Spencer Stephens was famous for his germ phobia.

Anything he'd touched, no one else was allowed to touch after him.

He especially couldn't stand sharing a spoon with someone, eating from the same bowl of ice cream.

Not even me, the woman he claimed to love most.

Once, I accidentally touched his spoon.

That same day, he threw the spoon away with a look of disgust and had the whole set of utensils sterilized eight times over, inside and out.

Mrs. Stephens had said, mocking, "That's just how my son is. Born with a germ phobia. You'll have to excuse him."

"Don't let it upset you. He loves you. Otherwise he'd never have begged me to let the two of you marry."

After that, I never dared touch his things again.

But that weekend, when I went to drop off the wedding plans for my boyfriend.

I saw with my own eyes his childhood sweetheart scooping ice cream into her mouth with his spoon.

Halfway through, she even scooped a spoonful and pushed it into his mouth. "Open up, Spencer. Good boy."

I was about to remind her that Spencer had a germ phobia.

But the next second, Spencer obediently opened his mouth and swallowed it down.

Then he reached out and ruffled her hair.

"Ice cream tastes sweeter when Irma feeds it to me."

In that moment, it was like a lightning strike.

Watching the two of them smile at each other, I finally understood. He didn't have a germ phobia at all.

He only had one toward me.

——

My hand, halfway to pushing the door open, fell back the instant his words landed.

Seeing me take a step back to leave, Anna Lambert, the housekeeper, looked at me, puzzled.

"Miss Butler, the young master's been waiting for you a while now. Aren't you going in?"

"No."

"When he has a moment, would you mind giving him these plans?"

I set the wedding plans on the table by the door, turned, and went home.

Only after I got home did the text from Spencer come through.

"You just had someone leave the file by the door? What if it got lost?"

There was a thread of reproach in his tone.

"And we'd agreed. You were coming to my place today so we could go over the wedding plans together."

"You drop off the file and don't even show up yourself. What's that supposed to mean?"

I listened quietly until he finished, then spoke, flat.

"The wedding. Is there even any point anymore?"

"Here we go again."

Spencer's patience snapped thin.

"What are you throwing a tantrum about this time?"

"Irma was here today too. The two of us sat in the living room waiting over two hours for you, and you didn't even show your face."

"Do you actually want to get married? Or are you just toying with me?"

I stayed quiet for a second, then said, calm:

"Spencer, you know yourself that today was supposed to be about discussing our wedding."

"So tell me, what was Irma Fox doing there for something like that?"

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then Spencer sighed.

"Deborah Butler, Irma and I grew up together. She's my mother's goddaughter too."

"She's home on summer break now. What's wrong with her coming by to sit a while?"

"I marry you, and what, I'm supposed to cut Irma out of my life?"

I almost laughed. Said first like that, it made me out to be the petty one.

As if I were the one backing him into a corner.

But the next second, I pulled up Irma's social media post and forwarded it to him.

"Then how do you explain this post? Anyone who didn't know better would think the two of you were discussing your engagement today."

In the post I'd forwarded.

Irma had shared a selfie of her and Spencer.

Both of them beaming at the camera, heads tilted toward each other.

For all the world a couple.

And above the photo, she'd added a caption:

"The family's discussing the wedding date. Big news coming soon."

The comments were nothing but rows of 999.

"Congratulations! Wishing you a lifetime of happiness."

"Irma, I didn't realize you moved this fast—you're getting married already? Still your childhood crush, the dream guy?"

"A perfect match, made for each other!"

Under all of it, Irma had only replied with one playful little sticker.

If anything, it looked like a quiet confirmation.

Spencer glanced at it and sighed.

"I didn't know Irma posted something like that. I'll have her take it down right away."

"Besides, she's a kid. She's got a mischievous streak, always messing around like this."

"Only people who don't know us would read into it."

"Deborah, we've been together six years. Who doesn't know you're my girlfriend?"

"We're about to get married. You know my mom never wanted this in the first place. I had to talk myself hoarse just to win her over."

Then his voice softened.

"Come on. Let's not do this anymore, okay?"

It came out more like a gentle reminder.

Keep pushing and you'll cross a line.

But I kept turning that one phrase over in my head—Spencer's "six years together, who doesn't know you're my girlfriend."

I let out a thin laugh, and my finger tapped open his social media feed.

The last six months of visible posts came to nine in total.

Three were about games.

Three were food and scenery.

The final three were Irma.

Not a single one was about me.

Six years together, and I couldn't even remember the last time Spencer had posted anything about me.

Or maybe he never had.

Even back when we'd first gone official, the post he made was a blurry shot of my back.

I'd been a little hurt at the time and asked why he couldn't post a photo of my face.

Spencer had tapped the tip of my nose. "My girlfriend's this beautiful. I don't want anyone else looking at her."

