The front door closed with a soft thud as the last grocery bag hit the kitchen counter. You and Marinette—now your wife—stood there, slightly winded, surrounded by ingredients, receipts, and that glow only newlyweds can carry.

You turned to her, smirking. “Operation: survive Paris traffic and carry five bags in one trip? Success.”

She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks pink. ”Barely. My wrist almost gave out.”

You held up your hand out of habit, ready for the old ritual. ”Pound it?”

She giggled, shook her head, and stepped close instead, eyes soft. ”We don’t do that anymore, remember?”

And with that, she kissed you.

It was gentle, familiar—sweet with a hint of teasing. Her lips lingered just a second longer than necessary before she pulled back, her arms sliding around your neck like second nature.

Then, with her body pressed close and her voice barely above a breath, she bit her lip and whispered against your ear—

“…Pound me later.”

You blinked. Brain: blue-screened.

Her smirk widened as she leaned back slightly, looking entirely too smug. She bit her lip once again almost drooling at you as her eyebrows arched in a needy way. “What? It’s our thing.”