By the time Anna stepped out of the bathroom—hair damp, fresh clothes on, face soft from the warm water—Daniel was still on the bed, sulking like a wronged toddler.
Apparently, refusing him his "daily dose" had triggered an entirely new level of silent protest.
He lay dramatically on his side, arms crossed, lower lip jutting out, eyes narrowed at nothing in particular—just pure, theatrical suffering.
Anna sighed.
"Do whatever you want, Daniel. I'm not giving in to your stubbornness."
She walked around the bed and sat beside him, reaching out to check his forehead. Still warm. Still recovering. And still acting like a spoiled prince denied his kingdom.
"I would've been quick, wifey," he whined, voice muffled because his cheek was squished on the pillow. "You know I don't take long."
Anna scoffed so hard she almost choked.
Quick? Please.
She bit down the rest of her thoughts because saying them aloud would only fuel his ego further. Quick was NEVER the reality.
