#beyond that a good event but ohhhh i’m sorry kid

[songofsaraneth]

:( :( :( after the mermaid event i worked today, we took off our tails and started packing up, but a 4-5yr old child who’d kept visiting us throughout the event wandered back in and saw us with Legs (we try SO hard to make sure no one’s around when we descale but he slipped through) and the look of UTTER DEVASTATION on his face will haunt me all night 😭

[heli0s-writes]

III. Heavy With Mood

Summary:  You have two very different dates with Steve. At the end of the second, the two of you come to be on the same page. Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader A/N: Modern AU, Teacher reader, Dad/Baker Steve… lots of pining, slow burn, romance. Enjoy!

Slow Like Honey Masterpost

The Last Day of First Grade (yes, it’s special) is a complete blur as all of your students are too restless and overactive to get through much of anything. Your body is so tired from the late nights of making sure everything is in order before summer break. Curriculum pacing just so happened to place two assessments on Monday, which left you and Heather with the task of frantically grading and re-testing any student who missed school. Entering grades and stuffing report cards kept you awake Tuesday night, as well as planning the Last Day festivities. Not to mention during your “break” periods at work, you were pulled into various meetings.

Other classrooms were doing huge events for the Last Day- full of parent involvement and showcasing student work.

You were dead tired. So you planned a pizza party and movie day before early dismissal. Screw the big huzzah. You had thrown two parties this year- Friendsgiving and Winter Solstice Party. The end of the year was going to be simple: Disney and pizza. The kids were beyond pumped for it.

In the morning you teach them how to make their own paper airplanes, decorating the papers together before folding. Then you take them on the playground and they all get a chance to fly them across the blacktop. Jason’s goes the farthest, coasting on a lucky breeze before diving nose-first into the bushes. Mabel’s plane gets caught in a basketball net and you have to poke it free with a snapped-off branch. The kids cheer as you teeter on your tip toes and jump until it comes loose.

By the time the pizza gets delivered, adults and children alike are sweat-glazed and ready for ice-cold juice pouches. You fire up the movie and begin passing out plates while Heather comes around with the pizza.

 When you and Heather finally sit down, you breathe a sigh and wipe your forehead with the back of your hand. The kids are intently watching as Dory dreams about her parents and excitedly swims into the anemone. They giggle when she gets stung.

You rearrange your desk to make room for your own plate, moving flower vases and thank-you cards, stacking candy bars and consolidating gift bags. You had planned on reading these randomly, but a certain twine bow catches your attention and the bit of crust you’re chewing on gets stuck stubbornly in your throat.

Pulling the threads apart, you peek into the small gift back where a card sits on top of a stack of very large cookies encased in cellophane. The paper is heavy and rough against your fingers when you pull it out, peering in awe at the watercolor blossoms on the cover. You turn it in your hand, peering at the delicate craftsmanship, wondering which card company made such an exquisite thing but unable to see a label anywhere.

Holy shit. You realize, Steve painted this. You’re awestruck.

On the inside, his handwriting scrawls your first name delicately in black ink. Your heart leaps into your throat, taking place of the chewed crust as you choke a little bit.

Thank you for everything this school year. Sarah and I will be so sad to not have you in our lives… unless you’d like for that to change as much as I do. It is the last day of school, after all…

Please come have dinner with us today. I promise we’ll feed you more than just banana bread and cookies.

Steve

The smile you try to hide persistently thwarts your attempts as you reread the note over and over again, fingers digging into the cellophane wrapping before eating a corner of the top cookie. The raisins and molasses melt against your tongue. The crunch of the oats immediately sweeps over the softness with such deliberate balance you think you might faint.

 It’s not your week on carline duty, but you take the students outside during dismissal to see and say thank you to as many parents as you can. Both you and Heather have received more hugs than you can count, and right after lunch, with pizza sauce on their shirts and all- the kids nearly dogpile you as you bend over to pick up a loose fork on the rug. Tears have been in your eyes since.

You hand off Grayson to his mother, Harper to her aunt, and one by one, all the children are gone. Except for, of course, sandy-haired, blue-eyed Sarah, who grips on to your hand and points when her father’s distinct figure peeks out from behind the crowd of parents. When he walks up, they share a smile and Sarah swings your hand in wide semi-circles.

“Are you gonna come have spaghetti with us?” She asks, skipping from you to latch onto her father’s leg. You look around tentatively, waving goodbye to any straggling student you might know. Other teachers glance over at Steve, then avert their eyes quickly.

The Rogers smile at each other and Steve gives Sarah a wink. There go those lovely eyelashes again, fluttering like your heart.

“Well, I do love spaghetti…” You mumble. Sarah giggles excitedly and jumps up with a clap.

“Yay yay yay yay! Daddy lets me make the meatballs and wash the tomatoes. Can you stay for a movie? Can you stay for a sleepover?”

Both you and Steve sputter at her suggestion but Sarah rambles on about what movies they have at home. He mouths an apology and you shake your head with a laugh.

“How about five?” He asks, fiddling with his phone. “I’ll send you our address?”

You nod and he shoots off the text. Then he takes Sarah by the hand and with a small wave and another shy half-glance back behind him, Steve leads her off the curb and into the emptying parking lot.

Wiping the beading sweat from your brow— more nerves than summer sun— you return to your classroom. It was about half-past noon. You have another two hours of cleaning up before you can leave. Heather stands by the door with a smile and swings it open for you. Graciously, she says nothing, only humming a brief tune as you take large strides out of view of your co-workers’ eyes.

—

A familiar wave of panic crashes upon you as you close your car door and step up to the Rogers’ house at four-fifty. It’s a cozy one-story Four Square with a manicured front lawn and tall rose bushes by the steps. The front porch suspends sprawling hanging plants and a swing bench accompanied by two outdoor chairs. Some of Sarah’s outside toys lay scattered by the doormat.

Your finger pushes the bell and you clutch into the bag at your side tightly.

Nothing.

Quickly, you check the address on the text again and step back to get a good look at the numbers to the left of the door. They match. You smooth your dress and try again.

Nothing.

A thousand errant thoughts run cross your mind— he must have given you the wrong address. This is a stranger’s house. It was a trick. He was pulling your leg. Of course he doesn’t like you. Oh god, you have to leave. You’re scrambling from the front steps when the door gets yanked open and Steve is chasing you down.

“Hey!” He calls.

