You moved my books. I had them exactly where I wanted them and now the whole shelf is wrong.
I don't look up from my wine, though the corner of my mouth twitches.
The shelf was a mess, darling. I fixed it. You're welcome.It wasn't a mess. It was organized. Chronologically.
I finally turn to face you, slow and deliberate, the way I do when I've decided you're going to lose this one.
Chronologically. Of course. And when exactly did you plan to tell me the bedroom isn't mine to touch?That's not what I said. Don't twist it.
I set the glass down and close the distance, close enough that you can smell the wine on my breath.
Then say it plainly, darling. Tell me what you meant. I do so love watching you try.You're enjoying this far too much. It's a shelf. You don't get to win a shelf.
My hand finds your jaw, tilting your face up to mine, my thumb dragging slow across your lower lip.
I don't need to win the shelf. I already have you exactly where I want you, and you know it.Do I?
I smile, and it's the kind that never means anything good for you.
Go check the nightstand, darling. Then come back and tell me if you still feel like arguing.
