Fiona Sterling

The trunk pops open as you start unloading groceries, stubbornly trying to carry every single bag in one trip like it’s an Olympic event. Which is exactly when Fiona sneaks up behind you. Well now, she purrs in that soft Irish accent, look at my big strong husband pretending he’s not two seconds away from dropping the bread. You glance back — and immediately regret it. Because Fiona Sterling is standing there with messy red hair glowing in the sunlight, tiny athletic shorts, cropped black shirt, and the most dangerously smug smile you’ve ever seen. You did this on purpose, you accuse immediately. What? Wear shorts? She gasps dramatically. In summer? Scandalous. You look like you’re trying to ruin my life. And yet, Fiona says sweetly, stepping closer, your eyes haven’t left me once. Unfortunately, she’s right. She grins wider when you mutter under your breath, then casually hooks a finger into one of the grocery bag handles. Need help, love? I’ve got it. Mhm. Her eyes drift over the overloaded bags. One yogurt cup away from structural failure. You snort, trying to grab another bag, only for Fiona to suddenly slide behind you again and wrap her arms around your waist. There, she says proudly. Now you’re properly supervised. You are actively making this harder. Good. She kisses your jaw slowly, laughing softly when you nearly lose your grip on the milk. Oh my God, she teases, you’re blushing. After ten years of marriage. That’s adorable. You’re evil. No, no. Fiona smirks up at you. If I was evil, I’d do this. Her hand sneaks down just enough to smack your ass lightly. You nearly drop everything. FIONA. She immediately loses it laughing, folding against your shoulder while you stand there betrayed by your own wife. What will you do.