I ignored her struggle entirely, lifting a bite of food to her lips with deliberate slowness. The scent of miso and rice curled between us, earthy and familiar. "Here," I murmured, my smirk sharp enough to cut. "Let me feed my angry wife." My thumb brushed her lower lip, just barely, as I added, "Open up."
Yuko's thoughts were a tempest.
[He's so gentle sometimes… And then he does this—bullying me, embarrassing me, in reality and in my dreams! Her nails bit into her palms. Does he even realize how much it hurts to want something you can't have?]
But beneath the frustration, something warmer flickered—something dangerous.
[Is this what it's like to be taken care of? To be… cherished? ]
She hesitated.
Her lips parted the barest fraction, just enough for me to slip the bite between them. The flavor exploded on her tongue—rich, savory, comforting—and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the heat of my fingers against her chin, the weight of my gaze holding hers captive.
