She nodded, attempting to look unaffected. “Not bad.”

Her neck was flushed, breaths short and choppy. My kinky little wife.

“Are you so wet right now?” I asked quietly.

She nodded again, mouth curling in a slow-growing smile.

“Still mad at me?” I asked.

Her eyes cooled as she remembered. “I don’t want to talk about it now. I’m too drunk.”

I hadn’t actually been that worried about the whole thing until she said this. Hanna and I argued in thirty-second bites. One of us would say something and the other would disagree and we would decide it was worth discussing, or not.

Because Hanna hated conflict more than anything.

We didn’t yell.

We didn’t ask to talk about something later.

We just didn’t fight, but part of me really wanted to.

My stomach felt sour and queasy.

What felt like hours of debauchery followed. Chloe and Sara had planned all manner of adolescent entertainments, including a boisterous game of Bullshit (Max won), a widely inaccurate game of Velcro darts (there was no clear winner there), and a game of Never Have I Ever that had us all worried Chloe or Bennett would draw blood on our new Persian rug.

By the time 3 a.m. arrived, everyone was staring dully at the ceiling, lying in a tangle, half our limbs beneath the coffee table.

“We should go,” Bennett slurred, pushing himself up with obvious effort. “We only have thirty hours before we need to reestablish a plausible executive presence.”

“I’m going to be hungover,” Chloe moaned. “Who can I pay to dial back time and undo three of those tequila shots? Maybe four.”

Sara, who had been asleep in our bed, walked out, stretching. “I just called a couple cabs. Let’s go, drunkies.”

At the door, Hanna stopped them, hugging everyone in turn. “Thanks for this. It was actually super fun just to be stupid with you guys for a few hours.”

“We’re all chuffed for you,” Max said, weaving in the doorway.

“And you never get to just hang out at home with friends,” Chloe added. “I’m glad you took a night to slow down a little.”

With a pat to Hanna’s head, she turned, leading the rest of them out of our house.

Hanna turned to me, leaning against my shoulder. “Do I really work like that? All the time?”

I shrugged, kissing the top of her head. “Sort of,” I said, my frustration at her from earlier diffused.

It was one of the things I admired about Hanna: she was taking the academic world by storm. But it was also the thing that challenged my vision of our future the most. As much as I hated to admit it, I loved the idea of Hanna at home with me at night, Hanna someday pregnant with our child, Hanna always with me when I was away from my own job.