It’s a delicate balance you strike, as you step down the aisle that’s formed through the middle of the room, a crowd of strangers on each side of you. Your muscles are locked up tight, willing yourself not to visibly shiver, or trip, or look too stiff as you place one foot in front of the other. Looking weak is not an option, your mother’s voice reminds you, not in front of these people. 

Kryptonians. Your people, soon enough. 

It’s difficult to ignore their stares piercing through you, just as the cold does, observing every practiced, fluid movement you make. You’d hoped, in vain, that your groom might prefer a private ceremony, given the royal family had even permitted a few of your own relatives to attend — a highly unusual allowance. But the Kryptonians were communal by nature, and the tight-knit royal court would never pass up the opportunity to see their Prince wed.

At the end of the aisle, he stands tall, awaiting you. Watching you.

Kal-El, you remember, the name sounding foreign even in your mind.

The ceremonial robes he’s adorned with are a vibrant red, caped over the familiar blue and yellow military uniform of the Kryptonians, a stark reminder of why this ceremony is even taking place, and why it had to happen so quickly.

You’ve anticipated this day your whole life. You’re the last of your sisters to be married off. Your eldest sister left your home when you were just nine years of age, wed to the ruler of a kingdom across the sea in exchange for precious material resources, and no amount of wailing and pleading on your part would make her stay. The education you received as you grew only confirmed what you learned that day: that daughters of Kings had a duty to their country, to the good of their people, and your father had a duty to do whatever it takes to ensure the welfare of his kingdom. 

Or, more simply put: one day you would be wed, and you would not have very much choice in the matter. 

At least the purpose of your arrangement is more clear-cut, more urgent. An evident solution to an imminent problem, for both your realms. Krypton’s position as the supreme power on the continent grows more precarious with every day that the Thanagar Rebellion continues, and all the military might in the world can’t bring the Thanagarians to the negotiation table, if the past five years were anything to go by. It’s ironic, then, that Krypton’s beloved Warrior Prince was the one to realise your kingdom’s strategic value in ending the conflict, despite — or perhaps, especially because of — your people’s peaceful nature. Your father, the great Concilliator, has ended wars before, and clearly Prince Kal-El thinks he can do it again. 

For a price, of course. Your kingdom would forever be under Krypton’s protection, as the home of Prince Kal-El’s bride, and your people would never have to fear for their safety again. 

Even from across the grand hall, your groom is formidable. He towers above his people, broad-shouldered, chin held high like there’s already a crown on his head to balance. The sheer size of him is nothing like you could have imagined. When his eyes finally meet yours, azure and austere, you can only hope no one notices the gasp that leaves you.

You reach him too soon. Your measured, smooth steps forward have carried you down the aisle, and before you know it, he’s turned to face you fully, his eyes unreadable and distant, palm outstretched in offering. His hand in yours is the first warmth you’ve felt since you arrived. 

The priest, whose face is covered by a brilliant, glowing mask, steps forward from the altar, garnishing a stretch of red fabric, which he ties around your joined hands. He speaks, addressing you and your audience in a tongue incomprehensible to you, and to keep your eyes from glazing over as you listen, you sneak a glance at your poker-faced groom. 

Of all the stories you heard about the Warrior Prince of Krypton, none of them mentioned how blindingly handsome he is. The brutal strength you’ve heard tale of is undeniable, his arms thick with corded muscle that not even the fine fabric his uniform can disguise, his hand twice the size of yours; he could crush you, right here under the altar if he likes, just as he’s done to enemies on the battlefield. They say his presence alone can turn the tide of a battle lost. They don’t mention the dimples that appear on his cheeks as he gives the priest a polite smile, or that his voice is deep and stern, but not harsh. Steadying. The whole room holds their breath just to hear him speak. 

He catches your stare, turning his head to look at you. But then so does the priest, and everyone else in the room. Expectant. Your turn. 

Despite the hours you spent practicing the simple phrase — “I will stand firm in my vow to you” — you stumble, stuttering over the foreign feeling of their language on your tongue, your accent abysmal. You have to force yourself not to wince at your obvious mispronunciation, and ignore your governess’s voice in your head (“Disgraceful! Disrespectful!”). The Kryptonians, to their credit, do not laugh at your faltering, and if the Prince finds your mishap amusing, he doesn’t show it. He nods respectfully, his expression open as he repeats the phrase in a humiliatingly perfect accent.

