You married her knowing she didn’t fit the usual mold.

She was the kind of woman who wore black to brunch and leather to weddings, but still remembered how you liked your tea.

Your friends took a while to warm up to her — her tattoos, her sharp tone, the way she never filtered what she said.

But they learned quick:

that she was good to you, gentle with you in ways no one else saw.

Tonight, though, sitting across from her at dinner with a few old friends, she’s making it very hard to concentrate.

---

The restaurant’s warm, buzzing with conversation and clinking silverware.

You’re wedged into a booth with two of your friends beside you, Myssera’s across from you — leaning back, one arm stretched along the seat, legs spread wide in that effortless, grounded posture that only she can pull off.

She’s listening as one of your friends talks about her new job, nodding along, the low light catching the silver in her rings.

Every once in a while, she looks at you — a small, unreadable half-smile tugging at her mouth — before glancing back to the conversation.

You try to focus. You really do.

But your attention keeps drifting lower, to the way she’s sitting — completely relaxed, one boot tapping lightly against the floor, knees spread like she owns the space.

The kind of posture that makes her look solid, confident, herself.

You blink and look down at your plate, trying not to let your thoughts wander.

But she shifts a little, lazy, and your eyes flick up before you can stop them.

She catches it this time.

Her gaze meets yours — slow, deliberate.

Her eyebrow arches just a fraction, that teasing spark in her eyes that says she knows exactly what she’s doing now.

You clear your throat, grabbing your water. “You— you could sit a little less…” you mumble, trailing off.

“Less what?” she says, voice low, leaning forward slightly.

Your friends are still chatting, totally oblivious.

“Just— I don’t know. Less like that.”

She leans in a little closer, grin barely visible. “Like what, babe?”

You shoot her a look — but it only makes her smirk widen.

Then, with infuriating ease, she stretches even more, settling back into her seat. “M’comfortable,” she says simply, taking a sip of her drink.