#"needed this

You’re going around the kitchen, focused on whatever you were doing— something simple, something normal— when you feel it. That slight shift in the air that says that your husband is here.

You feel the presence behind you, but you don’t turn around. Not yet. You’ve learned. If you react too quickly, he gets smug about it. If you ignore him, he gets worse.

So you stay still.

“…You’re hovering,” you say flatly.

Silence. For a beat, maybe two.

Then a low chuckle comes out.

“Hovering?” Cain repeats, voice amused, like you just said something ridiculous. “That’s a bit harsh. I’d call it… appreciating the view.”

You roll your eyes, turning slightly—ready to tell him off—

And stop.

Because he’s not empty-handed.

There’s… flowers.

Was today something special? Oh no no no no. There’s no way you forgot a special date. And there’s certainly no way you still don’t know what that special date is.

Your stomach drops instantly.

Your grip tightens slightly around whatever you were holding, your brain scrambling—fast, frantic, spiraling.

It is definitely not your anniversary, you’d just gotten married a couple weeks ago. It’s certainly not your birthday.

Some weird “first time we did something ridiculously specific” date that only Cain Montgomery would remember just to hold it over your head forever?

Oh, this is bad.

This is really, really bad.

You stare at the flowers, the really beautiful flowers that include your favourites and other pretty ones, like they might magically explain themselves. You wish they had the mouths to. That they could whisper it into your ear. Telepathy would be nice about now. It would’ve made things so much more easier.

Think, girl, think.

The first time you met? Definitely not.

The first time he became a teacher just so J*se would leave you alone? Nope.

The first time you took care of him, and consequently found Gius’ fanfiction and read it to him? Nope, you remember that day quite well…

“…Did I forget something?” you ask slowly, carefully— like you’re trying to defuse a bomb.

Cain goes quiet.

You can practically hear the non-existent crickets.

And that might just be worse than anything.

A beat passes. Then two.

You panic in your head, thinking. Scrambling for something, anything your brain can remember.

Cain breaks the silence.

“…Wow,” he says slowly.

That’s all it takes to make your heart drop.

“Oh— Oh my— I— Cain I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to— I just—”

He lets out a snort.

You freeze for a moment before looking up, eyes narrowing.

“…You’re enjoying this.”

His mouth curves, that smug, insufferable grin sliding into place like it belongs there. “A little.”

“You’re the worst.” you mutter, still trying to scramble for a singular moment you two might have had that was special today.

“Mmm, yeah and you’re panicking,” he counters easily, stepping closer, watching you like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week.

You clutch the counter. “Cain.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Tell me what I forgot.”

He tilts his head, pretending to think about it, dragging it out just enough to make your eye twitch. “Mmm… no.”

You blink, “Cain—”

“You should see your face right now.”

You inhale sharply. “I hate you so much.”

“No, you don’t.”

…Annoyingly, he’s right.

You glare at him anyway. “If this is something important—”

“It’s not.” he says, very simply. It seemed too simple an answer for you when you’ve been panicking in your head non-stop.

“…What?”

“It’s not,” he repeats, even simpler this time. “You didn’t forget anything.”

Then your shoulders drop just a little, relief mixing immediately with irritation. “You are actually the worst kind of person.”

“Mm… So I’ve been told.”

“Why do you have flowers then?”

There’s a subtle shift in the air. The teasing doesn’t fully disappear, but it softens at the edges, like something quieter is sitting underneath it.

Cain steps closer again, closing the space like it’s nothing, like he always does.

“Do I need a reason?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say immediately. “Because you’re you. You don’t do anything without reason.” That earns you a quiet huff of amusement, “Fair.”

He glances down at the flowers for a second, then back at you.

“They looked like something you’d like,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “So I got them.”

Just like that.

No big speech. No dramatic build-up.

Just… that.

You stare at him. “…That’s it?”

He nods, the smirk coming back, “That’s it.” “You’re telling me,” you start slowly, “that I just had a full internal crisis… for no reason?” “I wouldn’t say no reason,” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice dipping just enough to make your chest tighten. “You care enough to panic.”

You huff, looking away. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Mmmm…”

You glance back at the flowers, then at him.

“…You actually thought of me.”

Cain lifts a brow, that sly smirk still there— a little softer, “I usually do.”

“That’s not— you know what I mean.”

His gaze lingers on you for a second too long—steady, unreadable, but not teasing this time, “Like I said, I usually do.”

Your heart does that stupid thing again and you can feel your cheeks heating.

“‘Nice,’” he repeats, unimpressed. “That’s all I get?”

“Shut up… I’m processing.”