The priest nods solemnly, accepting your vow exchange, then leads you both to a pillar in the middle of the altar. A carved steel chalice sits on top of it, filled with a clear liquid, and the Prince moves gently as he guides the hands you’ve tied together to pick it up. It’s a delicate maneuver, requiring your fingers to tangle together, the warmth from his palm radiating to yours, grounding you. 

He’s careful as he brings the chalice to your lips, tilting it slowly to clue you in, so you’re prepared to open your mouth and accept his offering. The liquid is pleasantly fruity, and he doesn’t force it down your throat like you might’ve expected him to, just a couple sips and then the chalice lowers. 

He thankfully doesn’t leave you guessing as to what the next step is, drawing the chalice up to his own lips, leisurely and subtle, so as to not give away his guidance (and your cluelessness). Your hand does not tremble as you tilt the chalice towards him, saving you the embarrassment of spilling it on his face. 

Your eyes can’t help but linger on the purse of his lips. The bob of his throat as he swallows. Your cheeks flush with heat as you realise just how beautiful you find him, and you’re glad to look away from him when the chalice is lowered back onto the pillar. The priest rambles on for a bit longer, looking between the two of you, before he seems to address the crowd, his voice rising to boom throughout the hall in declaration. The Prince uses your tied hands to tug you along, gently, to face him again. 

He takes a long moment to stare at you, his eyes no longer blank, but searching. Trying to communicate something you can’t understand. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and then he’s leaning in closer to you, pressing his lips to yours.

It’s not an unpleasant feeling. His lips are pillowy and soft, and only press to yours for a mercifully brief moment before pulling away, a mere brush of skin, before the hall bursts into cheers. The noblemen are too busy tossing flower petals into the air to notice the way you nearly jump out of your skin at the sudden cacophony, a rainbow of confetti falling around you. You mimic the wide smile the Prince wears at the celebration, covering up your shock quickly. 

He guides you, slowly, mindful of the difference in your height and of your hands still being tied together, down the steps to the altar and towards a door to the left, instead of back down the aisle like you expected.

You catch sight of your family then, a few rows back in the crowd. Your parents stand next to two of your brothers, the youngest of which has a watery smile on his young face, trying to hold back his tears. You will see him later this evening, at the reception dinner, and then never again. You send him a reassuring smile over your shoulder before the door shuts behind you.

You’re alone with the Prince now, tucked away in a small, circular room that’s no less ornate than the hall you’ve exited, the skylight ceiling bathing you both in fading sunlight. Tables line the walls, displaying a variety of canapes and hors d’oeuvres, sweets and cheeseboards and flutes of every beverage you could possibly conceive of. In the center of the room is a simple settee, decorated with plush pillows, large enough to fit two people. Your stomach drops at the sight of it.

This is the consummation room. 

“You’ll break your fast before dinner, privately. You’ll have your fill of amuse-gueules,” You recall your mother’s explanation. “And then, he’ll have his fill of you.” 

You can’t even bear to look at the Prince, your heartbeat quickening in your chest as you anticipate his bruising touch on you at any moment. The hand that isn’t bound to his clenches into a fist at your side, instinctually, dying to fight your way out, and it takes every inch of your willpower to loosen it. Your jaw goes tense, in the hopes that when he inevitably bends you over the furniture and forces himself into you, you can hold back your cries, for the sake of guests on the other side of the door. 

For your people, you remind yourself. For their peace. 

“Do you speak the common tongue?” 

Your head whips towards him, eyes wide. You didn’t expect much talking.

“Forgive me, I have not had the time I would’ve liked to learn your native ton-” He continues on. “I do. I speak- I understand you just fine. Your highness.” His title is tacked on at the end, your brain working too slowly to remember your etiquette. “My apologies, for my… less than impressive Kryptonian.” That makes him breathe out a laugh. Not polite, like before, during the ceremony, but genuine. He’s somehow even more handsome when he smiles like this, warm and sincere. 

“I’m told it’s a difficult tongue to master.” He reassures you, moving to untie the cloth that keeps your hand tied to his. “Are you thirsty? It’s best to save room for the feast, but a beverage might tide you over till then.” His concern for your wellbeing only alarms you further. Why is he drawing this out? Did he want to avoid you fainting during the act? Or perhaps prevent you from dropping a canape in shock, ruining the fine carpet?