But now, staring at that post, I really wanted to ask him:

"Then all those people liking Irma's photos, calling her sister-in-law—do they actually know I'm your girlfriend?"

The words reached the edge of my tongue. I didn't say them.

I could already picture it.

The moment I asked.

The exact flicker of irritation, the way his brow would crease.

"Enough, Deborah. I'm running myself into the ground every day, dealing with the company alongside my dad."

"I come home, and you still want to fight over this petty nonsense."

Besides, it wasn't like this hadn't happened before.

Last time, when my parents came up from the countryside to see me and I couldn't get away, I'd asked Spencer to pick them up from the station.

He'd answered me, cold-faced:

"Your parents really have a knack for timing. It's Irma's graduation party today. I already promised her I'd go."

"And anyway, your parents aren't children. Why do they need someone to fetch them?"

In the end I was the one who gave up my perfect attendance, took the day off, and went to the station myself.

And the time before that, when my stomach hurt so badly I couldn't stand it, I'd called Spencer begging him to take me to the hospital.

He didn't reply until after the ambulance had already brought me in, and even then it came lazily:

"I was swimming with Irma. Didn't see your messages."

"Which hospital are you at? I'll head over now."

And then there was today.

Irma and Spencer, eating ice cream off the same spoon.

"Ice cream tastes sweeter when Irma feeds it to me."

His germ phobia was a joke.

"Deborah, my parents weren't happy you didn't show today either. They think you came off pretty ill-mannered."

Spencer's voice still came through from the other end of the line.

"Tell you what—come over to my place first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll sit down and really hammer out the wedding plans…"

"We'll see. I'm exhausted today. I want to turn in early."

With that, I hung up.

The next day, I had no intention of taking time off. I headed to the office like I always did.

But at the foot of the building, Spencer's car cut me off.

He gave two short honks and rolled down the window.

"Get in. I already called you in sick."

I froze, my brow knitting tight. "I never asked for the day off. Why would you go and decide that for me?"

"Oh, come on. It's just a job."

Smiling, Spencer pushed the door open and gently steered me into the car.

"I've told you before—once we're married, you'll be Mrs. Stephens, without a care in the world."

"The Stephens family will provide for you. My wife has no business out there working, parading herself in public."

Something bitter churned in my chest.

"So because I'm marrying you, I don't even get the right to hold a job?"

Spencer didn't answer. He just lowered his head, pulled out an alcohol wipe, and scrubbed his hand. Carefully.

Scrubbing, meticulously, at the spot where his hand had just touched me.

Six years together. I'd long since gotten used to Spencer's severe germ phobia.

But in that moment, the sight still stung my eyes.

My nose prickled.

I asked, "Spencer, am I that filthy?"

Spencer paused, then lifted his gaze to me, startled.

"Deborah, why would you ask that?"

I drew in a deep breath. I wanted so badly to demand it of him out loud—why one touch from me meant disinfecting himself over and over.

It was always like this. After kissing me, he had to rinse his mouth.

After holding me, he had to shower.

Even after just holding my hand, he'd wipe himself down again and again with alcohol wipes.

Why couldn't I touch his spoon, couldn't touch his things?

While Irma could use his spoon, could share a single bowl of ice cream with him.

But looking at his blank, helpless eyes, I let out a wry little laugh and swallowed the words back down.

"It's nothing. Let's go."

When we reached the Stephens house, his parents were already seated in the living room, waiting.

Hearing me come in, Aaron Stephens silently took a sip of his tea, and Andrea rolled her eyes.

I steeled myself and stepped forward to greet them.

"Mr. Stephens, Mrs. Stephens, these are some homemade gifts I brought for you…"

"Don't bother. The Stephens family wants for nothing. Take it back."

Andrea spoke from on high.

"Deborah, if my son insists on marrying you, then you'd better learn how to be a proper Mrs. Stephens. Don't be so penny-pinching."

A wave of humiliation washed over me, and I bowed my head.

Because my family came from the countryside, the gap in our backgrounds was vast.

Spencer's parents didn't like me.

It was only because Spencer had dated me for six years, swearing he'd marry no one else, that they'd grudgingly agreed to the match.

I'd thought they had accepted me—yet still, in a thousand small ways, they found new ways to shame me.

"Mom!"

Spencer stepped in to rescue me. "It's still a token of Deborah's goodwill. Just take it."

Andrea gave a cold snort and tossed the gifts to the housekeeper without a second glance.

"Well, since you're both here, let's get on with discussing the wedding."

I breathed a little easier and sat down, just reaching for the wedding proposal on the table.

Then, out of nowhere, a crisp girl's voice rang out behind me.

"Mr. and Mrs. Stephens, look—do I look good in this wedding dress?"

I went still.

Why was Irma here again?

Everyone turned to look.

Aaron nodded with a smile. "Irma's really grown into a fine young woman."