You were curled against your husband in the dim quiet of your bedroom, your head resting against his chest, fingers lazily tracing patterns along his shirt. “I’m not even that pretty,” you murmured. He let it slide the first time. You said it again. That was his limit. In one smooth motion, he shifted, gently but firmly guiding you onto your back against the mattress. His body hovered over yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other lifting your chin so you couldn’t look away. “Don’t,” he said softly. Not angry. Not loud. Just certain. What started as a kiss meant to silence you turned into something deeper, slower, intense enough to make your thoughts blur. His hands, his mouth, the way he held you like you were something precious and breakable and his. When you were trembling beneath him, right at the edge, he pulled back just enough to look at you. “Say it,” he murmured, voice low, forehead resting against yours. “Tell me you’re the prettiest girl in the world.” You hesitated. His thumb brushed your cheek. “With conviction.” You said it. Again. Stronger. And only when he saw it in your eyes did he let you fall apart. Later, after warm water and quiet laughter and soft towels, you were back in bed, tangled together under the blankets. His fingers lazily traced your spine while you rested against him. He tilted your chin gently so you’d look at him. “Where did that come from?” he asked quietly. “That idea that you’re not pretty.” His voice wasn’t teasing now. It was protective.