lost in a fictional character

Bucky was waking up.

She kept her eyes closed for another moment, letting herself surface slowly. The cabin was still dark, just the faintest hint of gray light beginning to filter through the windows. Early. Too early.

But he had to leave for work.

She heard him take a deeper breath, felt him stretch slightly beside her, and knew he was awake now.

Time to get up.

She opened her eyes and carefully extracted herself from his arm -still draped loosely over her waist- and started to maneuver toward the edge of the bed.

She'd done this enough times now that it should have been routine. Swing one leg over, plant her knee carefully beside his hip, shift her weight, bring the other leg around-

His arms came up before she'd fully cleared him.

Sleepy. Unhurried. Wrapping around her waist and pulling her back down against his chest.

"Mornin’," he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep, his eyes still closed.

The word was barely intelligible, muffled against her shoulder.

She felt warmth flood through her. Not embarrassment, exactly, but something softer.

"Morning," she said quietly.

He held her there for just a moment longer, his arms loose around her, his breathing still slow and even like he might drift back to sleep if she let him.

Then he sighed and released her, his hands sliding away.

"Go on," he murmured. "Before I keep you here."

She climbed off the bed carefully, her bare feet hitting the cold floor, and turned back to look at him.

He still hadn't opened his eyes. Was lying there with one arm flung above his head, the quilt pooled around his waist, his chest bare in the dim pre-dawn light. She allowed herself to look for just a moment -at the shape of his body, relaxed and unguarded- before turning toward the stove to start the fire.

Behind her, she heard the bed’s wood creak as he sat up. Heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of him stretching, that low, satisfied groan he always made when his back cracked.

She focused on the kindling, on getting the fire started, very aware that she was still in her nightgown. It was starting to get light outside. That everything they'd done last night had happened almost in darkness, and now-

Now it was morning.

She could feel him looking at her.

Didn't need to turn around to know his eyes were on her. Could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing.

Heat crept up the back of her neck.

She didn't know how to act now. What the appropriate rules were. Did he expect her to behave differently? To be bolder, maybe? Or was she supposed to pretend nothing had happened until tonight, when the sun went down and…

She heard him stand -the soft pad of bare feet on the wooden floor- and then he was there. Right behind her.

Close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"You alright?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," she said, not turning around. "Just getting the fire started."

"Mm."

He didn't move away. Just stood there, close enough that if she leaned back even slightly, she'd be pressed against his chest.

She concentrated very hard on arranging the kindling just right.

Then she felt his hand -warm, calloused-brush against her lower back. Just a light touch, barely there, but deliberate.

Testing.

She went very still.

His hand settled more firmly at the small of her back, his palm warm through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

"Look at me," he said quietly.

She took a breath and turned.

He was right there, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Still in just his underwear, his hair mussed from sleep, the shadow of a beard already darkening his jaw.

And he was looking at her with an expression that was gentle but firm.

"We ain't gonna pretend last night didn't happen," he said.

"I wasn't-" she started.

"You're squirmin’," he said, and there was the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "You won't look at me. And you're actin’ like if you just focus hard enough on that fire, maybe I'll forget what you looked like with your hand wrapped around my-"

"Bucky!" she said quickly, her face flaming.

She couldn't believe he'd just said that. Out loud. In the plain light of morning.

The smile widened slightly. "See? That's what I'm talkin’ about."

She wanted to be annoyed with him. Wanted to tell him he was being inappropriate, that it was too early for this, that she needed coffee before she could handle whatever this conversation was going to be.

But she couldn't quite manage it. Not when he was looking at her like that. Not when his hand was still resting warm and steady against her back.

"I ain't ashamed of what we did," he said, his voice softer now. "And you shouldn't be either."

"I'm not ashamed," she said quietly. "I'm just... adjusting."

"To what?"

"To this. To-" She gestured vaguely between them. "Everything being different now."

He studied her face for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"Alright," he said. "You can adjust. But you ain't gonna pull away from me while you do it. Understand?"

She nodded.

"Say it."

"I understand."

"Good." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead -brief, affectionate-then stepped back. "Now finish with that fire so I can have some coffee before I leave."

----

By the time he'd finished dressing -work pants, shirt, suspenders back in place- she'd already set breakfast on the table. Biscuits left over from yesterday, warmed on the stove. Coffee, strong and hot. A bit of the bacon from the butcher, fried up quickly.