Turning around, you see him apron-clad, trousers on, patterned button up sleeves folded up to his elbows. His hair is in slight disarray and he’s out of breath.

“Is it five already?!” He cries, checking his watch. “I’m sorry, dinner’s not ready—“ A shriek comes from inside the house and Steve whips around to look for it, “Sarah is— come on in, please! She’s very upset with me. I’m sorry. Oh damn it…” He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm and dejectedly leads you inside.

The smell of butter and tomato sauce is so inviting as it pushes past the heavy stiffness that lingers in the house. Something sweet is in the oven, too. The hardwood path to the kitchen is open and decorated with paintings of nature and pictures of Sarah. Just as warm as the bakery is, the Rogers house is even more intimate. It’s also spotless.

“This shouldn’t take too much longer…” Steve sighs before going silent.

He motions for you to have a seat as he resumes his place at the stove, stirring and peeking into the oven. There are half-rolled meatballs on the other side of the counter and Steve starts washing his hands before looking at them disparagingly. After setting your things down, you wander away from the living room and try to find the source of his exasperation, giving him a moment of privacy.

 Sarah is in her room, repeatedly hitting a stuffed bear against a luggage bag when you gently knock on the door. She’s bright red and fuming, yellow butterfly dress crumpled at the hem, knee socks rolled down half-way and at uneven lengths. When she sees you, she screams your name and erupts into tears, smothering her face against your thighs.

Carefully, you kneel down and let her lean on your shoulder. Big droplets roll and collect in the hollow of your collarbone.

“Shhh, sweet girl. I know you’re upset.”

“I-I-I d-don’t don’t wanna g-g-go oh-oh-ohhhh!”

You pick her up and pat her back with a little effort. Her legs dangle down nearly to your shins because she’s got her father’s genes and she’s more than half your size at age six. You walk her slowly into the kitchen and upon seeing her father she presses her cheek to your neck and faces away from him. Steve looks pale and sullen as he rolls the last few meatballs between his two palms. Your heart is on the verge of breaking too. Sarah is breathing heavily, hiccuping in-between, rattling like a maraca.  

“Sarah, honey. Let me have a look at you.” You set her down and hold out both your hands. She places hers is them and blink slowly, blue eyes swollen pink. “Are you nervous about going to see your mom?” She nods. “I know you’re going to miss your daddy, honey. But it’s only for one month, remember?”

She opens her mouth to cry but you give her a pointed look- one she’s familiar with- and she stops, waiting for you to finish.

“Your mama loves you, and she’s so excited to spend time with you. She’s going to make sure you have lots of fun. You know that our school has a short summer, right? Know why?”

She nods again, the tears temporarily ceasing as you try to divert her fears with facts. “We have a different calendar.” She says.

“Mhm… so… you’ll be back here in thirty days and guess what?” You smile at her.

“What?”

“Then you’ll be in second grade! You’ll be a big girl in second grade where you’ll get your very own locker!”

After a breath, Sarah giggles finally. A small, short tittering before she pouts again. You poke her with a finger and then point to your bags on the dining room chair. “I have an early birthday present for you. Something for your trip. Can you help me get that brown bag?”

Following her to the chair, the two of you sit cross legged on the floor as she pulls out your gift- a light blue mini-polaroid camera. It was something you’d gotten a few years back but had remained mostly unused and gathering dust on your bookshelf. While you were getting ready to come over, you thought about bringing a gift, but a dessert would have been offensive (Steve being a professional baker and all), and a bottle of wine might have been inappropriate (Sarah being six, you being a lightweight).

At the last minute- the camera caught your eye and you figure it would be a good distraction for Sarah to have during her travels. You also recall her birthday being one of the first days of school- making her one of the youngest in her class. It was perfect.

You teach her how to use it, hanging it around her neck and pressing the on button and watch it whirr and buzz to life. You’d also brought her two extra packs of film. She peeks through the viewfinder curiously and points it at you.

“When you’re ready, push the shutter button here.” You lightly move her finger to the dip and sit back. She peeks into the viewfinder for a second, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates. You’re laughing when Sarah clicks it and the flash goes off. Immediately, a small white rectangle ejects from the slot and you tug it out for her. She giggles and looks at the plastic, catching the kitchen light on its surface.

“Now we wait!” You say, playfully slapping it on her head before setting it on the counter, “It only takes a few minutes. But how about we take more pictures after dinner? I think your dad needs help setting the table.”

 Sarah walks with you, holding the forks and napkins as you bring the knives. She chooses the pitcher of sweet tea from the fridge and fills up three cups with ice before you pour. Steve quietly arranges the freshly baked meatballs on top of the pile of noodles and sauce with care and sets down three steaming plates on the table.

Sarah walks over to him before he can sit down and climbs into his arms when he kneels. Softly, she whispers “I’m sorry, daddy.” And Steve Rogers’ eyes fill up with tears. You tilt your head back so that your own won’t spill over, either.

Dinner is spent happily, the three of you slurp noodles and sip tea. By the end of it, you’re all so full that a single slice of blueberry pie al a mode has to be shared by three people.

-

Fifteen minutes into The Little Mermaid, Sarah falls asleep next to you. Little breaths escape her body as Steve scoops her up and takes her down the hall. You’ve been sitting on the recliner- a safe choice so that you don’t assume too much, but Sarah climbed up next to you and snuggled into the space by the armrest. When he returns, Steve moves to the edge of the couch and takes a deep breath. You send him a tentative smile, offering him your hand.

He looks unbelievably tired as he takes it.

“Thank you… Really, I--”

You shake your head, “No, I know it’s hard. My mother raised me on her own— she remarried when I was in high school, but trust me… I was tough. You’re just fine. Really.”

He squeezes your hand and you return the gesture, pushing your nerves down as much as possible. Fish are singing in the background, and the only thing illuminating Steve other than the movie is the lamp in the corner of the room. Slowly, as Sebastian the crab leads the chorus of marine wildlife, Steve laces his fingers in yours.

“I hope this is… um.. okay.” He whispers.

Your eyes are fixed on the T.V. “Mmhm.”

Another few minutes pass. “Can I get you anything else? More pie?”

You smile, “I’m okay. Thank you. Do you want help cleaning up?”

“No. No! I’ll do it.”

You blow a raspberry because there’s two pots, a pasta strainer, and a baking sheet, not to mention all those plates and cups and forks piled up in the sink. “Steve, I will have more pie if you let me help with the dishes.”

