Then I lean in, voice dropping just enough for only her.
“You should be more careful, Isabella.”
She stills. “Of… what?”
I tap my jacket, right where the offending salsa stain sits.
“Making a mess. You never know what might need to be cleaned up after.”
Her throat bobs. Her fingers press into the hem of her dress, a tell she doesn’t realize she has.
Her breath is coming too fast.
I reach for the napkins on the counter. Take one. Hold it out to her.
She hesitates.
So I do it for her.
Slowly.
I drag the napkin along her wrist, wiping off the sauce she left behind when she cleaned her mouth earlier. The motion is casual. Intentional.
But her pulse jumps. I feel it beneath my fingers—racing, wild, traitorous.
“See?” My voice is quiet. Almost amused. “No more mess.”
Her breath shudders out.
I ball up the napkin, toss it aside, and straighten. My shadow falls over her completely, boxing her in.
“Now,” I say smoothly, sliding a hand into my jacket pocket. “Are you finished running?”
She squares her shoulders. Lifts her chin like she’s telling herself to be strong.
“I wasn’t running.”
I let the lie hang between us. She knows I don’t believe it.
She sighs. Deflates. Her fingers lift, tentative, hesitant—
Then she grabs the rest of the taco from my hand and takes a bite.
Her eyes hold mine the entire time.
I exhale a slow, measured breath through my nose. I have a wife with no self-preservation instincts.
My palm itches to grab her jaw, to press my thumb to the salsa at the corner of her mouth, and feel the way her lips part under my touch.
But I don’t.
I let her win this round.
Because I already know something she doesn’t.
She’ll learn exactly what it means to belong to me.
The ride back is silent.