Simple, but more than he used to have before her.

They sat down across from each other, and she watched him take that first long drink of coffee with the same satisfaction he always showed. Like it was the best thing he'd tasted.

"I might see Larson today," he said, tearing off a piece of biscuit. "At the camp. He works intermittently, a few days loggin', a few days in his workshop doin' carpentry. If he's there, I'm gonna ask him to come by on Sunday."

She looked up. "Sunday?"

"For the kitchen," he said. "To take measurements, figure out what we need. Of all the things we talked about doin’ to the place, that seems the most urgent. You're in there every day, workin’ with basically nothin’."

She glanced toward the makeshift kitchen area: the rough shelves, the basin sitting on the counter -a large plank, really- the pantry that was just open shelving with no doors.

"What would you want?" he asked. "If you could have it set up however makes sense to you?"

She hesitated, hating how hard it still was to ask for things. Even practical things. Even from him, who'd never once made her feel foolish for needing something. But a lifetime of being told she was a burden didn't just disappear because she had a husband now. She made herself speak, "A cupboard. For dishes and cups. And… if we make a pantry, it would need doors. Some things do better in the dark, and it would keep the dust out."

He nodded. "Makes sense. What else?"

----

"A… proper work surface," she said. "Something I can use for rolling dough or cutting vegetables without everything crowding together."

"Alright."

She stopped there, and he could see her holding back.

"That's not everythin’," he said. "What else?"

"That's the most important," she said quickly.

"Didn't ask for the most important. I asked what else you need."

She looked down at her plate. "I don't want to... I know it's expensive, and-"

"Stop," he said gently but firmly. "This is about makin’ the kitchen work properly. Not some fancy whim. So tell me."

She took a breath. "Hooks. For pots and pans. And a shelf near the stove for things I use often."

"Done. What else?"

She bit her lip. "The basin is small. A larger one would really help, but-"

"But what?"

"There's no plumbing," she said. "So even with a bigger basin, I'd still have to carry the water out to empty it."

"Not necessarily," he said. "I saw somethin’ in town, a drainage pipe that runs through the wall. Empties outside into a gravel pit. Ain’t fancy, but it works."

Her eyes widened slightly. "That's... that would make things much easier."

"Then that's what we'll do." He took another drink of coffee. "Anythin’ else?"

She shook her head. "That's more than enough."

"Alright then." He finished the last of his biscuit. "So Sunday. Larson comes, takes measurements, and we tell him what you need.

She nodded, and he could see the mix of emotions on her face. Gratitude, excitement, and still that lingering guilt about asking for things.

She still didn't understand that she wasn't asking for charity. That making the kitchen functional wasn't some extravagance, it was basic sense. If she was going to be cooking every day or making preserves, she needed proper tools to do that. But she looked at every request like it might be the one that pushed him too far, made him regret taking her on.

He'd work on that.

----

He stood when he finished, draining the last of his coffee and setting the cup down.

"I should get goin’," he said, moving toward where his coat hung by the door.

She stood as well, crossing to the counter where she'd left his lunch pail ready. Her hand closed around the handle, and she turned to bring it to him, but his hand covered hers on the handle before she could lift it.

"So dutiful," he murmured close to her ear, and there was warmth in his voice. Affection mixed with something else.

Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to the spot just behind her ear.

The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a shiver down her spine.

She turned toward him instinctively -or maybe he turned her, his free hand coming to rest at her waist- and when she looked up to meet his eyes, his mouth was already descending on hers.

Not tentative, or asking permission.

His hand at her waist tightened, pulling her closer, and she felt the solid warmth of his body against hers. Felt the way he touched her differently now -more freely, more confidently- because there was almost nothing between them.

Just the thin cotton of her nightgown. No corset, no layers of propriety.

And he knew it. Could feel it in the way his hand moved over her, possessive and sure. Like the thin cotton was permission instead of a barrier. Like morning light didn't change what he'd claimed in the darkness.

His other hand left the lunch pail handle -she heard it thud softly as it hit the counter- and came up to cup the back of her head, angling her exactly as he wanted her.

The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that was already becoming familiar. Already something her body recognized and responded to.

Then she felt his hand slide from her waist lower -past her hip, past any pretense of propriety- and close firmly over her rear.

The shock of it made her gasp against his mouth.

