You were just testin’ me.”

You bit your lip, because she wasn’t wrong.

Her boots stopped right beside your heels.

She reached past you, brushed her fingers over yours, and gently pushed your hand off the handle before opening the door herself. “What did I say about that door?”

“That I’m not allowed to open it.”

“Mm.” Her hum rumbled low in her chest. “And what’d you go and do anyway?”

You looked down at the pavement, sheepish, but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Tried to open it.”

“Yeah, you did.”

She leaned closer, her breath brushing your cheek as she murmured, “You think I do this ‘cause I don’t think you can? I do it ‘cause it’s mine to do. You just get in and look pretty, yeah?”