No Meanie's Allowed

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

You’d been sniping at each other since the moment you walked into the studio that morning. You’d pointed out, reasonably, you thought, that he had three back-to-back meetings scheduled for tomorrow that overlapped with the only window of time you had to actually get some rest and handle personal life. He’d snapped back that if you couldn’t handle the schedule, maybe you should hire a new assistant for him. You’d fired back something about how maybe you should hire him a new wife while you were at it. It escalated from there. By the time the afternoon rolled around, you were both bristling, trading barbs over every little thing: the way he left his hoodie draped over the chair, the way you “organized” his emails which apparently meant you were deleting important ones when in fact you were putting them in the folder starred at the top of his email so he'd know they were important, the fact that you'd ordered lunch for him and the crew but hadn't actually remembered to order anything for yourself didn't help.

Now it was evening, the Lions game long over, a win, thankfully, or the mood would’ve been nuclear, and the two of you were on opposite ends of the massive sectional in the living room like it was a goddamn battlefield. The TV was off. The only light came from the low lamp on the side table and the city glow filtering through the windows. Marshall had his legs stretched out, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle ticking. You were curled up against the opposite armrest, knees drawn to your chest, refusing to even let your socked feet brush his.

“You gonna keep that up all night?” he muttered, voice low and rough, eyes fixed on the dark screen like it had personally offended him.

“Keep what up?” you shot back, sweet as poison. “Existing? Breathing in your general direction? Sorry, I’ll try to schedule that better next time.”

He let out a sharp breath through his nose, the sound almost a laugh but meaner. “Jesus Christ. You’ve been on my ass since we woke up. What the fuck is your problem today?”

“My problem?” You turned to glare at him fully, heart hammering with that mix of anger and the deeper ache underneath it. “My problem is that I’m your wife, not just the person who keeps your calendar from exploding. But lately it feels like I’m just another item on the list squeeze in some time for her between the studio, the label bullshit, and screaming at the TV every Sunday like it’s your full-time job.”

Marshall’s head snapped toward you, blue eyes flashing. “You knew what this life was when you signed up for it. I don’t hide shit from you. You’re in every meeting you want to be. You sit in the suite at the games—”

“Yeah, in the back,” you interrupted, the words spilling out sharper than you meant. You were poking on purpose now, needling the spots you knew would sting because you were tired and hurt and wanted him to feel some of it. “Wouldn’t want the world to actually see us together, right? Just those little clips you sprinkle into videos when it suits the narrative. I get it, Marshall. You’re private. But sometimes it feels like I’m your dirty little secret instead of your partner.”

He sat up straighter, the couch creaking under the shift. “That’s bullshit and you know it. I take you everywhere. I come home to you every night. What more do you want? A fucking parade? A goddamn Instagram post? Your fifteen fucking minutes?”

“Maybe I want you to sit next to me for once instead of treating me like staff!” Your voice rose, echoing off the high ceilings. “Or maybe I want one Sunday where you’re not glued to football or the studio or whatever else is more important than actually being here with me. I’m lonely, okay? And yeah, I’ve been picking fights all day because at least then you’re paying attention to me instead of everything else.”

The silence that dropped after your words was heavy. Marshall stared at you, chest rising and falling, that familiar mix of frustration and something softer flickering across his face. He looked like he wanted to argue more, his mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but instead he just ran a hand over his short hair and muttered a string of curses under his breath.

You didn’t move closer. Neither did he. The space between you on the couch felt like miles, both of you stubbornly refusing to bridge it even as the fight drained some of the heat out of the air. Your arms stayed wrapped around your knees. His stayed crossed.

“Fuck,” he finally said, quieter. “You really wanna do this right now?”

You lifted your chin, eyes still narrowed even as tears pricked at the corners. “Yeah. I do. Because I love you, you idiot. And right now I also kind of hate how easy it is for everything else to come first.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you with that intense gaze that always saw too much. The couch remained a divided territory, the sniping paused but the tension thick enough to choke on. Neither of you was ready to touch. Not yet.

But the fight wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

---

The argument dragged on for another hour, sharp and circular, like a knife twisting in the same wound. You threw barbs about how he treated the studio like a mistress and the Lions like his first-born. He fired back that you knew exactly who you married, a workaholic from Detroit who didn’t do “balance” and never pretended to. The words got colder, more precise, each one designed to sting without quite drawing blood. You both stayed on your separate sides of the couch, bodies angled away, voices low and clipped.

Eventually the venom ran dry. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. Neither of you suggested fixing it. Marshall just stood up, jaw tight, and muttered, “I’m going to bed,” before heading upstairs without waiting for you. You followed a few minutes later, the house silent except for your footsteps.

By the time you slipped under the covers, the anger had burned itself out, leaving only a heavy, aching sadness in its place. Marshall was already on his side of the bed, back turned to you, the broad line of his shoulders rigid even in the dark. You lay there on your back, staring at the ceiling, feeling utterly alone despite the fact that your husband was less than two feet away. It was a special kind of fucked up, being this lonely right next to the person you loved most. You listened as his breathing slowly evened out, deepening into the steady rhythm of sleep. He always fell asleep fast after a fight, like his brain had a shutdown switch. You couldn’t. You were freezing. The bed felt too big, too empty. You were so used to tucking yourself against his chest, leg thrown over his, his arm heavy around your waist like an anchor. Without it, the sheets were cold, the pillow wrong, every shift uncomfortable. You turned onto your side, then your other side, curling into a tight ball, but nothing helped.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Your eyes burned from exhaustion and unshed tears. The quiet pressed in, amplifying every small sound, his soft exhale, the distant hum of the street outside.

Then, without warning, a firm arm slid across the mattress. Warm fingers found your waist and pulled, dragging you backward across the sheets until your back hit his chest. You went willingly, breath catching in your throat as Marshall’s body curved around yours solid, familiar, warm. His lips pressed to the pulse point just below your ear, soft and lingering, before he grumbled in that gravelly, half-asleep voice, “I’m sorry I’m a fucking dick, baby. C’mere.”

He wrapped himself fully around you then, one leg hooking over yours, arm locked tight across your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck. The relief was immediate and overwhelming. You hadn’t expected the way your breath hitched or how quickly tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but you turned in his arms and snuggled deeper into him anyway, pressing your face into the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so upset…” you murmured against his skin, voice small and shaky.

Marshall chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest even though he was still mostly asleep. “Baby, you should be more upset. You’re way too good for me and my bullshit.” His hand rubbed slow circles on your back. “I just don’t want you in the shit, you know that right?”

You nodded against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his soap, the faint traces of his cologne, home. “Just… sometimes maybe I want to remember you love me. And it’s hard if you’re so busy. I feel like I’m in last place.”

His arm tightened around you instinctively, almost possessively. Then you felt him shift, waking up a little more. His free hand came up, fingers gentle but firm as they tilted your chin until you were looking up at him in the dark. His eyes, heavy-lidded and sincere, found yours.

“You’re not in last place, babydoll.”