Married life, for all the horror stories her mother had told her over the years, had thus far proven to be far more sublime than Imelda might have imagined. Admittedly, she had little experience — only a few months under her belt as of yet, and those had seemed to fly past in the blink of an eye — but the way she saw it, if things were going to take a sudden turn and run into disaster, they would have by now. Failure often showed traces of itself far before it ever came to fruition (yet another helpful piece of advice her mother was fond of doling out whenever the opportunity arose.) And it couldn't have been more obvious that Imelda was the type to keep a watchful, hawklike eye out for that very thing. So determined was she to find little faults wherever she could and stamp them out as quickly as possible — in her mind, tangible problems, real ones, logical things that you could squash like a bug beneath your heel were easy to manage — that sometimes, she almost found herself fearing she was turning into her mother.

What a tyrant that woman had been. Well-meaning at the end of the day, yes, but so severe. So serious. Imelda would be hard-pressed to remember a time she'd ever seen her mother truly smile — a real one, not a wry, barely-there quirk of the lips more born from a grim amusement than any genuine happiness that usually graced her madre's sharp, angular features. Introducing Héctor had been the most anxiety-ridden day of her life, as far as she could tell. She'd almost been worried that Madre would not approve — their personalities clashed too much, him with his impulsiveness, his devil-may-care attitude . . . it was a wonder Madre hadn't concluded right then and there that such a man would only bring chaos into their family, and forbidden Imelda to have anything more to do with him.

She supposed she couldn't blame her mother for her protectiveness. Imelda's father had died when she was very young, taken away by a terrible sickness that had taken her uncle later that year, as well. Ever since then, Madre had kept her well-guarded. They were all each other had left in the world, and growing up with such an independent woman had toughened up Imelda considerably, as well. She liked to think that she wouldn't ever be that way, would never let the troubles of the past harden her heart into stone, but she had to admit she could see the merit in building up those walls. Nothing could ever hurt you, it seemed, if you did your best to keep it all out. There had been a meanness about her mother, true, but time and circumstances had put it there. Could there ever be a time, too, where Imelda was pushed to the same extent . . . ?

No, she told herself firmly. Just as her mother had taught her important life lessons, Héctor — whether he knew it or not, and he likely didn't — had, as well. He'd stumbled into her life (in the most literal sense: drunk as a fool, practically falling out of the doors of some crowded cantina one night and running right into her as she'd been headed home from the marketplace) quite by accident, and just as accidentally, he had drawn out of her some strange recklessness. Her mother had taught her to be polite, be ladylike, keep her head bowed and show deference to those around her; Héctor had, through his own roundabout devices, taught her to throw out her arms and laugh into the evening air for no other reason than to simply laugh. She'd never lived like that before, never acted without taking too long to deliberate over every tiny decision, and here he was, this man, guiding her along the way to a lifetime of "just because" and "don't worry" and "crossing that bridge when we get to it."

What sort of spell had he put over her, to make her unravel this way? And why did she delight in it so much? She supposed the little golden band around her finger could only reveal those secrets, and it would be some time before an inanimate object would start to talk. (Although, being around Héctor so much, she wouldn't be surprised if he one day popped into their little cottage and tried to convince her that it could.)

This was the mental image that brought a smile, lazy and contemplative, to her face as she lay relaxed in their shared bed on one important night in particular, her eyes still drawn almost magnetically to her wedding ring. Such a minuscule thing, seemingly so unimportant in the grand scheme of things, and yet, it spoke volumes to her. Sighing contentedly, she watched it throw off a delicate shine where it caught the light of the candle burning atop her bedside drawer, almost ashamed of herself for paying such rapt attention to material possessions. It was entirely vain of her, she knew . . . but everyone had their little indulgences every now and then. In any case, it served as a welcome distraction — there was something far bigger weighing on her mind tonight, and she knew if she thought about it too much, she would lose her nerve and become unable to voice it aloud when Héctor did return home for the night.

Imelda had a secret. So far, it was one that had stayed only within her own heart; she hadn't dared tell a soul yet, not even — especially not — her mother. No, the first to know had to be Héctor. She couldn't promise herself that he wouldn't be shocked or even fearful (he had never been the type who dealt with change particularly well) but at the very least, deep down, she knew he would be understanding, accepting. She couldn't picture him reacting any other way — after the initial surprise of the moment died down, anyway. He simply wasn't the sort who was prone to packing up and leaving when a situation got to be too much. For all his flaws (and there were many — Imelda had not married blindly) he had a keen sense of loyalty. As slippery as he could sometimes seem on the outside, when he really did choose someone or something, he remained devoted to it forever. He had pursued Imelda as faithfully as his music, two passions in one, and she'd never doubted for a moment that his feelings were genuine.

Still . . . there was an unpredictability to him, as well. He was nothing if not an energetic soul, constantly searching for the wonders that life and the world around him could give. He wasn't exactly ambitious — not in the same way as his longtime friend and fellow musician, Ernesto de la Cruz — but he never did seem entirely content with simply sitting idly by and watching from the sidelines while everyone else had the times of their lives. Perhaps it would be most accurate to say he sought adventure . . . but he never did so alone. Ever since they'd met, he'd wanted her by his side in all things; and certainly, she'd have to be a fool not to appreciate such a thing. It made her feel almost guilty for the twinge of doubt that kept tugging at the center of her chest. He'd never given her reason to believe that she ought to be nervous right now, but . . . well, knowing him as well as she did, knowing his tendency to flake under pressure . . .

