You told me it would be fun.
That's how it always starts.
Not with a plan. Not with rules.
Just you smiling at me from the other seat in the car while another dessert appears in front of me.
By then, my stomach is already full.
Heavy.
Warm.
The kind of fullness that settles deep inside your body and makes every movement feel slower.
But you know that.
You can see it in the way I shift in my seat.
In the way I let out a quiet sigh before taking another bite.
And you love it.
"Just one more."
That's what you always say.
As if there is such a thing.
As if one more bite has ever been enough.
The chocolate is everywhere now.
On my fingers.
On my lips.
A little on my cheeks because somewhere along the way I stopped caring about being neat.
You laugh when you notice.
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling too.
The whipped cream comes next.
Cold.
Sweet.
Messy.
By now I'm too full to care.
Too happy to care.
Too caught up in the feeling of it all.
I can feel my stomach pressing against my clothes.
Stretching them.
Demanding more space.
Every breath reminds me of how much I've eaten.
How much I've become.
And somehow...
I keep going.
Because every time I look up, you're watching me.
Not judging.
Not stopping me.
Just watching with that look that says you already know exactly what's going to happen.
Eventually I lean back in my seat.
Defeated.
Chocolate on my face.
Whipped cream in places it was never supposed to end up.
My stomach round and obvious beneath my clothes.
I should probably feel embarrassed.
Instead I just start laughing.
And you laugh too.
Because the car is a disaster.
I am a disaster.
And somehow it's perfect.
You reach over and wipe a little chocolate from my cheek.
I can feel how full I am.
How heavy.
How impossible it would be to pretend this never happened.
And for a moment neither of us says anything.
We just sit there.
Me covered in the evidence of my own lack of self-control.
You looking far too pleased about it.
And honestly?
I don't think either of us would change a thing.