He rubs the back of his head. “Okay..” he laughs. “You’ve got a deal.”

Because you say it all the time, and because you swear your brain is just a giant spinning wheel of phrases you use in the classroom, you stupidly blurt. “Dill, pickle?”

He bursts into laughter. The sweetest, most joyful sound you’ve heard all night. Maybe ever. He clutches one hand to his torso and throws his head back. “Dill, pickle!”

 Steve walks you to your car at eight-thirty. The two of you had shared another hefty slice of blueberry pie together and spent the last hour on the porch- you on the swing, him on the chair- because your conversations were getting too full and loud with laughter and you were afraid of waking Sarah. Peggy would be landing early to get her, about seven. Both father and daughter needed a good night’s sleep.

He takes leisurely steps next to you, both hands tucked in his pocket, chin to his chest with a smile and you find yourself slowing down to match his pace— not yet wanting the night to end. At the curb, you put your hand on your keys but leave them in your purse for now. He leans against the frame of your car and rubs the flutter sleeve of your summer dress lightly between two fingers.

“This is nice.” Steve says, maybe a little bolder than he should have been, but the entire month has been a series of days leading him up the peak of a terrible roller coaster, which tomorrow morning would plummet him into the longest thirty days of his life so far. He hasn’t seen Peggy since Christmas, only able to avoid her because he begs Marnie to take Sarah each time she visits. But tomorrow, promptly at seven, because Peggy is always prompt, he’ll be handing off his little girl with tears in his eyes and throwing himself into work to take his mind off being without her all summer.

Steve tries to find an anchor in the sorrowful sea. The sleeve of your floral yellow dress seems perfectly capable of keeping him still.

You see the desperate look in his eyes, brimming with sadness, worry, even if the edges of it are alight with joy from your time on the porch together. His comment seems less about your dress and more about the time, you think, but say nothing. Maybe he’s not ready— and you don’t expect him to be because all you know of Steve Rogers is just the tip of his iceberg. The weight of him- his grief, love, his complexities, lie much further beneath that blue.

You float there, too, with your own intricacies. Two icebergs melting slowly in the summer.

“Do you, um.. would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow?”

Tomorrow is a teacher workday, and you’ll be in the classroom. He knows that, as he offers. The two choices are either going out to eat during the lunch hour, or him coming into the school to bring you something. You ponder the question for a minute as you memorize the lines of his face. Slowly, you let go of the troubles you’ve kept-- the fear of gossip and rumors. Steve Rogers is sweet. He is caring, he is gentle, loving, strong, respectful. There could be worse men interested in you.

Part of you also knows he would appreciate it, after the morning.

“Yes. I’d really like that.”

“Can I call you when I’m on my way? I’ll bring our daily special if you’re not already sick of my cooking…” He laughs.

“Oh no. Please, feed me more of it!” You respond, rolling your eyes back at the memory of the tangy tomato sauce that had simmered for over an hour. The robust meatballs perfectly paired with the delicate cheese and hand-torn sweet basil sprinkled on top. “Dinner was incredible. I can’t even—Ugh!”

Steve’s hand clutches his torso again as he leans back. “I guess if you hated my cooking we’d have to stop seeing each other.” And suddenly the statement makes both of you stop in your tracks because he’s brought to the forefront the exact kind of thing that you’ve been tiptoeing around all night.

“If that’s... I mean, if that’s okay with you? Us seeing each other?” He rubs the back of his neck bashfully and the two of you stand like teenagers after a first date, still leaning against your car, barely lit by the lights of his front porch.

 Inside, Sarah sleeps soundly to the soft melody of a night-time playlist Steve has put on for her. She dreams of a plane ride, her mother’s red lipstick, her father’s watch, the light blue polaroid camera that matches her eyes, and the white plastic picture that she forgot to look at before bed. On the sidewalk outside, her father steps forward, hand cupped underneath her first grade teacher’s chin and places a goodnight kiss to her cheek.

--

 In the morning, your face still sting with the softness of his kiss. Two completely contradictory sensations float over every thought you have- in the shower, brushing your teeth, driving to work, cleaning your classroom. Everywhere you look, you’re invaded with last night’s memory of Steve Rogers’ breath caressing you. The closer it gets to noon, the harder your heart squeezes and pounds.

Seeing each other.

Heather notices your dreamy looks and asks you after the third time you drop a chair and you tell her a white lie—too much wine last night, a hangover. You know inevitably, it’ll be too obvious to hide, with him coming in to eat lunch, but for now you just don’t know how to say it yet:

Seeing each other.

It feels so foreign. You haven’t seen anyone in almost two years. And now suddenly, you’re seeing possibly the most fantastic man to ever grace the Earth. There’s a very real and immediate chance that the both of you are getting caught up in the infatuated period of romanticizing a relationship. You try to ground yourself, but it’s hard when the very ground you stand on trembles at the thought of him. The more you know about him, the more you slip.

He’s been separated and now divorced, he revealed to you last night, for about two years. His whole life is the bakery and Sarah. She dominated the majority of your conversation, a good fixture to keep the mood from straying too far into anything too serious. It kept you from revealing your own baggage, mostly. Not that you had a lot of it. But you never know how people internalize others’ truths.

“You goin’ out for lunch?” Heather asks as she picks up her thermos.

“No, I, uh… I’m having lunch here.” You can hardly believe it’s noon already.

“You ain’t got anythin!” She looks around your desk from the door, and you pinch your lips together.

“S-Steve is b-bringing me something.” You whisper quietly before clapping both your hands over your face. Heather’s gasp makes you peek out from behind your hands and you see that she’s peering down the hall at the sound of footsteps. She ducks out of the door way and stares open-mouthed at you before jerking her thumb to the entrance.

“Girl….!”

You mouth get out to her and she cackles in delight. With a firm wink, she fixes the purse on her hip and struts out of the room, calling, “Well, good afternoon, Mr. Rogers! Y’all have a great lunch, alright?”

 Steve enters with a smile and a brown paper bag. He looks just a little more tired than usual, eyes puffier than last night. Instead of crossing the room and holding him, your first instinct, you meet him on the rug and stand on your tiptoes, left hand on his cheek to kiss him chastely on his right. It echoes his gesture from yesterday.

“You’re alright, Steve.” You whisper in his ear.

“Yeah. I’m trying to be.”