Not because it hurt. Not because she wanted him to stop.

Because it was so direct. So possessive. His palm cupping her through the thin fabric, his fingers gripping her flesh as he pulled her flush against him.

She could feel him -hard against her stomach even through his work pants- and the knowledge of what that meant made heat flood through her. His hand on her bottom flexed, holding her in place against him, and she felt that same desperate wanting from last night start to build low in her belly.

Then, reluctantly, he pulled back.

Not far. Just enough to break the kiss, his temple brushed against hers while they both caught their breath.

"I really do have to go," he said, his voice rough.

"I know," she managed.

His hand on her rear flexed once more -a final possessive squeeze- then released. He stepped back, putting proper distance between them, and reached for the lunch pail.

"I'll be back after dark," he said, settling his coat over his shoulders. "Don't wait up if you're tired."

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

He looked at her for another moment -standing there in her nightgown, her lips swollen from his kiss, her hair still loose from sleep- and something hungry flickered across his face before he forced himself to look away.

Then he turned and walked out the door.

----

Sunday morning came, and she was nervous.

He'd noticed it the moment he'd woken up, the way she'd been quieter than usual over breakfast, the way her hands had moved restlessly while she tidied the cabin even though it was already spotless.

Now she was smoothing down her apron for the third time in as many minutes, her eyes flicking toward the door like Larson might burst through it at any second.

He crossed to her and caught her hand mid-smooth.

"Hey," he said quietly. "It's just Larson. He's seen worse than a logger’s cabin."

"I know," she said, but her voice was tight.

He studied her face. "You worried about your eyes? About what he'll think?"

She blinked, seeming surprised by the question. "What? No, I-"

She stopped, took a breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was different. Lower.

"I need to ask you something. And I know we just talked about the kitchen, and that's already so much, but-"

"What is it?"

She gestured toward her trunk in the corner. "My books. They're still in my carpetbag. I've been keeping them there because I don't have anywhere else to put them, but they're going to get damaged if they stay like that. The fabric doesn't protect them properly and-"

She stopped, clearly struggling, and he could see it, the way she was trying to make herself smaller.

"I was wondering if... if it wouldn't be too much trouble... maybe a shelf? Or even just a board with some supports? Somewhere I could set them so they're not-"

"Christ," he muttered, cutting her off.

The word came out harsher than he'd meant. He watched her flinch and felt like an ass immediately. She thought he was annoyed at her -at the request- when the truth was he was pissed at himself for not noticing sooner.

"No, I-," he said quickly. "I ain't... I'm cursin' myself, not you." He ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't even think about your books. You've had them stuffed in a bag this whole time and didn't say anythin'."

Books weren't cheap. He knew that much. And hers weren't just any books; they were teaching books, the tools of a trade she'd trained for. The things that proved she was educated. Worth something beyond what her eyes might suggest to small-minded folks.

And she'd been keeping them in a goddamn carpetbag because she didn't think she could ask for a shelf.

"I didn't want to be-"

"Don't." He caught her chin gently, making her look at him. "Don't say you don't wanna be a burden. Your books are important to you. And you should have told me weeks ago."

How many other things was she not telling him? How many needs was she swallowing down because she'd spent her whole life being told she was already taking up too much space?

"I'm telling you now," she said quietly.

"Yeah, you are." He released her chin and stepped back. "And yes, we're gettin’ you a shelf. A proper one. Not just a board."

A smile bloomed on her lips. "Thank you."

And there it was again, that look like he'd just given her the moon instead of agreeing to basic furniture. It made something twist in his chest. Made him want to find his bastard of a brother -again- and have a very direct conversation with him about making her feel like she had to earn the right to take up space.

"Stop thankin’ me for basic things," he mumbled, but there was no heat in it.

A knock at the door made them both turn.

Right. Larson.

Bucky crossed to the door and opened it.

The man standing on the porch was in his late forties, solid build, with the kind of hands that spoke of years working with wood. He had his hat in his hands and a leather satchel slung over one shoulder.

"Morning, Barnes," he said, nodding.

"Larson. Thanks for comin’ out." Bucky stepped aside. "Come in."

The carpenter entered, his eyes doing a quick sweep of the cabin -professional assessment, not judgment- before landing on her.

