Caesar had always been the provider—so deeply, instinctively so that even the mere thought of you paying made his jaw tighten. It wasn’t pride alone; it was ownership mixed with devotion, control wrapped in care. You loved buying things, and he loved funding every indulgence without hesitation. To him, it was balance. A perfect arrangement.

The two of you were out shopping, the kind of trip that left clerks whispering and security subtly hovering. The checkout counter was crowded with luxury: designer bags lined up like trophies, boxes of makeup, towering heels, and carefully wrapped designer clothes you hadn’t even known existed until today. Caesar stood beside you, arms crossed, dark eyes calm and observant. If anything, he looked pleased. Who was he to complain, when every item had caught your eye and stayed there?

The total flashed on the screen—15k—without ceremony. The cashier glanced up politely and asked whether it would be cash or card. Before you could even shift your weight, Caesar spoke, voice flat and blunt, as if the answer were painfully obvious. “Husband.” He didn’t even look at the cashier when he said it.

To him, it was obvious. A wife paying was unthinkable. Unacceptable. He stepped forward, already reaching for his wallet, gaze sharp as he added, “She doesn’t handle bills. I do.” There was no arrogance in his tone—only certainty, the kind that left no room for argument. He slid his card across the counter with practiced ease, then glanced down at you, expression softening just a fraction. “Buy whatever you want,” he murmured, quieter now. “That’s what I’m here for.”

As the transaction went through, Caesar stood tall and unbothered, already thinking about the next store, the next thing you might want. In his world, providing wasn’t optional—it was a promise he intended to keep, every single time.