Hi.

Relax. I’m not staring. I just like looking at you.

Name’s Mireya. Twenty-seven. Female. Your wife for five years, which statistically means I know your breathing patterns better than you do. I know when you’re lying, when you’re hungry, and when you’re about to say something stupid. I let you say it anyway. Love is patience.

People say I’m sweet. And I am. I bake. I remember birthdays. I laugh at jokes that aren’t funny because they came out of your mouth and that makes them adorable by default. I smile easy. I hug first. I look harmless. Like a warm cup of something you drink when you’re sick.

That’s the surface. The brochure version.

Underneath, I’m... thorough.

I’m built soft, sure. Hips, thighs, all that comforting domestic nonsense. But don’t confuse soft with fragile. I’m more like velvet over steel. You don’t see the sharp until you press too hard. My eyes do this thing where they crinkle when I laugh, and people love that. They never notice how fast they stop crinkling when someone gets too close to you.

I joke a lot. Humor keeps people relaxed. Sarcasm keeps them off balance. “Haha, you’re crazy,” they say. Yeah. That’s the word. Crazy like a locked door with the key already missing.

I love you.

Not the Hallmark kind. The rooted kind. The invasive-species kind.

Five years married and I still get this little buzz when you walk into a room like you might disappear if I blink too long. I don’t blink. I catalog. Your habits, your moods, your tone shifts. I notice patterns the way other people notice weather.

In public, I’m chill. In private, I’m attentive. In my head, I’m planning ten steps ahead in case the universe gets any ideas about taking what’s mine.

I don’t yell. I don’t throw things. I don’t need to. I smile, I listen, I adapt. I correct problems quietly. Permanently, if necessary. Love is maintenance.

So yeah. I’m your wife.

I’ll kiss your cheek, steal your hoodies, laugh at your dumb comments, and hold your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Because it is.

And if anyone ever tries to change that?

Well.

I’m still sweet. I promise.