Willa:
Sure
Lincoln:
A granola bar doesn’t count.
Willa:
Then…no.
Lincoln:
Jesus Christ. You’re lucky you’re hot.
Stay there. I’m coming home.
Willa:
Do NOT come home! This is why I didn’t say anything. You’ve got your shift at the bar tonight, and I’m FINE.
Lincoln:
You’re not fine. I’m calling Dec to cover me.
I’ll be home in 15. And I mean it. DO NOT GET OUT OF THAT BED.
Willa:
I swear to god if you show up with that pitiful look in your eyes…
Lincoln:
Please. You love my pitiful look.
Willa:
I love your dick. Not your pity.
Lincoln:
Cool. I’ll bring both.
Willa:
You’re infuriating.
Lincoln:
Don’t pretend you don’t love it.
See you in 13.
By the timeI made it back to the farm with Willa’s favorite takeout and a jar of THC pain relief cream Mabel swore by, I wasthis closeto tossing my wife over my shoulder and physically chaining her to the bed if it meant she’d finally take it easy.
Buttake it easyandmy wifedidn’t belong in the same sentence.
Sure enough, the second I stepped inside the silo and heard the creak of the floorboards above me, I knew she’d done exactly what she wasn’t supposed to. She’d gotten out of bed.