Bucky saw the moment Larson registered her eyes. The brief pause, the slight widening of his gaze. But to the man's credit, his expression smoothed out immediately and he just nodded politely.

"Ma'am," he said. "Pleasure to meet you."

She dipped her head in a small curtsy, her hands clasped in front of her. "Mr. Larson."

"Larson, this is my wife," Bucky said. "Sweetheart, this is Joseph Larson. Best carpenter in White Creek."

"One of the few carpenters in White Creek," Larson corrected with a slight smile. He set his hat on the table and swung the satchel off his shoulder. "So, Barnes. You mentioned needing work done on the kitchen?"

"Yeah." Bucky gestured toward the makeshift kitchen area. "The whole setup needs to be redone. Proper storage, work surface, the works."

Larson pulled out a measuring tape, a stubby pencil, and a small notebook from his satchel. He moved to the kitchen area and started looking around, taking in the rough shelves, the old basin, and the ‘pantry’.

"Alright," he said, flipping open the notebook. "Let's start with what you need. Storage first, cupboard for dishes?"

"Yes," Bucky said. "And the new pantry needs doors. Keeps things dark, keeps the dust out."

Larson made a note. "Solid doors or with some ventilation?"

Bucky looked at her, and she stepped forward hesitantly.

"Solid would be better," she said quietly. "For flour and sugar. And potatoes and onions last longer in the dark."

Larson nodded, writing that down. "Makes sense. Shelves inside?"

"Yes, please. Adjustable if possible."

"Can do." He moved to measure the pantry opening, then paused and looked at her. "What height works best for you, Mrs. Barnes? For the shelves and the work surface?"

She blinked, clearly not expecting to be asked directly.

Of course she wasn't expecting it. She'd probably never been asked what she wanted for anything, just told what was standard and expected to make do. Bucky watched her process the question, saw the moment she realized Larson actually wanted her input.

"I... What is the standard?"

"Standard doesn't matter if it doesn't work for you," Larson said pragmatically. "Come here, stand where you'd be working."

She moved to where the old plank sat propped on barrels, and Larson held his hand at different heights until she indicated what felt comfortable.

"About here," he said, making a mark in his notebook. "Good."

Bucky watched her relax slightly as Larson continued asking her practical questions, where she wanted the hooks for pots, how much shelf space she needed near the stove, and whether she preferred drawers or open shelving in certain spots.

The man was treating her like any other client. Professional. Respectful. Not staring, not pitying.

Good.

"And the counter," Bucky said after a few minutes. "We need somethin’ bigger than what's there now. A proper work surface."

Larson walked over to the plank-and-crate setup and looked at it for a long moment. Then he turned to Bucky with his eyebrows raised.

"Barnes," he said slowly. "This isn't a counter. This is a board sitting on two barrels."

Bucky felt heat creep up his neck.

Damn it. He knew how it looked, he wasn't an idiot. But he'd been making do with what he had, and a plank on barrels functioned as a counter.

Function had been good enough. Until it wasn't. Until she'd arrived and he'd seen how inadequate everything was for her to live there.

"I know that. I'm not that much of a backwoods fool. It's just... that's what I call it. The thing. Can you build a proper counter there or not?"

He heard the defensiveness in his own voice and tried to rein it in. The man wasn't judging, just stating facts. And the fact was, Bucky's setup was pathetic. He'd known it every time he watched her trying to make do with barely functional furniture and supplies that should've been replaced a long time ago.

The corner of Larson's mouth twitched. "Yeah, I can build a proper counter. With drawers underneath, a level surface, and an appropriate height. An actual counter."

"Good."

Larson measured the space and made more notes. "Pine or hardwood for the work surface? Pine's cheaper but won't hold up as well to cutting and heavy use. Maple or oak costs more but lasts."

Bucky looked at her again.

"Hardwood," she said, more confidently now. "If it's not too expensive. I'd rather have something that lasts."

"Hardwood it is," Larson said, writing it down. He moved to the wall. "And for the sink drainage… you want the pipe going through this wall here? Shortest run to the outside."

"That works," Bucky said.

"I'll need to cut through. Frame it properly so you don't get drafts."

"Fine."

Larson continued measuring, sketching rough diagrams in his notebook, and asking questions. After about twenty minutes, he stepped back and looked over his notes.

