𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

Pads With Wings

The door to their little cottage house opens and Thomas walks in with two bags in his hands, smiling brightly.

"You're lucky," he says. "Fry still had a few left and the little local shop they're making had enough pads in store." And lies the stuff down on the couch.

With raised eyebrows, she opens both packages. A spicy smell comes out of one of them, and her eyebrows raise even higher. "I asked for pads with wings, Thomas."

"Yeah. There. Pads." He points at one package. "Wings. Chicken wings. Are there other wings?"

"Pads with wings," she says.

"Right there!" He motions at the bag. "Wings! Sometimes I forget how moody—"

"Don't even finish that sentence, Crackhead."

He holds up his hands. "I'm silenced. Honestly, though, what do you think about another nine months without a period? No issues with wings, less grumpy—"

"Don't even," she sighs. "Never again. Also, I'm way moodier during those months." And she picks the packages up. "This is still not what I asked for."

His confused face is kind of funny. "You asked for pads with wings! Pads. Wings. Got them both."

She sighs. "There's pads that have wings attached to them so they can sit around your underwear, Thomas. Perhaps read the labels."

"I did!"

"And..?"

"Only to check if there were favors. But there weren't, so I grabbed random ones." He shrugs. "Can I get a wing, though? If you're not eating them..."

"I am so eating them." She claims the bag for herself. "Thank you, Crackhead."

He groans. "You're welcome."

"Damn. These taste lovely," she teases.

"It's fine. I'll have my own dinner once the kids are asleep!"

"You've been eating snacks while we're asleep, daddy?!"

"That's unfair!"