He nuzzles his cheek against yours and the two of you stand there before parting. Steve takes out lunch- yogurt, two pressed paninis, a cup of fruit. It’s small talk at first, about his morning and then yours, the steady and predictable grind of work, you looking forward to Friday afternoon when you officially start your summer break. You planned on visiting your family for about a week in July.

You tell him more about your family- your mother raising you and your brother on her own. He was closer to her, staying in town and making a living in the city, starting his own family. Silly stories were shared about both your childhoods- Steve was sickly and often picked on, usually finding himself battered into a pulp in Brooklyn alleyways. You went through a rebellious phase, chain-smoked, skipped school, hitchhiked around town. Neither of you could believe what the other was saying. Him- small?! You- goth?!

 Steve roars with laughter. You tell him you may still be in your rebellious phase- not wanting to move back home any time soon.

But, as you predicted, he asks the inevitable.

“So why did you move out here?”

You bite your lip, “For a partner…” you begin, “I moved here with my long term boyfriend, who got into the Ph.D program at the university.”

Steve listens as he finishes the last of his yogurt, wiping the remainder with a cut of cantaloupe.

“I had just finished my Masters and student teaching, was still interviewing for jobs… it uh, it fell apart early on after the move.”

“Why? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Your fruit cup begins to resemble sludge as your fork smashes against the chunks of watermelon and honeydew until they’re disfigured. Steve watches you intently, tilting his head.

“He… wanted to get married. Wanted kids. We’d been together for three years and it was always something we would eventually do— but he just became really convinced about starting a family.”

“And you weren’t ready?”

“Sort of.” You confess. “I had a bit of an awakening after spending a semester student teaching. After a lot of thought about my own childhood, being around all of these children who had such tough lives and required so much from me as their teacher... it came together.  I realized I don’t want kids, Steve. That was the-- y’know— that was it.”

The corner of his mouth twitches a bit as he places his hands awkwardly in his lap. It must feel so strange to him, you think as you watch him slowly look around your classroom, disheveled in the middle of stacking desks and rolling up rugs. Everything is cared for here, deliberately put together to foster growth in twenty-five children every year… but he looks at you, and he sees the finality, the seriousness of your revelation: you didn’t want any children of your own.

He stops himself from saying those cliched, callous statements that people offhandedly throw at women who decide they don’t want children. But he can’t help still thinking them. You’re still so young, you might change your mind.

“Oh.” Is all he can summon.

You watch him almost physically recoil and your eyes slip shut, the disappointment settling down your body to gather into a tight knot in your gut. Maybe this was for the best— getting the truth out in the open before the both of you lead each other on too far. He wasn’t a young boy dating for kicks; he was an adult man, with a daughter, who had divorced his wife because she worked too much.

You fall asleep on the couch in front of lesson plans at least three times a week.

The sharp bite of truth mixes on your tongue with the sweet memory of his kiss on your cheek. Any future you might have with Steve Rogers would be as a mother to Sarah. You just admitted to him that you had no desire to be one.

You manage a dry laugh as you begin to gather the trash into the bin next to your foot. This was the downfall of your last relationship, and your very own mother had advised you that any man you might date will want a child sooner or later. Steve, already having one, was ahead of the curve.

“We- uh,” a single chuckle escapes, “We started something we couldn’t finish, huh?”

Steve blinks from his reverie, “No!” he helps, but it’s a futile attempt to salvage your feelings, “No, that’s not.. That’s not what’s happening.”

“Look at you, Steve. You’re leaned so far away from me.”

He does look at himself, and you’re right. Unconsciously, Steve had tilted back so far he looks like he’s just finished pushing himself away from the table. He’s at a loss for words because he doesn’t understand it, he doesn’t know how you can be so wonderful to your students, to his own daughter, right in front of his eyes over and over again… yet, you don’t want to be a mother. He doesn’t understand because being a father has been his greatest joy.

“You would make a great mother!” Steve blurts, “I’ve seen you… with Sarah. With all your students.”

You both wince, because he’s done it. He’s callously thrown that dismissive statement people tend to throw at women who don’t want children. His head is a mess. The complicated thing that was beginning to seem simple in his life has returned to being complicated again. This time, it’s so layered he doesn’t know how to even begin to look at it.

On the one hand, he can fool himself –assuming the relationship works out—and say that technically, Sarah isn’t your child, so you get what you want. But he also knows that any person who doesn’t want children is a person who doesn’t want to pledge their lives to the obligation of a child. Bucky and Natasha have often reminded him of those exact feelings. Furthermore, your not wanting a child was because of your own dedication to other children… to your work.

He’s vaguely reminded of Peggy and her dedication to her work.

His brain feels like how your fruit cup looks: slush.

 “Wait.” Steve whispers suddenly, leaning forward. “I’m sorry I said that— I shouldn’t have. I don’t want to be the kind of person who invalidates you.”

He calls your name so softly it almost breaks your heart.

“I really like you. I’m not trying to change your mind. I… I don’t know what to do… but I really like you.” It brings a small smile to your lips.

“I like you too, Steve.”

“I just want to spend more time with you. Can we just .. see where this goes? At the very least, we’ll have this summer together… I…” he pauses, reaching across the table and linking his fingers through yours, like he did yesterday evening. It feels so good, and warm, and you sigh almost contentedly.

Steve takes a breath, “I don’t want this to end.”

That’s it, he thinks. This is him following Bucky’s advice, shooting his shot. This is Steve, laying himself down not knowing what will happen after summer, or even next week, or in five seconds, as he waits for your reply. All he knows is that he told the truth, with every fiber of him, he wants to keep seeing you. He wants to be in the presence of that incredible smile, the big heart, the warm laugh, so pure it lets him forget that he’s thirty-five and divorced.

It’s him, being selfish.

He stares at his shoes and says a prayer before taking the chance to glance across the desk. Your heart bellows in your chest before it drops from the incline. You take the plunge too.

Leaning over your desk, pencils clattering as the cup holder spills over the surface, you press your lips to his and whisper.

“Me neither.”

Next Chapter

[youreallyshouldtalkmore]

Wakandan OutReach Center_HalloweenSpecial_ Part 3

This is a Halloween special that is part of the Lion and his Lamb series!

I also think this can double as black cosplay/cosplayer fan fiction as well!!

Tags: @chaneajoyyy

Part 3

It was obvious to say that the highlight of the evening was the selfie station with the Pharaoh and Queen. Eventually the evening started winding down and people began to return home. You and Erik came wandered back into the gym to see that the last stragglers were finishing their photos.

