Page 93 of Big Dick Energy

“See? Entertainment value only.”

She navigated the question with the ease of someone who'd answered it a thousand times. She made it look effortless, the confidence, the deflection, the refusal to let anyone see that the words might land somewhere soft.

The monitor chimed again. Davina glanced at it, and this time, the flicker lasted longer.

“Next question,” she said, voice light. “JessicaB wants to know…” She paused, and I could see her deciding whether to read it. “She wants to know how I'm handling the current wave of comments saying Dallas is too good for me. That he must have lost a bet, or this is some kind of publicity stunt, because why would someone who looks like him choose someone who looks like me?”

Davina's composure didn't crack, but I saw the way her fingers tightened around her pen and inhaled deeply.

“Well, Jessica, I think…”

“No.” The word came out harder than I intended. Davina stopped, brows furrowing with confusion as she looked at me.

“Dallas…”

“No,” I repeated. “You don't get to answer that.” I turned to face the camera directly. “I'm answering this one.”

“You don't have to…”

“Yeah. I do.” I leaned forward, every ounce of performance stripped away. “I want everyone listening to hear this clearly, because I'm only going to say it once, and I need you to understand that I mean every single word.” The studio was dead silent. Even Abby had stopped moving in the control booth. “My wife,” I said slowly, “You want to know what I see when I look at my wife? I see a woman who built an empire with her voice, her brain, and her refusal to apologize for taking up space. I see someone who makes me laugh until I can't breathe and calls me on my bullshit without flinching. I see curves that I want to spend the rest of my life memorizing, and eyes that make me forget every script I've ever rehearsed.” My voice dropped. “The internet wants to tell me I could do better? The internet can go straight to hell. I wake up every morning next to Davina Dodger and my first thought is how the hell did I get this lucky.”

I turned to look at her then, and the professional mask had slipped. Her eyes were bright, glassy, and she was biting her bottom lip hard enough to leave marks.

“You asked how you're supposed to handle comments like that,” I said, quieter now, just for her, even though thousands of people were listening. “You're not supposed to handle them. You're supposed to let me handle them. Because I will burn down every comment section on the entire internet before I let anyone make you feel like you're not exactly what I want.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, laughing a little.

“Dallas…”

“I'm not done.” I reached across the desk and took her hand, not caring about the cameras, not caring about the audience. “I spent thirty-two years thinking I knew what I was looking for. I was wrong. I was so wrong. You're not what I was looking for. You're what I didn't know I needed, and I will spend the rest of my life making sure you know that.”

Davina pressed her free hand to her mouth, tears streaming now despite her best efforts. “You're ruining my makeup,” she managed.

“It'll photograph great. Trust me.”

She laughed and squeezed my hand so tight it almost hurt.

In the control booth, Abby was openly crying, frantically fanning her face while simultaneously monitoring chat.

“The listeners are losing it,” she said through the speakers, voice thick. “I'm losing it. Everyone's losing it. This is the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed in my professional career.”

Davina took a shaky breath, dabbing under her eyes with her fingertips. “Well. I think Dallas just broke the internet.”

“Good.” I lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “It deserved it.”

She stared at me for a long moment before she turned back to the camera, composure slowly rebuilding but softer now, the cracks showing through in a way that made her more real instead of less.

“So. There you have it, babes.” Her voice was husky. “My husband, everyone. Who apparently woke up today and chose violence against my tear ducts.”

“I regret nothing.”

The podcast continued. The questions that followed were lighter, someone asking about my signature moves, another wanting to know if I could cook.

But underneath the banter, Davina's hand kept finding mine, and every time I looked at her, she was already looking back.

By the time she wrapped up the show, I felt like I'd run a marathon.

The ON AIR light clicked off, and Abby emerged from the control booth, face still blotchy from crying. “That was the best episode we've ever recorded. Maybe the best episode anyone has ever recorded.”