"Alright," he said. "Cupboard with doors, pantry with solid doors and adjustable shelves, proper counter with drawers, hooks for pots and pans, shelf by the stove, larger sink with drainage. "Should take me two to three weeks in the workshop, depending on how the joinery goes. Maybe less if my boy helps with the rough work."

"How much?" Bucky asked.

The carpenter did some quick calculations. "Materials and labor... forty-five dollars. That's with the hardwood counter."

Bucky nodded. It was fair. More than fair, actually, given the amount of work involved.

"Done," he said. "When can you start?"

"I'll order the wood tomorrow, and should have it by Wednesday. Start building Thursday." Larson closed his notebook and put it back in his satchel. "I'll send word when I'm ready to install."

"Appreciated."

Bucky paused, thinking.

The books. She'd asked for a shelf, but that wasn't enough. A shelf meant stacking them like firewood, pulling them out whenever she wanted to read. She deserved more than that.

"The things you've got finished in the workshop… you have any small tables that might work against that wall?"

He gestured toward the space between the window and the door.

Larson tilted his head, considering. "What kind of table? Side table, work table?"

Bucky glanced at her for a moment, then back at Larson. "Somethin’ she could use for... writin’ if she wants. Letters, or to set books on for readin’."

He felt her gaze snap to him, surprised, but kept his attention on the carpenter.

"The kitchen table tends to be clean, but there's always residue," he continued, trying to explain it in a way that made sense. "Grease, flour dust. I'd like somethin’ where she can set papers down without worryin’ if I left a mess. Somethin’ for her things."

She needed a space that was hers. Not the kitchen, where she worked. Not the bed, where they- where other things happened. Somewhere she could just be. Read her books, write letters if she wanted, exist without having to be useful or accommodating or anything other than herself.

"A writing desk, then," Larson said, nodding slowly. "Or close to it."

"Yeah. That."

Larson scratched his jaw. "I've got a small table. Walnut, actually. Nice piece. Fellow ordered it for his parlor but changed his mind halfway through, wanted something fancier. It's simple but well-made. Drawer in the front, smooth top. About this high." He held his hand at roughly waist height.

"That work?" Bucky asked, turning to look at her directly now.

She nodded, her eyes still wide with surprise. "Yes. That sounds perfect."

Good. He'd guessed right, then. The walnut would be nicer than pine, more substantial. And if some fancy townsman had changed his mind about it, that meant Bucky could get a quality piece for less than it was worth.

Win all around.

"It's already finished, just needs a polish," Larson said. "I can bring it when I come to install the kitchen."

"Good. Add it to the total."

"Will do." Larson made another note in his book, picked up his hat, and settled it on his head. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

"Almost forgot," he said, his voice carefully casual. "Picked this up in town for you as you asked."

He handed it out to Bucky.

Finally. He had started to think it might not come in at all, that he'd have to think of something else. He took it, feeling the small weight of it through the fabric. "Thanks. I owe you."

"Don't mention it." Larson tipped his hat to her. "Mrs. Barnes. Pleasure meeting you."

"You too, Mr. Larson," she said quietly.

"Barnes." He nodded to Bucky and headed for the door.

----

A writing desk. Just for her.

It hadn't even occurred to her to ask for something like that, wouldn't have dreamed of it, honestly. She was fine with the shelf. A simple thing where her books could sit upright instead of crammed in her carpetbag.

But a table. A place where she could write letters or read without worrying about stains getting on the pages. A space that was hers.

She felt her chest warm. He'd thought of it. Not because she'd asked, but because he'd noticed she might need it.

The door shut, and she turned and crossed to him without thinking, her arms going around his waist before he'd even fully turned around.

"Thank you," she said against his chest, her voice muffled by his shirt.

She felt him go still for a moment -surprised, maybe- then his hands came up to rest on her back.

"For what?" he asked, though his tone suggested he knew.

"The desk." She pulled back just enough to look up at him. "It's something I'd thought about. But much further down the line, not now when everything is..."

She gestured vaguely at the cabin around them, the kitchen exploded across half the space, the enormous curtain dividing the bed from the rest of the living area.

"Not now," she finished quietly.

His hands stayed on her back, steady and warm.

"You deserve it now," he said simply. "Not later."

After a pause, he cleared his throat and slid one hand from her back down to her waist while the other reached into his shirt pocket.

When he pulled it out, he was holding the small bundle wrapped in cloth.

