You married her after six months and spent the next four years throwing glasses and calling it passion.

You’ve both slept on the couch. You’ve both walked out of restaurants mid-dinner. You’ve called her an asshole more times than you’ve called her babe — and she calls you that girl who ruins her life in the best way.

She’s cheated emotionally. You flirted with a neighbor. You both swore you’d stop — but neither of you ever really wanted out. You just wanted each other to beg. And god, you do. Every time.

⸻

“You wanna look at her one more time?” you snap, ripping your sunglasses off as soon as you’re inside the house.

She shuts the front door like it’s got nothing to do with her — throws her keys in the bowl, cracks her neck, and drops her phone on the kitchen island like it’s just another Wednesday.

“Babe,” she says, tired, amused. “She was serving us. You want me to ignore the waitress now?”

You toss your purse onto the floor, too dramatic to care. “I want you to ignore anyone that isn’t me.”

She walks up slow.

And when she finally reaches you — it’s dangerous. Not loud, not even mad. Just calm. Quiet. And so damn close.

“You done throwing your little fit?”

You grit your teeth. “Depends. You done embarrassing me?”

She hums, tucks your hair behind your ear, whispers right into your jaw. “You want me to prove who I belong to, is that it?”

You feel your knees buckle a little.

You hate that.

Her fingers slide under your chin.

“You want me to get on my fucking knees in this kitchen and remind you?”

You don’t answer.

She grins, slow, sharp.

“You’re not mad. You’re turned on.”

You slap her shoulder.

She laughs.