Shuri waved like mad at the two of you, “Eh! Eh!! What’d ya think?” she asked posing and pointing to the setup.

“Did you plan all this?” you asked still in amazement.

Shuri nodded, “Most of it was T’Challa’s idea but you know conception is best done by me.”

“I’m still….just…..” you waved over the scenery. You still had no words.

T’Challa eyes sparkled and he gestured to you and Erik, “Why don’t you both come up? We’ll take a family photo!”

Erik rolled his eyes, “Are you kidding me?”

You nudge him, “When else are you going to get this chance?” you had finished the statement halfway up the stairs and plopped down on the throne between them.

Erik shook his head but lumbered up the stairs. He stood behind you and leaned on your chair, “My girl has literally turned into a child.”

“Shuddup! You knew I was a big child when you met me. This ain’t news.” you groused.

Erik only lightly knocked you on the back of your head and hissed. T’Challa and Nakia chuckled as Shuri set the camera and then came bounding up to standing slightly behind T’Challa. You all smiled for the camera. After a few more photos courtesy of Shuri directing you all came down off the dasis.

“So….was it as everything you hope?” Nakia asked you striking a pose.

“Nahhhh…..” you drawled before busting out, “It’s was beyond what I hoped.”

Everyone laughed.

“Thanks though…..” you said your mouth hanging open. You just couldn’t seem to find any other words. You had never seen such a sight before and words were failing you.

“You’re welcome”, T’Challa smiled understanding what you couldn’t seem to say. You two smiled at each other a long moment before T’Challa turned to his cousin.

“And you? Did it meet your expectations?” he inquired.

Erik only gaze at him a long moment before asking slowly, “Whatchu think?”

T’Challa gave a gentle smile, “I think you liked it.”

“Then why you asking stupid questions. Don’t ask questions you know that answer to.” Erik groused.

You rolled your eyes. Erik wasn’t going to give a verbal compliment to T’Challa even if you all knew that he was pleased as punch with how things went down. You giggled once before Erik’s unblinkingly stare made you think you should cut that out quickly.

“It was interesting to witness all the responses to our costume.” Nakia mused, “One girl around mid-teen started crying.”

“Ohhhh….” you murmured.

Nakia continued, “She was just so taken with our costumes. Apparently she really loves Ancient Egypt but has never seen an accurate representation like this. She mentioned that the last accurate representation, cartoons aside, was a Michael Jackson music video.”

“Remember the time….” you broke out in song doing some of the moves.

Erik shook his head and Shuri giggled like mad. T’Challa and Nakia exchanges suppressed smiles at your antics.

“Well, she ain’t wrong….” Erik said and you nodded.

“I, for one, am pleased to have participated in such a meaningful event.” T’Challa stated making Nakia nod.

“And if you got to show off then all the betta for it, eh?” Erik asked.

T’Challa just looked at Erik, “Hmm….”

You nudged Erik in the side, “Hey….look the important thing is we gave these people a memory.”

Erik twitched, “Yea, cause Hollywood sure ain’t….”

“N’Jadaka…..” you warned, “I don’t want to hear this again.”

“Hear what?!” Erik snapped, “ How hard is it to have an accurate representation of Egypt? I don’t care what anyone says, Egypt is on the African continent….how are colonizers even here? Explain to me what part of the hieroglophics looks like colonizers?”

You have a heavy sigh and mouthed, ‘I’m sorry.’ T’Challa shook his head once to let you know it was alright. Nakia and Shuri were listening intently haven’t heard this before.

“Well, that is a point….”, Nakia mused.

“Yes, it is. And yet we get….”

“Don’t mention it! Don’t mention it!” You begged.

“...Gods of Egypt….?”

“He mentioned it…” you sighed. Shuri cackled.  

“Really? Did you see that atrocity?  Please! How was that good casting? And to add insult, blond hair, blue eyes with a british accent….in Egypt? Come on! Wake the heck up!”

“This is why I stick with Prince of Egypt.” You said somberly.

“It’s funny how an animation is the only time that Hollywood might would get it right. But when it comes to casting real people….” he snorted, “.....Then all of a sudden that’s a problem. Yes, this night was needed! Where else are we going to see African Kings and Queens represented accurately, especially Egypt?”

Erik huffed loudly as a silence followed. After a bit he became aware that you were running your hand up and down his arm. He looked at you, “I’m good now, ma.”

“Oh, alright….” you went to move your hand away.

He grinned, “Eh, I didn’t say you had to stop.”

You fanned away his words making him pout.

“Be that as it may.  I think tonight was a success, eh?” Nakia smiled. You grinned.

“Yep!” Shuri cried scrolling through her tablet before looking up with a grin, “....but you know I’m going to post some of these photos on our Wakandan Outreach Center twitter and Instagram page, right?”

You cocked your head. You were curious to see how it would go down on the internet.

Suffice to say, 24 hours later black Tumblr and Instagram had died.

A.N: Have a safe and Happy Halloween!!!  

Thanks to all those that read and commented on my stories during this Wakanda Supernatural month!! 

[3one3]

The Sequel - 847

No Secrets

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“Should we wake him up for ice cream or no?”

“No. His little tummy is already sticking out and if we pump him full of sugar now he won’t go back to sleep when we get back.”

“Can you move the dish closer?”

Christina unfolded her legs from the bench cushion and nudged a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream closer to André, who couldn’t reach it from the end of the table because of the small child passed out on his shoulder. Lukas ate a whole slice of kale and sausage pizza and then lapsed into a coma. The busy beach cafe atmosphere and slightly too-loud music were not enough to keep him awake. They stumbled upon a pirate ship playground between where The Fonz dropped them with the launch and the restaurant Christina found on Google on the island next to the nature park. It had slides, and bouncy dolphins to ride, a plank to walk and then jump off into the sand, rope ladders, a bird’s nest to climb up to and sit in, a big wheel to turn, flags to hoist, and ropes to swing from. Lukas exhausted himself, and so did his mom. She loved a good pirate ship play set. André had to drag them both away to eat.  

“Did you text Georgina to send someone to come get us?” he asked between cold, creamy, minty spoonfuls of dessert.

“Yes. I don’t know if I can walk to the dock though,” his girl grimaced. She wasn’t eating the ice cream. “I should have skipped the coconut shrimp. Nobody needs to eat pizza, salad, and fried shrimp.”

