It slipped out, a reflex from years of being polite, when she passed him a drink. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, and instantly regretted it—the way her smile froze, the way her eyes narrowed, just slightly. He started to apologize, but she held up a hand, silencing him.
“Ma’am?” she repeated, her voice calm, but there was an edge to it, a challenge. She stepped closer, her perfume wrapping around him, and tilted her head. “I think you can do better than that,” she said, her fingers trailing down his arm, stopping at his wrist to wrap around it, firm but not rough.
He tried to stammer out her name, but she shook her head, her thumb brushing the inside of his wrist where his pulse raced. “Not yet,” she said. “First, you’re going to say it like you mean it. Like you know exactly who I am.”
He swallowed, his mouth dry. “I’m sorry—” “Try again,” she said, her voice lower now, and this time, he said her name, soft and rough, like it had been sitting on his tongue for years. She smiled, finally, and released his wrist, her touch lingering. “Better,” she said.
After that, he never slipped up again. But even if he had, he knew she’d remind him—slowly, thoroughly, until the word “ma’am” felt like a stranger, and her name felt like a prayer. Some corrections aren’t meant to shame. They’re meant to etch a truth into your bones: she was more than a title. She was her.