You stand there, blinking at him in perplexity, even after he drops your hand and it flops back to your side, in a manner that could only be described as the opposite of graceful. But he’s not even looking at you, instead he’s striding across the room, grabbing a glass of fruit juice and planting himself down on the settee. 

When he notices that you’re still frozen in place — notices your fear — he softens, putting his hands out, palms facing up in surrender. “Please, sit. We’ll only have a few minutes to rest.” 

You move slowly, cautiously, plucking a glass of the same juice from the table and making your way to the center of the room to join him, never taking your eyes off his hands. 

You sit in disquieting silence, sipping sweet beverages and avoiding eye contact. He is your husband now, and you know you must obey him, but your body resists obedience with every ounce of strength it has. 

Which is not very much. 

You’d never been allowed very many culinary indulgences, but ever since the engagement was announced you were under very strict orders from your mother to “watch your figure!” while your brothers piled three different kinds of red meat and grain onto their plates, under the excuse of being "growing boys”, not men grown already. After long days of studying Kryptonian culture and dance classes and piano lessons — your brothers’ longsword training lessons in full view from the library window — you’d taken to falling into slumber during your evening baths, then being shaken awake by your ladies in waiting, alarm clear on their faces, telling you without words that you had taken far too long to wake up.

And yet, you still resisted submission to this man on the couch with you. Your face burned with shame. After so many years of contending with your fate, you thought this day might come a little easier to you, that eventually the satisfaction of being a perfect lady would set in with maturity and age and you would look forward to marrying the future King of the most powerful kingdom on the continent. But here, now, sitting and taking a breath right in the middle of the fanfare, the eye of the storm, you feel like your chest might be collapsing in on itself. 

“We can stay here as long as you’d like.” The Prince says gently from beside you. When you turn to him, he’s gazing at you knowingly, but not pitying.

“We cannot keep them waiting.” You reply, practiced. 

“They will wait for me.” He doesn’t sound haughty, just assured. Safe.

You nod, because words escape you then. You’ll take this little mercy, just before what will surely be the longest night of your life. 

Prince Kal-El never comes closer to you than the length of the couch. 

The food being delicious does little to assuage your nerves, lit afire by the cacophony of the dining hall as your wedding guests indulge in the reception feast. 

This portion of the celebration is the polar opposite of the ceremony, the torches along the wall and the mass of bodies dancing, eating, and bantering being more than enough to warm the freezing palace walls, though your hair still somehow remains standing on end. 

You stare out, a polite, practiced smile plastered onto your face in the hopes no one will notice the blank look in your eyes, as you try to reconcile the stories told about Kryptonians with the people in front of you. From your table at the crest of the dining hall, elevated on a stone platform, you have a full view of the banquet as it unfolds. The warlords and barbarians you read about bear little resemblance to the crowd in front of you, where everyone greets each other like old friends, singing songs that they all know the words to and knocking back hot ale and wine like it’s water. The same Lords that held their breath to hear their Prince speak his vows approach him like uncles now, clapping him heavily on the shoulder in congratulations, and he greets them with the same enthusiasm. His joy, you can tell, isn’t a farce; he loves these people like they’re his own family.

They are, it occurs to you. They’ve either seen him grow from a babe in his mother’s arms to the titan he is now, or grown right alongside him, and all of them — both the men and the women — have likely fought a battle or two with him. It’s a bond that’s incomprehensible to you, but it’s evident to anyone with functioning eyes. 

Despite the platters of food as wide as your husband’s shoulders and as high as your eye-level, you can only bring yourself to indulge in the bread rolls, warm and baked with herbs in the dough and perfectly buttered, and a bit of the poultry. After the first hour of you picking and plucking at the food on your plate, the Prince leaned close so you could hear him over the roar of the crowd and asked if the food was to your liking, and you nodded eagerly, flashing a smile so as to not worry him. He shot you a concerned look at first, but then one of his father’s generals approached your table and he was thankfully whisked away into conversation and congratulations, before you were forced to explain that your mother was watching you from her place just a few feet away. 

You excuse yourself easily to freshen up in the washroom, trailed by your new lady’s maid. You are a woman grown, a married woman, who still must be accompanied to the washroom, not even trusted to wash her own behind. 

Your mother waits for you in the hall when you’re finished, clearly intent on catching you in a moment alone, bringing you into a tight embrace, and despite the pit in your stomach that forms every time you see her, the scent of her arms around you will always be soothing to you. Sickeningly familiar. 