He unwrapped it clumsily but carefully, the fabric falling away to reveal a ring. Simple silver band with a subtle braided pattern running around the edges.

"I… asked Larson to pick it up in town," he said, and there was an edge of self-consciousness on him. Like he wasn't entirely sure how this was supposed to go. "Ordered that day, we went to town together, and took a few weeks to come in."

She stared at the ring, her throat tight.

She'd assumed there wouldn't be one. Or if there was, it would be something makeshift, a piece of wire bent into shape, maybe. Plenty of frontier marriages made do without.

But he'd ordered one. Had it been brought in specially.

"I know it ain’t much," he said, still not quite meeting her eyes. "But-"

She looked up at him, and whatever he saw in her expression made him pause.

"It's perfect," she managed.

He exhaled, something like relief crossing his face. Then he reached for her left hand -still pressed against his back- and held it carefully.

His fingers were rough, callused from years of work, but his touch was gentle as he slid the ring onto her finger.

It fit. Not perfectly, but close enough that it wouldn't slip off easily.

She stared down at it, the silver catching the light from the window. Such a small thing. But it changed everything, somehow. Made it feel real in a way the words in front of the reverend hadn't quite managed.

"Good?" he asked quietly, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

His hand tightened around hers for just a moment -a brief squeeze- before he let go.

She bit her lip, then caught his hand again before he could pull it away completely.

He looked at her, a question in his eyes.

"I know this wasn't..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "I know the circumstances weren't what either of us would have chosen. But I'm glad it was you."

His expression shifted, something softer than usual, almost tender, before he looked away.

"You didn't have to offer," she continued, her thumb brushing over his knuckles the way he had brushed over hers a moment ago. "You could have let the sheriff sort it out, or- or just walked away. But you didn't. You took responsibility when you didn't have to."

"Wasn't gonna leave you to deal with that alone," he said quietly.

"I know." She took a breath. "And everything you promised me that day, before we married, that you'd treat me well, that you wouldn't use... this-" she gestured vaguely between them, meaning the marriage, the power imbalance, all of it, "to make my life miserable. You've kept your word. You treat me well. I feel safe with you. I just wanted you to know that," she finished softly. "That I'm grateful. And that I think, despite how it all happened, I'm fortunate it's you I'm married to."

For a moment, he didn't say anything, just looked at her. His jaw clenched, and his hand flexed around hers. Small movements, but she'd learned to read them. He was affected, even if he was trying not to show it.

Then he lifted his other hand and cupped the side of her face, brushing his thumb along her cheek.

"I'm grateful it's you, sweet girl," he said quietly, his voice a little rougher than usual. "That it's you I get to come home to."

Something warm and overwhelming bloomed in her chest at the tenderness in his voice, the way he was looking at her.

Then he leaned down and kissed her, slow and deliberate, his hand still cradling her face like she was something precious.

----

He pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against hers, breathing her in. The faint scent of soap and woodsmoke clung to her hair. The warmth of her skin under his palm.

I feel safe with you.

Those words had hit harder than he'd expected.

He'd seen the uneasiness in her eyes that first day at the lumber post, standing there with her trunk and carpetbag, realizing she'd been brought to the wrong -or right- place entirely. Had seen the way she'd braced herself when he'd offered marriage, like she was expecting conditions. Expectations she'd have to meet or else.

And now she felt safe.

With him.

It wasn't something he'd thought about before, what it meant for someone to feel that way around him. He'd always just been... himself. Did his work, kept his word, and didn't cause trouble unless they came looking for him first.

But hearing her say it…

He'd married her because it was the right thing to do. Because leaving her to face the consequences of something that wasn't her fault would've been wrong.

And that was true.

But he'd be lying to himself if he said that was the only reason.

They'd put up that sign -him and the other men- because they'd wanted wives. He'd wanted a wife. Someone to build a life with out here.

And when she'd knocked on that battered door, when she'd looked at him with those mismatched eyes and tried to make sense of where she'd ended up-

He'd known.

Not in some romantic, lightning-strike way. Just... known. The way a man knows when a trail is safe to walk. A certainty in his gut.

The right thing to do had just made it easier to do what he'd wanted anyway.

Standing here now, with her hand still holding his and the ring he'd chosen on her finger -hearing her say she was grateful, that she felt fortunate-

He wanted to be the kind of husband she deserved.

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