Sometimes what's his isn't really mine

Unloading the car, the husband stopped, hefting a sword, and in a voice filled with surprised annoyance, "You used MY sword this weekend?"

She did not appear to be intimidated by the tone of voice or the glare, responding, "What? That's yours? Are you sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm sure. That's my trigger lanyard. That's my basket hilt. That's my foam padding inside the basket hilt," he says as he points out each part he's referring to. He glared at her with self-righteous indignation. She leaned in and frowned at the sword, "Hmm... I think you might be right."

"You mean you've been using my sword all the time you've been going to practice?"

Shrugging, "Maybe, maybe not. Honestly, I couldn't tell you. I just grabbed the one that was easiest to find Saturday at 5am. I have to say, I like the heft and the length." Then, smiling with glee, she looks him in the eye and says, "So that means I was holding your sword all weekend. I was slaying and killing and hand my hands all over your sword," waggling her eyebrows each time she said "sword".

He did not rise to the bait. "Yes, you were. Don't use my sword." He walked into the depths of the garage, hidden from sight.

"Even if I'm hitting Ob with it?" She queries from the driveway, shouting into the dark garage.

After a pause, he called out, "Don't use my sword."

"Even if I'm hitting-"

"This is your sword," he gestures with the sword he just unearthed from a pile of armor. "Use your sword, not mine." Handing over her much rattier sword, he turned around once more and disappeared into the depths of the garage.

"You're no fun."

"I'm plenty of fun. Use your own sword. That's why you have your own sword."