A lover.
A wife.
Someone he came home to because he wanted to—not because he had to.
I imagined quiet mornings tangled in sheets, soft laughter and slower moments, kisses that lingered and deepened without urgency.
Evenings where we talked—really talked—about everything we had buried for so long.
Our fears. Our dreams. Our scars.
I pictured him in the kitchen on a Sunday morning, attempting breakfast with more determination than skill—burnt edges, a mess left behind—but all of it done with intention, just to see me smile.
I imagined him taking my hand in public without hesitation, without calculation or restraint—open, certain, real.
Looking at me from across a crowded room and letting the world see exactly who I was to him.
His wife. His equal.
His everything.
“The world could fall apart, and I’d still be the luckiest man alive—because you’re here.”
The words were quiet, but they carried weight.
“I swear on everything I am... on our son... on every breath I take from this moment forward, I will never cause you pain again. I’ll be the husband you deserved from the beginning—the father our son deserves.”
His hold on me tightened, just slightly—not possessive, but protective.
“I’ll protect you both, cherish you both... love you both. Every single day.”
For a moment, I didn’t speak.
Didn’t move. Just listened.
Just felt.
The warmth of his arms around me.
The quiet strength of his presence holding me together in a way I hadn’t known I needed.
Then I smiled.
Small. Tired.
But real.
I leaned a little closer into him, letting my fingers rest lightly against his chest.
And in the quiet of the backseat—
With his arms around me,
The faint scent of leather and him wrapping around me like a shield—I let myself imagine what might come.
Not a perfect happiness. Not effortless.
But a fragile kind.