“Process without making it sound like you’re talking about a chair.” he mutters, “Take your time, I’ve got all day.” it’s meant to be cheeky and you know you should swat him, but it comes out softer than it should.

You hesitate for a second… then reach out, taking the flowers from him.

Your fingers brush his, and—of course—he doesn’t move his hand away right away.

He never does.

“They’re beautiful.” you murmur, blushing. Your fingers curl slightly around the stems. “…Really pretty,” you admit, softer now. “I love them. Thank you.”

His expression doesn’t change much— but you feel it. That subtle shift. That small, satisfied ease he doesn’t show to anyone else.

He looks at you. Just you— standing there, holding the flowers he picked, saying you love them.

His shoulders ease just slightly. His jaw loosens. That ever-present smirk doesn’t disappear—but it softens again at the edges, like it’s not doing all the work for once.

Then you feel his hand on your chin, tilting it up to look at him.

“Look at me when you say that,” he murmurs.

“I was looking at you. I am looking at you.”

“Sweetheart.”

Your breath catches a little, but you do.

“Thank you, Cain. For the beautiful, just-because flowers.”

The words hang between you.

“…Yeah,” he says, low, “Anytime, sweetheart…”

You stay like that, looking at each other. Then you swallow, breaking the silence, still holding the flowers between you. “…You’re being suspiciously normal right now.”

“Don’t get used to it.” The corners of his smirk twitch.

“Aaaand there it is.”

“Missed it, didn’t you?”

“Only a little…” you scoff, though it comes out more breathless.

His smug grin slowly widens.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Keep admitting things like that and I might start thinking you like me.”

You roll your eyes, but your voice comes out quieter. “I married you.”

“Ah, technicalities…”

“Cain—”

His hand slides from your chin to the back of your neck,

“You love them?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I know.” His gaze sharpens just a little—not harsh, just intent.

“Because I picked them,” he says simply, “For you.”

Your gaze softens, any teasing or defiant glint gone. Your grip on the bouquet softens.

“…I love them,” you repeat, this time slower. “Because you picked them.” He lets out a subtle exhale, as if your words were oxygen.

“Good.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “…You wanted me to like them that much?”

“I don’t do things halfway.”

“Not what I asked.”

There’s a slight pause as he looks into your eyes.

“Yeah…”

You smile adoringly at him, your grip on the flowers tightening once again.

He glances down at them, then back at you, eyes flicking with that familiar glint again. “Put them somewhere before you crush them,” he mutters.

You scoff lightly. “I’m not crushing them.”

“Yeah you are.” he responds, gaze dropping to your lips as he seems unfocused on the conversation.

“Cain—” He leans in before you can finish. There’s no tease to it. He doesn’t hover out of reach.

He kisses you properly, like you’re something he wants— something he needs.

Your hand instinctively grabs his shirt again, flowers pressed carefully between you as you lean into him.

The kitchen. The quiet. The stupid little panic from earlier—it all melts into nothing but him.

Cain Montgomery kisses you like he means it. Your fingers tighten in his shirt without thinking, pulling him closer as the flowers get slightly crushed between you both—petals brushing against your wrist, soft and warm and real. His hand at the back of your neck firms just a little, holding you there—not forcing, just… not letting you drift away either.

His other hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the way he exhales against your lips— quiet, controlled, but heavier than usual

His hand slips from your neck to your wrist again, thumb brushing lightly over your pulse—like he needs to feel it. Like he needs to remind himself you’re right here. With him.

“You’re trouble, you know that?”

You blink up at him, raising a stubborn brow, still dizzy from the kiss, “How am I the trouble here?”

His mouth curves faintly. “You make me do things like this.” he gestures to the flowers.

You glance down at the flowers again, then back at him. “…You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Didn’t say that.” he says, softer.

He leans in again—not a kiss this time, though you very much wish it was, just close enough that his voice brushes against your lips. “Go put them in water,” he murmurs. “Before you actually do crush them.”

You look at his lips— you can’t help it, before swallowing.

His smug grin is back as he nudges toward the sink, “Go on.”

You huff softly, but you listen this time, turning just enough to reach for a vase, carefully adjusting the flowers like they’re something precious. You look at them for a moment before feeling your husband’s gaze and turning around.

“…Cain?” you say after a second.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

Your eyes soften once more, “Thank you… Again. For this.”

He doesn’t answer right away, coming close to you and kissing you, softly this time.

Your hand stills against the vase, the flowers resting safely now, forgotten for a second as he tilts his head just slightly—deepening it, but not rushing. Just enough to make your chest tighten again, just enough to make you lean into him without thinking. His hand finds your waist again, gentler this time. Anchoring, not claiming.

Then he looks at you, his gaze softer than ever.