She’s so at home here now—barefoot in the kitchen, robe tied loosely, her hair tangled and beautiful in the morning sun. Sometimes she catches me watching and smiles, the kind that makes my chest ache with something I barely know how to name. Every day she grows a little more radiant, her belly rounding, her eyes brighter.
I’m obsessed, and I don’t care who knows it. Marriage has changed nothing and everything; my hunger for her is steadier, deeper, rooted in a promise no one can break.
There are days I follow her from room to room, not out of suspicion but out of awe. She fusses over bookshelves, opens windows to let in the spring air, pauses to rest with a hand at her back.
Sometimes she calls me to feel the baby move—her fingers guiding mine, her voice soft with wonder. It is a slow, perfect undoing.
The walls inside me, the ones built by decades of violence and betrayal, begin to shift. I speak to her more openly now.
Over tea, after dinner, when we’re curled on the couch and the city glows at our windows. I tell her things I’ve never told another soul—the games my father played to keep us afraid, the lessons I learned with blood on my hands, the dreams I had of running away and never looking back.
Eden listens, truly listens, never judging, never recoiling. Sometimes she cries for me, silent tears she tries to hide, but I see them anyway.
More often, she touches my face, cups my jaw, her thumb tracing the line of my cheek. That simple gesture can unravel me faster than any threat. I lean into her touch, letting her anchor me, letting the bond between us tighten in ways I never thought possible.
She gives me honesty in return. She tells me about her own childhood—lonely, rootless, always on the outside looking in. About the people who let her down, the times she had to fight for herself, the cost of never feeling safe. She tells me how that all changed when I let her into my world, when I showed her what devotion looks like.
One night, I find her in the nursery. She’s sorting tiny clothes, folding each piece with a care that makes my throat tighten. I stand in the doorway, just watching her, unable to move. She looks up, catching me in the act, and smiles.
“Are you going to hover over me until the baby’s born?” she teases, but there’s no edge to her voice. It’s all warmth.
“Probably longer,” I admit. I cross the room, slip my arms around her from behind, and press my face into her shoulder. I breathe her in, letting the scent of her—clean skin, something floral and soft—calm whatever remains of my old rage.
“Does it scare you?” she asks quietly, her hands coming to rest over mine.
“Not anymore,” I tell her. “You’re the only thing that doesn’t scare me.”
She turns, searching my eyes for the truth. I let her see it all: the hope, the hunger, the vow that nothing will ever touch her again. She rises up on her toes, kisses me, and for a moment, I let myself want the softness she offers. I let myself hope.
At night, after the apartment falls silent, I hold her close, my hand over her stomach, her heartbeat a steady drum againstmy chest. She falls asleep before I do, always trusting, always safe. I stay awake, keeping watch, letting the new shape of my life settle in.
I am a weapon, sharpened by years of violence, but now I am a shield as well. And every breath I take, every plan I make, is for her—my wife, my home, my future. Eden grounds me. She softens me in the ways I need and steels me where it matters most. Our child will never know the fear that haunted me. That is my promise.
For the first time in my life, I let myself believe that peace might last.
If it doesn’t—if the world tries to take what I love again—I’ll be ready. This time, I fight not for power, but for love.
***
Evening seeps into the apartment in shades of amber and rose, washing the living room with a warmth that makes everything feel softer, safer. Eden sits cross-legged on the rug, sorting through a stack of baby books, her brow furrowed in concentration and amusement. The sight tugs at something deep inside me—a part of myself that never had any use for softness, but now craves it almost desperately.
I watch her from the doorway, letting the domestic scene sink into my bones. Every sound is familiar: the low murmur of her voice when she finds something funny, the rustle of pages, the distant clink of dishes from the kitchen.
My world, once all sharp edges and shadows, has found its center in this space, in this woman. Eden—my wife. The word settles inside me with a gravity that nothing else has ever held.
I cross the room quietly, drawn to her the way a moth is drawn to a flame. As I pass behind her, I let my fingerstrail lightly across her shoulder, savoring the shiver that races through her body.
She tilts her head, exposing the pale line of her neck in a silent invitation. I bend down, letting my lips brush the skin there, slow and deliberate. She laughs—a sound that is half delight, half warning.
“Careful,” she says, glancing up at me through dark lashes. “You’ll distract me.”
“That’s the point.” My voice is rougher than I intend, thick with longing and something deeper. I press a kiss to the soft spot just below her ear, linger there until she sighs, her whole body melting against me for a moment before she pulls away, teasing.
She stands, smoothing her skirt, and gives me a look that’s all challenge. “You’re hovering again, Simon.”
“I like watching you,” I admit without shame. “Especially when you’re happy.”
She steps closer, crowding into my space until I have no choice but to wrap my arms around her. She presses her hands to my chest, feeling the rapid beat of my heart. “I am happy,” she says, voice low, the words meant just for me. “You make it easy.”
