If you're going to talk in a foreign language, sweetness, you're setting yourself up to be misunderstood.

[He wraps his arms tight around Bruno, though, keeping him pressed close. He mutters against his hair:]

He's terrible. Sauntering around all day in lacy shirts and tight jeans, tempting me to bend him over the nearest counter-- and then he scolds me when I give in! I have to cook, he tells me, I have to do things, Fugo-- ah, no, Emma is right there, don't be obscene, why do I want to marry him, I don't know--

[He kisses the top of his head, a hard firm kiss that brooks no argument.]

But I do. I really do.