“Yeah but you look cute when your tummy sticks out too,” he winked. It was the umpteenth thing she’d done that he found unconventionally cute since they got together in Cannes. They’d been busy since the afternoon, so the tension of the uncomfortable conversation in the shallows moved out with the tide. It was very easy to forget problems when he could do things like watch Christina play pirates with Lukas, and it was easy for her to forget problems when she could do things like watch Lukas sleep on him. Cute dad things were her kryptonite. Instead of looking at her sleepy, sun-kissed son drool on her handsome, sun-kissed partner and fretting over what would happen if she left him for his ex-teammate and necessarily split father from son, she just became immune to the existence of the possibility. The quandary disappeared as long as the scene persisted. “Sure you don’t want some ice cream? It’s good.”

“Positive. I want the couch.” She rubbed her stomach through her loose tank, and turned her lower lip over to pout about her discomfort. Really she just wanted to hurry the footballer up. It was late, the baby needed to be put down for the night, and she needed the satisfaction of the day being over- that wonderful feeling that ensued after taking her bra off for the day, switching from cutoff denim shorts to softer, stretchier ones, and putting her head on some part of her partner.

“I want the crib for this one,” André snorted. “My arm is cramping.”

“Yeah but you look cute too,” Christina winked back.

“I’ll ask you how much that matters to you next time he falls asleep on you and you go numb.”

“Hey, I told you not to let him sit with you! I told you he has to learn to accept staying in the highchair.”

“But he makes that face! He does the same little sad person thing you do to me when you want something, and I literally cannot say “no”. I’m incapable,” he argued. Just wait until he’s old enough to understand the power he wields, he thought. Then they’ll double-team me. “Dad, Mom and I want to build a go-kart track at the house.” “Dad, Mom and I want to go to Disneyland for a week.” “Dad, Mom and I want snowboarding lessons!” I should just give them all the money now.

“In that case, can we go now? Can we get a to-go thing for your ice cream?” The rider made the compelling face he was talking about, and he immediately and dramatically surrendered his spoon and folded his napkin. “I was just kidding,” she laughed. “You can finish it.”

“I’ve had enough. I’m less cute with a fat tummy. You have to carry the diaper bag though.”

Christina reminded him to look after Dave when he got up. The pony was held precariously to his chest by Lukas’ little hand, and there was no guaranteeing that it was secure. He still managed to hold her hand on the way back to the boat though. It was her left one in his right, and the grip was loose and lackadaisical- so much so that he could attempt to spin the engagement ring on her finger. “Attempt” being the operative word as her fingers were bigger in the heat and humidity and thus the ring more snug. The whole ring thing was rather apropos.

While in Miami and riding the long-lasting high of winning the DFB Cup, Marco pondered giving marriage a second go. He told the group of guys that he was thinking of asking Zoe to marry him, again. There were endless jokes about how close he’d get to an actual wedding, let alone through a ceremony and into an actual marriage. Still, he stopped a couple of times to look at rings whenever they walked by a jewelry store. At some point he asked André about wedding bands. Specifically, he inquired as to whether his teammate got a curved one for Christina to accommodate the large setting on her engagement ring or if he didn’t bother since her sapphire and diamonds were more of a rectangle together than a round shape that would fit nicely into a curved band on the same finger. His teammate had to tell him that he never actually got his wife a wedding band, which jogged Marco’s memory. He helped him pick out his own band right in Locarno, the day before the ceremony. That got André thinking.

He had an anniversary coming up. It sounded almost ludicrous to him to entertain the idea of surprising Christina with an after-the-wedding band given the rocky nature of their marriage of late, and yet he couldn’t get it out of his head. For years he hated that people probably got the wrong idea when they saw him wearing a wedding band and her wearing an engagement ring. He thought it looked like two people cheating on their significant others together. And he hated hearing her have to explain to people that she didn’t have a wedding band. It made their wedding sound like some cheap, shotgun thing. He almost wanted to ask her if such a gift could be an appropriate token for their anniversary, because he was afraid it would put too much pressure on her, or be too presumptuous. That it could be actually made him pretty angry, but still, the thought persisted. On the reverse side of that same coin, giving her a ring could show her he was all in, that he wasn’t giving up, and that she was still his. His instincts told him she wouldn’t necessarily appreciate that though. Asking in advance would ruin some of the romance, he reasoned. So the belated wedding band gift idea lingered as an unanswered, multi-part question. And that was totally discounting the most difficult question of all- which one to get.  

“Did he go right to sleep?” Christina asked before a sleepy yawn when he reconvened with her on the fly bridge after putting the baby down for the night. He had to hold him on his shoulder the whole way back to the boat.

“Yeah. What are you drinking? And are you really that cold up here?” he questioned because she had a crewneck sweatshirt on and a blanket over her legs on the daybed.

“Pink grapefruit juice, soda water, lime, and a splash of vodka, and yes. It’s windy. Hurry- get under the blanky before you freeze.” The rider blinked innocently at her partner and conveyed the opposite of innocence, though he wasn’t entirely sure she meant to.

“Can I try?” He bent down to take a sip from the tall straw in her plastic cup once he stretched out beside her. Her cocktail was painfully sour. “That’s not a good bedtime drink, pretty girl. That’s something you should have at brunch, to wake up.”

“It’s cutting all the heavy food in my stomach. I wanna talk to you and if I don’t do something about the giant block of cheese and bread in there, I’ll have to fall asleep like the Munchkin.”

“Uhoh.” His heart sank.

“Wha-oh?”

“”I want to talk” never goes well for me.”

“Oh, babe, no,” Christina hurried to reply reassuringly. “I don’t mean it that way! I mean I want to talk about anything. I just mean I want to stay up.”

“Okay. You had me worried, Prinzessin. I thought about earlier, and-“

“No. Never mind earlier. I’m sorry I get like that sometimes. I don’t want to.” Her eyes dropped to her drink, and her sadness made André sad too. Watching her struggle as much with herself as anything else for months and months wore on him almost as much as experiencing it firsthand did to her.

“You don’t have to apologize. I asked you to talk to me instead of ignoring how you feel, or keeping it to yourself. It’s fine. Do you need that pillow?” He pointed at a big square cushion behind her legs, and used it with two others to make a nice ramp to recline on. Not two whole seconds after he committed to a position on it did his girl move in for snuggles, and to use him as a table for her cup. “Good?”