“Did it hurt terribly, my dearest?” She says, in your own language, so even the lady’s maid standing a few feet away can’t eavesdrop on your conversation.

“Did what hurt?” You say, confused. She pulls away, her hands coming to clutch your shoulders, looking at you in questioning.

“The consummation, dearest.”

“I-I didn’t- he didn’t-” You’re trying to get it across, but even you’re confused by the whole situation. The consummation was not exactly presented to you as optional, and yet, the Prince didn’t lay a hand on you, not until you stood and nodded to him silently, so he knew you were ready. And still, he did not take you, simply presented his arm for you to take and led you to the dining hall to make your grand re-entrance. 

Your mother is in disbelief, peppering you with questions about why and how and what exactly he said or did in your time alone together, but even you don’t have answers for her. His motives are a mystery to you. 

“Well, it is no matter. You must consummate tonight. Your marriage must be seen as legitimate, or the alliance between our kingdoms is null and void. Do you understand, my dear?” You nod, trying not to show the fear that clutches you at the thought, of consummation and of endangering your people. “You must not leave your marriage chambers unbedded.”

“Yes, mother. I understand. I won’t-” “Good!” She switches back to the common tongue, then. “Let’s not keep your husband waiting much longer, dear.” 

You’re guided back to your seat next to the Prince, just like you are guided everywhere. 

You can see your future in crystal clarity before you, being chaperoned from room to room, your skin plucked and your body penetrated till you die, hopefully before you’ll ever have to chaperone your own daughter. 

Your placating smile returns to your face for the next few hours, while the party rages on with no sign of stopping. It must be past midnight, but the Kryptonians seem to have boundless energy for a proper celebration, including your husband. His cheeks must be sore from hours of grinning, his stomach full as he’s cleared plate after plate, and yet he’s still jovial, conversing with his family and friends, knocking tankards together in salute with little regard to the ale that spills onto the floor and down sleeves as a result.

Eventually, he stands, taking your hand in his and moving to leave the table, causing groans to ring out around him. You descend the platform together and you trail after him as he slowly makes his way to the door, a long process, as he’s stopped every few feet by well-wishers, either bidding him a good night or cajoling him into staying a few more hours. He smiles widely at every one of them, hugs them tightly, but shakes his head at the invitations to stay, before thanking them for their attendance and moving on. It goes on like that till you reach the towering wooden doors that lead out of the hall, exiting with polite waves towards his people, and despite craning your neck in an attempt to see over the crowd, you cannot seem to find your family before the doors slam shut. 

Your ears ring even in the silence of the corridor, struggling to adjust as your husband leads you away from the dining hall, your steps echoing in tandem with his. Your heart pounds too hard and loud in your ears, and you have to force your breathing to regulate instead of hyperventilating; the corridors are far too echoey for your panic to go undetected, and the leisurely pace you’re taking leaves no excuse for your racing heart. 

You walk for what feels like an hour. These halls are long and winding, and the further you walk, arm in arm with your husband, the more terrified you are of ever having to find your way through this castle by yourself. It’ll take years, you’re sure, to learn the layout of your new home. You begin to wonder if your husband’s quarters — where you’re sure he’s leading you — is on the other side of the castle when you round a corner and find the entrance doors to the dining hall again, music and chatter still audible through thick wood. 

You look up at him, eyebrows pinched in confusion. “Your highness, are we returning? Are we not-?”

“We will make it to our chambers eventually.” He explains, a lighthearted smile on his face. “We are simply… taking the scenic route.”

It hits you, then, that despite his humorous tone, he truly does want to delay the consummation, just as you do. That he is, in a way, a victim of circumstance as you are, marrying a stranger for the good of his people. That he might understand your reluctance better than most.

“Oh,” is all you can muster up for a response. “Alright.” “Unless you wish to retire?” “No!” You say too quickly. Improperly. Disrespectful!, your governess’s voice rings in your head again, as your cheeks heat and you refocus your gaze ahead. “I only mean, I wish to follow your lead, my husband.” He doesn’t respond, but he keeps his gaze on you, quiet and deep in thought. You walk in silence for a bit, past the dining hall entrance and around another corner, before he speaks again. 

“I want you to feel comfortable here.” He says, in that same comforting tone he used earlier, like he’s coaxing a feral animal out of its cage. 

“I will, your highness. You need not worry.” Your tone is measured, steady, confident, a voice you can recede into instinctually, before anyone senses your distress.

