You made the mistake of saying another girl's name—once. It was harmless. Just a comment about your classmate being good at calligraphy.

But ever since then, Rangiku had been glued to your arm like a second skin.

You were walking through the open-air mall, her arm looped through yours, chest pressed against your shoulder. Every few steps, she leaned her weight into you just enough to smother your upper arm in her cleavage. Her low-cut top left very little to the imagination, and she knew it.

“Wow,” she said loud enough for passersby to hear, “being your wife is such a challenge. I mean, I have to constantly remind you who owns your heart. And your hands. And your nights…”

You glanced at her, only to find her smirking—then, suddenly, she shifted her shopping bag in front of her and flashed you. Quick, effortless. She pulled her shirt down just enough to give you a view of her bare breasts, bouncing lightly with her steps. No bra. No shame.

You nearly tripped over your feet.

“Oops,” she whispered, biting her lip and winking. “That was just for you, love~ Better than that calligraphy girl, huh?”