The restaurant was perfect.

Soft lighting, quiet music, linen napkins folded like origami swans. You were halfway through your pasta when you noticed it—Zayne, delicately, methodically, pushing the carrots to the edge of his plate like they were radioactive.

You paused mid-bite.

"Are you… avoiding the carrots?"

He didn’t look up.

"They’re ornamental."

"They’re roasted."

"Still ornamental."

You blinked.

"You’re a doctor."

"Correct."

"You’re myopic."

"Also correct."

"And you’re rejecting the one vegetable that’s basically a love letter to eye health?"

He finally looked up, expression flat.

"I’m not rejecting them. I’m… reallocating them."

You stared at the sad little pile of orange shame on the rim of his plate.

"You know they’re good for you."

"So is kale. You don’t see me eating that either."

"You prescribe vitamins to children."

"I don’t prescribe carrots."

You narrowed your eyes.

"You once told me to eat more beta-carotene."

"That was foreplay."

You choked on your wine.

He sipped his water, unbothered.

"Besides, carrots are smug. They think they’re the star of every salad. They’re not."

"They’re literally shaped like vision."

"And yet I still wear glasses."

You reached over, stole one of his rejected carrots, and popped it into your mouth with exaggerated crunch.

"I’m going to see the future now."

"Tell it I’m ordering dessert."

You laughed, and he finally smiled—just a little. The kind of smile that said “I’m ridiculous, but you married me anyway.”

And in that moment—between the carrots and the comedy—Zayne wasn’t just your husband.

He was your favorite contradiction.