“Yes, but- I understand this isn’t- you did not choose this.” He stumbles over his words, sounding unsure for the first time since you’ve met him. You pointedly look away from him, eyes fixated on the walls, as if the intricate carvings on the bleached stone are the most interesting thing in the world, so he can’t see the way your eyes well up with tears at the acknowledgment that you are not here by your own volition. “Should you think of anything that will make you more comfortable, or give you some solace, or- anything. Anything you want, I will give it to you.” 

You switch your distracted stare from the walls to your skirt, your free hand coming to pick at the beading, clinking softly. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what he can give you that will make any of this better. No matter what, you cannot go back home. 

“Thank you.” It comes out as a whisper. Any louder, and he’d hear the tears that threaten to close your throat. 

He falls silent afterwards, thankfully. 

Your steps echo down more unfamiliar corridors, twisting and turning till you reach a courtyard on what must be the west side of the palace, judging by the sun’s setting rays beaming through the ornate glass ceiling, providing cover from the frequent snowfalls you’re told plague this kingdom. You’re a floor above it, and the Prince guides you to the railing to gaze down into this oasis in the middle of the palace, a spread of green amongst stone, flowering bushes and grass and a few trees, impossibly blooming. You don’t even notice the Prince slipping his arm from yours, allowing you to lean further over in amazement. 

“How?” You ask, looking back at him.

“Our groundskeepers work very hard.” He replies simply, like it’s not a marvel to have a thriving garden in the middle of winter. You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes you.

“This is- it’s incredible.” 

Your home was all rolling fields of grass and meadows of flowers, a rare patch of forest here and there. You’d come to accept you’d just have to get accustomed to Krypton’s snow-capped mountain peaks on the horizon, its climate far cooler than you’ve ever endured. As your eyes rove over the familiar sight of greenery, they land on a familiar sight, a bushel of red berries that you’d often eat in the mornings to break your fast. Your favourite, in fact. 

“I wasn’t aware that fragaria is native to Krypton, too.” You say it happily, knowing that at least you’ll have something familiar to eat tomorrow morning.

“It isn’t.” He responds. When you look back at him in confusion, he’s smiling fondly. At you. “When our engagement was announced, I asked for some flora native to your own kingdom to be planted.” 

You hate the way your eyes fill with tears again. You’ve done more crying today than you ever intended. But this time, they’re tears of gratitude. Of relief. 

“Thank you,” You say again. “Truly.”

“If you wish for anything else-” “I will tell you.” Your voice is truly sure this time. Genuine. Then, “Are the berries ripe yet?”

“I will have to inquire with Klinn-Il, he often tends to the fruit bushes.” You step away from the railing, slipping your arm around his again, resting your hand on his forearm as you continue on down the corridor. “If they are, they’ll be picked fresh for you on the morrow.”

“That would please me very much, your highness.” A genuine smile finally graces your face.

You walk at the same leisurely pace as before, but more comfortably. Pressed closer together, exchanging conversation rather than silently begging him not to say anything to you. He asks you questions, about your home, your family, and you tell him easily, seeing him nod intently, as if the life of the last-born daughter of a King was the most important matter in the world. You ask him your own questions in return. You learn that Krypton does get warmer, in the months opposite to your own kingdom’s summer, that he is close with his parents and has tea with his cousin, Kara, every chance he gets, though she’s quite the adventurer and is rarely home. You learn he is fond of cats, and of music. 

When you finally reach what must be the entrance to his chambers, you know each other just the slightest bit more. Not quite a stranger anymore, but your breath still stutters, the reality of what’s in store for the rest of the night slamming back into you like a kick to the chest. 

His room is not what you expected. The stained glass windows scatter mosaics of colours all around you, brilliant and shining in the sunset, illuminating the sitting area and warming the room. There’s a scattering of armchairs and settees, all in the colours of the House of El, surrounding the fireplace that’s already been lit for you. On the furthest wall from the entrance are double doors that lead to a private balcony, and to your left, a canopy bed. Every decoration is plush and extravagant, inviting. You try not to think about your own room back home, or how none of the colours are ones you’d pick out for yourself. This is the Prince’s room, and so you belong here, with the rest of his possessions. 

“Is it to your liking?” He asks.

“Yes.” You lie easily, but again, your body doesn’t cooperate. As he moves further into the room, you stay put in the entryway, as if remaining far from the bed will protect you from what’s to come. You both know the customs of his people. Even if he was kind enough to want to spare you, he could not risk the voiding of your marriage, not with the safety of your kingdoms on the line.

