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“Happy anniversary.” He placed the parcel in Peter's outstretched palm and waited.
Peter flicked out a claw and sliced through the tape. The wrapping paper fell away to reveal a short, white midriff tee—more of a crop top, really—and Peter picked it up gingerly, shaking it out. His eyebrows rose as he read the slogan emblazoned across the front in gold.
Trophy Husband.
“I thought of you since, you know, you don’t technically work. You just sit around looking pretty all day, ” Stiles said with a grin.
He waited for Peter to call him a little shit, or a brat, or an enfant terrible—any one of the dozens of lovingly crafted insults they reserved for each other. But instead, Peter broke into a delighted grin, and declared, “I love it! It’s perfection.”
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- Part 2 of Selection Criteria