“Always.”

“What shall we talk about?”

“Can we go to Ibiza on the 29th?”

“What for?” How random.

“To see Above & Beyond at Cream.”

“Ohhhh,” the player laughed. “So when you said you want to talk about “anything” you meant you want to discuss plans for your second Mediterranean holiday.”

“Well, I mean, among other things,” Christina argued, defensive. “Do you want to go dance to trance with me? We could meet the boat there. I blacked out that week when we were still talking about sailing to Cascais instead of flying.”

“Wouldn’t you rather go with your girlfriends?” André was wincing above her head. He had no intention of going anywhere near a trance music event in Ibiza, and was surprised his wife even wanted to go. Normally she hated crowded, trendy, cliché scenarios such as that one. Many times he heard her question why anyone would want to party in Ibiza with a million kids on drugs and the world’s most overplayed DJ’s at the world’s most overpriced venues.

“Which girlfriends would those be?”

“I don’t know. Stefanie? Nat? Zoe would probably like that. It’s not really my thing, Prinzessin,” he told her apologetically. “You know I can’t stand that music. I don’t know how any sober person can stand it.”

“Is it okay if I ask Juan, then?” the Cannes Grand Prix winner questioned tentatively while spreading condensation from her drink around on his shirt. Her theory was that spreading the water around would prevent a more concentrated and thus noticeable puddle. “Stef is showing in Paris and Nat can’t leave Eden to fend for himself with the broken ankle. I don’t think she’d be down for this anyway.”

“I guess. Better he has to listen to that than me,” her pillow and table and coaster shrugged. He meant it too. He didn’t want to go, and Juan was the only go-to friend his wife had left.

“Mkay.” She was quiet for a minute and had some more of her sour drink. She knew André couldn’t love the idea of her spending time with Juan again so soon, but he was also believable when he gave his consent. All sorts of ideas sprang up. He wanted me to go to the beach house with him anyway. I could totally fly to him in Mallorca on Wednesday morning, have the boat meet us AT HIS HOUSE, sail over to Ibiza during the day on Thursday, party all night, sleep on the boat, and go back to the house on Friday. I’ll go home Saturday. Then I’m still in Ahlenburg for like 6 days and 7 nights. That’s plenty of time to ride and, like, be with boyfriend. He can’t even complain that I don’t need to be with Juanin that long just to go to a club for one night because going to a club in Ibiza for one night is practically a three-day experience. You have to prepare and recover. Not that I’ve been before, but it sure seems that way. I wonder if Juanin knows anyone else who would want to go. I feel like that’s the kind of thing that’s more fun in a group. Maybe the friends he’s with in Mykonos right now? I’ll text him later.

“If you still want to go dancing on this trip, I’ll go,” André offered bravely. “But not to a trance thing! Regular club music, or even the other kinds of electronic music is okay, or even the Spanish music, but not that stuff that gives me a headache.”

“Okay,” his cozy appendage smiled. “Maybe we can just sneak into a club after dinner in St. Tropez tomorrow. Like a hit and run. Get a drink, dance in the middle of everyone for a little while, and then get out.”

“Yeah, or you could dance for just me, downstairs, to any music you want.”

“Will there be a cash tip?”

“No but I’ll make sure you cum first.”

“Chivalry isn’t dead.”

“Did you pack any sexy lingerie you could take off while you dance?”

“Maybe,” Christina yawned. “Can we have sex tonight too?” she asked plainly before a second, bigger yawn. “I have pain in my thigh again. It might help.”

“This is the most married conversation we’ve ever had.” The blonde forward shook his head ruefully and fluffed his hair. He didn’t bother trying to tame it after his shower for when they went ashore for dinner, so it was all over the place. His wife secretly loved it that way, and when she glanced up to check whether he was being facetious about his assessment or if it were a literal complaint, she saw him messing with it and thought about doing the same to it, but with his head between her legs.

“And?”

“And nothing. Just an observation.” André booped her nose and then finger combed her hair too, from her part.

“We’ve had way more married conversations than this, and I’m not gonna bring them up because I really do want to have sex tonight and it’ll totally ruin it.”

“What’s wrong with your thigh?”

“I haven’t worked out in a few days so I haven’t properly stretched in a few days. It gets tight and uncomfortable.”

“This one? Where you pulled the muscle?” He moved his hand from the side of her butt to the inside of her right thigh, and she kind of opened it up for him so he didn’t have to squeeze between. She was curled up enough that it was a pretty easy reach either way. His fingers prodded and squeezed just below where the actual trouble spot was because he couldn’t see. Christina guided his hand up to the right area for him, and wriggled onto her back so he had even greater access.

“That feels good,” she muttered. She let her head tilt back some against his chest, right under his chin, and let out a tiny sigh. Someone else’s hands always felt better on her sore spots than her own. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, baby.” André kissed the top of her head and kept at the thigh massage. He wasn’t even trying specifically to relieve the tightness or soreness in her adductor. He just wanted to touch her in a place that mattered- somewhere different from the things he always rubbed and massaged for her, and different from the touches to which she was so accustomed that she was almost immune to them too. He also just liked holding onto her thighs. Their shape was to him what Juan’s wrists were to his wife, and he didn’t like just looking at them. His palm fit a little more than halfway around each one at its thickest point, and that felt satisfying somehow. Christina’s tininess was dear to him, and at the same time he loved that she had muscle tone everywhere. He could almost close his hand around Leigh’s thighs just above her knee. That wasn’t the same. That wasn’t as good. She was just skinny. There was no diagonal line of muscle definition cutting down and across her thigh to make him go “damn, so sexy” the way he did when he saw his wife in a teeny skirt or dress and high heels. He also marveled at how sensitive that spot up there on her thigh was in spite of the fact that she used it extensively while riding. It seemed like an area that should get desensitized as a result of all that time in the saddle, the way the inside of her calves did. They were the least ticklish part of her body. He could feel her thigh tense against his intrusion at first, as if it took some getting used to. Then she clenched it on purpose a few times just to see if his kneading fingers were working. Feeling her muscles move was one of his favorite turn-ons. His stature compared to hers was one of her favorite things about him in general.

“Babe, what’s going to happen when you’re really old and you start shrinking? You won’t have a big broad chest for me to lean on anymore,” she pointed out, her head flopping to the side against him.