“Are you warm enough? I can add more firewood-” “No, I’m quite warm, your highness.” 

He looks back at you. Recognising your fear, again. You stand feet apart, both unsure, trepidatious. 

He stares down at the floor as he speaks to you, like he’s ashamed. “I will have to undress for bed.”

“As will I.” Your voice is distant.

“I will turn around while you undress.” 

“Your highness,” You shake your head. “It’s no use.” 

But he turns anyway. You hear the buttons of his coat pop open, slowly, like he wants to give you extra time. You sigh, knowing as well as he does that there’s no sense in prolonging the inevitable, but you comply with his wishes. You loosen the back of your gown clumsily, having to untie the laces by reaching back and fumbling around till the ties come undone, enough to slide the heavy fabric down and off, stepping out of your behemoth of a skirt. And then you’re left in your stays and chemise, grateful, at least, for the warmth of the room as you shed your few layers. 

When you dare to look across the room at your husband, you gasp quietly at the sight of his bare back. He’s somehow even broader, stronger with his clothing off, the expanse of his muscular shoulders, the dimples at the base of his back, right above- 

You avert your eyes again, trying to focus on removing your stays, but the laces start higher up on your back than the dress, hard to reach and even harder to untie, and there’s no lady’s maid here to help you. He must hear your frustrated whine as you twist and bend your arms to try and get ahold of the ties, because he asks if you need help, without even turning towards you, still keeping his promise not to look. 

You lock up at the question. Your cheeks are already heated from your frustration, but you can feel blood rushing to your face again at the prospect of him so close when you’re in such a state of undress, but you remember there’s no use. He will see much more of you, very soon. 

“Please.” You finally acquiesce, and only then does he turn, crossing the room as soon as you ask. 

You keep your eyes low, not wanting to scandalise yourself further with more glimpses of his body, and gasp at the feeling of his hands brushing against your back.

“Is this alright?” He asks, stilling.

“Yes. It’s fine, your highness.” You say, automatically, again. Powerless to deny him anything. 

He makes quick work of the knots, pulling the laces on your back loose till he can slip it over your head easily, then retreating from you. You frown, again, at his delays. Almost hoping he’d get it over with already.

When he reappears before you, he is clothed in a light tunic, loose and worn from frequent use, and similarly loose britches. He barely glances at you as he climbs into bed, burying himself under the thick duvet, as if truly readying himself for slumber. 

You stay put, in just your chemise, still lingering in the entryway like you could bolt out of the room. His gaze fixates on the ceiling.

“You may come to bed, if you wish.” He says. “Or sleep on the futon, or wherever else you desire. I will not interfere with your sleep.”

You step forward. Hesitant. Slow. Disbelieving. It takes you forever to approach the bed, and an embarrassing amount of effort to climb onto it, as it was clearly built with his size in mind. It’s expansive, much bigger than your own, and covered in more blankets and plush, goose-feathered pillows than you can count, the sheets like silk against your skin. There’s ample space between you and him, laying on opposite sides of the mattress.

“Your highness,” You start, once you’ve situated yourself comfortably on top of the bed. “Surely, you know that- that you must-”

“Sleep, my wife.” He says, exhaustion creeping into his voice, his eyes already shut. “Both of us must sleep. It’s been a long day, for us both.” 

You do not sleep. 

You sit there for a long while, unable to fall asleep as he does, studying him, watching his face go slack and his breathing deepen as he falls into his slumber. With him so still like this, unconscious to the world, you finally have the liberty of truly, openly staring at your new husband. 

He has been kind, against your every expectation. He has been considerate, and has never once shown you anger, even as you repeatedly displayed your fear in front of him, your fear of him. Your resistance hasn’t seemed to phase him. You remember again, staring at him like this, that he is incredibly handsome. The curls that had no doubt been slicked back this morning are falling onto his forehead, bringing a smile to your face, despite yourself. 

When you finally climb under the covers, settling into the mattress, with your eyes still on him, like at any moment he’ll transform into the husband you’d imagined you’d have, twice your age and unforgivingly brutal. But he remains the same, a peaceful expression on his face, quiet snores escaping him. 

You decide, then, to trust him for the night. And as you close your eyes, you allow yourself to wonder, for the first time, if you may have married a good man.