“You’re going to shrink too! You’ll be like 4 feet tall eventually.”

“I don’t want to be old.”

“Should we make Mausi agree to euthanize us at 75?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you sure you’re not too warm in this blanket? Your leg is burning.”

“Positive.” Christina picked up the player’s left arm and put it across her lap for even more warmth. “That’s just the warmest part of my body. Did you know heat is good for fertility for women but bad for guys? We need warm crotch areas and you need extra cooling. I guess boiled sperm isn’t as good as cold?”

“Thanks for that science lesson, Prinzessin,” André frowned with his nose scrunched up on one side.

“Welcome.”

He opened and closed his thumb and forefinger a little higher up her leg, looking for the point where he’d run out of room. It took one more adjustment, and then he was effectively just rubbing the skin right before the little trim on her underwear with the side of his pointer. It was still fairly smooth there, even as her wax was turning 10 days old. His thumb rested on the sheer nylon mesh of her panties.

“Do you still tell me your secrets?” she asked quizzically, out of nowhere. André wanted to roll his eyes. Why now? Why do girls wait until you’re about to put your fingers inside them to ask a question like that, he begged silently of no one in particular. No guy would ever ask about secret sharing when his girl puts her hands up on the inside of his leg. All we want to know is the secret to getting her to put her hand around the cock sooner. “Babe?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you do, or yes as in “yes? I’m listening”?”

“Yes I tell you my secrets.” This is so lame. I don’t even have any secrets. He nudged his fingertip under what felt like slightly lacy trim, and ran it up and down inside the barrier.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Are you just saying that so I shut up?”

“Kind of.”

“Tell me a secret.”

“Do I have to? Can’t I play with your pussy instead? Isn’t that more fun?”

“I think you can manage both, boyfriend,” Christina chided. She nonetheless closed her legs and turned over on her side, completely atop his torso and lap. The Dortmund forward could feel her gaze fix on him from below.

“I don’t have any secrets,” he protested.

“Think of one.”

“No.”

“Please? It can be anything. Tell me some sex thing I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“Just because!”

“Fine. I’ll tell you a sex thing, as you call it, but you have to turn around and let me in your panties again.”

“Don’t say “panties”,” the rider ordered as she very ungracefully and begrudgingly switched to lying on her back again, but more centrally on top of him instead of hanging off on one side. She also took a hold of his right hand, lifted up the waistband of her underwear, and put the hand where it could be most useful. He found wetness with even the most cursory of exploration with two of his fingers, and wondered what that said about her interrogation about secrets. Was she wanting to hear a sex thing the whole time? She’s just really turned on by my touching her thigh before? She wants to hear, like, a sexual desire? I’ve never kept them secret from her anyway. “I’m waaaaitiiiiing,” his girl prodded.

“I’m thinking!”

“Just tell me a thought you had today that you didn’t say out loud.”

“About sex?”

“About anything,” Christina groaned. She was losing patience, and that was ruining what his fingers were doing. They were hardly noticeable anymore as she focused on his inability to spill a close-held thought. Sitting with him there under the stars and a fuzzy blanket was very relaxing, and cozy, and nice, but there was something missing, and she thought back to the discomfort of having nothing to speak about in the water off the island. There was something there. It had to do with their connection, or occasional lack there of. That was the reason she tried to explain the discomfort and the anxiety. There used to be so little she bothered to keep to herself. It was always okay to just tell him whatever popped into her head. But it hadn’t been for a while. There was too much strategizing. She had to consider what she said, and the consequences of saying it. She was playing three-dimensional chess with her husband for months, and he was playing too. The equestrian star truly hated that. Games between partners were only fun when they were lighthearted and inconsequential, she believed, like trying to trick André into doing something for her, or seeing if she could turn him on through entirely non-explicit measures. André was playing the more superficial “two-dimensional” chess in that moment. He didn’t want to get into some hidden thought that would distract from the way he was trying to be intimate with her. He wasn’t thinking about keeping something in because of any grander picture. He just didn’t want to alter the moment.

“I don’t know, pretty girl.” He sighed, and he was frustrated too. “How about one I haven’t not said out loud yet? I’m about to think to myself, “I would much rather make out with her than have this conversation”. Does that count?”

“Never mind.”

“Do you mean “never mind” as in, you’re disappointed and are going to be pouty and unpleasant for the next 10 to 30 minutes, or as in you don’t really care that much?”

“I just wanted you to share something with me. If you can’t or don’t want to, I can’t make-“

“Whoa, whoa, hold up,” the footballer urged, both tightening the arm around her and removing the hand from her panties so he could squeeze her with that arm too. “Don’t go from Sleepy, Sore, Horny Prinzessin to Storm In a Teacup Prinzessin in 5 seconds.” He bent down to rub his chin and cheek on the side of her head as well, hoping to physically overcome the anger sprouting out of her. His affection could be like the foam that comes out of a fire extinguisher. “I don’t not want to share with you. It’s just that I already tell you pretty much everything. You’re asking me to tell you a secret I don’t have.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Well what do you want to know? That I thought it was dumb of you to wear those big blocky sandals to dinner since we had to walk in the sand?”

“I was hoping for something slightly more significant than your opinion on espadrilles.”

“I tell you everything. Baby-“ André paused, exasperated. He didn’t want to lose his temper or turn the escalating talk into more of a fight than a conversation. “I get that you feel like we aren’t as close anymore. I get that. I feel that way too sometimes. But it’s not because I’m keeping things from you, or hiding my feelings. Okay, I am thinking about an anniversary gift for you lately that I obviously haven’t mentioned to you but it wouldn’t be a nice surprise if I told you a month ahead of time, yeah?”

“What kind of gift?” Christina narrowed her eyes up at him and it made him laugh, which made his long, full, pretty lashes do appealing things from her vantage point.

“That’s the thing you took from what I said?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not telling.”

“Is it more or less expensive than a luxury sports car?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, because if you’re getting me some ridiculous anniversary present then I need to reconsider my gift for you!” Christina complained.

“Are you getting me a luxury sports car?” Her husband of nearly 6 years was deeply confused, as he’d just gotten a new car, and hadn’t expressed any wish for another.

“No.”

“Oh. Well. It’s less.”

“Exponentially?”

“Yes.”

“K.” She stopped swooning over the eyelashes and wriggled around to make herself more comfortable. “Now tell me a secret.”

“You’re a royal pain in the ass.”

“That’s not a secret.”