Imelda was saved from having to finish that thought by the sound of the door to the bedroom creaking softly open. Feeling as though someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water down her throat and let it spread into her stomach, she looked up, doing her best to appear outwardly calm as she stared at the sliver of light creeping into the room and watching a set of long legs stride through. The guitar soon followed — that ridiculous-looking thing, she couldn't help but think affectionately, a smile touching her lips at the sight of its all-too-familiar decorations — and soon enough, Héctor Rivera himself was fully visible. He looked particularly tired this evening, and for good reason; he and Ernesto had been playing all night, hired to work a gig at a local restaurant that needed entertainment for a private birthday party. In spite of her anxiety, Imelda couldn't help but feel sorry for her husband; as much talent as he possessed, only to be relegated to playing at birthday parties . . . it was an injustice. His voice, his songs, they ought to be shared with the world. ("They are," he'd said once, when she'd voiced this view to him. "I share them with my world." And he'd leaned in to kiss her, full on the mouth. That charmer.)

Well, seeing as he's so exhausted tonight, she thought desperately, perhaps this conversation can wait. I can save it for the morning. No sense in worrying him now when —

"What's troubling you, mi amor?"

Damn.

At this, Imelda glanced upwards, meeting his gaze at last — oh, would she ever not melt under those eyes? — and doing her best to maintain an air of complete innocence. Of all days, he'd certainly picked the wrong one to become suddenly so perceptive. Distractedly, she reached around and pulled her braid of thick, dark hair over her shoulder, her fingers playing with the ends. Still, for all her fidgets, she did the best she could to hold his gaze. Knowing him, he'd likely see through her in a minute, but that didn't mean she couldn't try.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she replied, finally finding her voice (and thanking every deity imaginable that she sounded much braver than she felt.) "Who says anything is troubling me? Why — have you done something that should be troubling me?" As if to punctuate her sentence, she quirked a dark eyebrow and folded her arms resolutely across her chest, her pulse hammering a wild beat against the flowery fabric of her nightgown.

Now it was Héctor's turn to appear flustered. "Wha — no! Dios mío, you and your accusations. If you hadn't married me, I'd almost think you have it out for me." In spite of his exasperated tone, there was an underlying playfulness that was quite easy to hear woven through every syllable. There was no genuine frustration in his voice or on his face, just as Imelda's heart truly hadn't been in the suspicion that she'd thrown his way. This was, more or less, typical of them; it was one way out of many that Héctor had discovered that could get her to joke around, and he liked to utilize it as often as possible. "Now," he said again, this time an easy, lopsided smile making its way onto his features, "can we try again? What is wrong? And don't try to tell me 'nothing;' I know you better than you think I do, you know."

In the silence that followed, Imelda shifted slightly in bed, whether to buy herself time or simply because the quiet between them intimidated her, she couldn't say. She simply watched as Héctor crossed the room, shrugging his guitar off his shoulder and propping it lovingly against the far corner of the wall. Even in the dim lighting of their bedroom, it was easy to admire the intricate details on the back of his costume — she'd made it herself, slaved over it for hours, knowing that it would never be as nice as the richer, more successful performers', but wanting him to have the best, always. As he turned his back to her and worked at the buttons of his jacket, she focused instead on studying those patterns that she already knew by heart. Only when he had wriggled out of it and tossed it (with much less grace than he'd handled his beloved instrument) onto a nearby chair did she draw a deep breath and prepare herself to speak. No more distractions left.

"Did you mean it when you told me that nothing could separate us?" Imelda found herself saying at long last. It was the most vulnerable thing she'd ever asked — she'd practically had to tear the words from her throat, stubborn as they were. She found she could only bring herself to stare at her hands, which she kneaded restlessly in her lap, as she added, "Not your dreams, or my worries . . . not anything?"

Perhaps he picked up on the the slightest tremor in her voice, even in spite of her best efforts to disguise it, because Héctor's reaction to her words was almost immediate. Even through the fabric of his shirt, she could see the lean muscles in his back tense up in momentary surprise; without another second's hesitation, he spun around to face her, eyes wide in an expression of mingled confusion and, she realized guiltily, hurt. He took a few tentative steps towards the bed, moving almost as if he were trying not to frighten away a startled animal, and eventually reached out to twine his fingers through hers.

"Of course I meant it," he reassured her at last, and the tense cord of anxiety knotting itself through the pit of her stomach untangled itself at last, expelling a sigh of relief from between her lips. Watching her carefully, Héctor sank down onto the edge of the bed, propping one leg up on the mattress and letting the other dangle off the side, never releasing his grip on her hand. His gaze was so comforting — Imelda had never known before that a pair of eyes could be so warm, so inviting, like coming home and curling up in a favorite, well-worn blanket — that she couldn't help but scoot closer to him, finding consolation in the simple knowledge that his body was that much nearer to hers. "I'm a musician, not an actor. And that's not even mentioning that you would have me figured out in a heartbeat if that were true."

The softest laugh escaped him, and as Héctor brushed teasingly against her shoulder, Imelda couldn't help but return the gesture with a quiet chuckle of her own, offering his hand a gentle squeeze. "I know," she admitted, and she had to laugh again — it really was quite silly, the idea that her husband could keep any secrets from her. There wasn't a manipulative bone in Héctor Rivera's body. "I thought I did have you figured out, at first. You remember? When we met? I thought you were nothing more than a no-good charlatan." This time, both of them laughed in unison, and after pressing an affectionate kiss to his cheek, she added, "I should have known then what sort of trouble you were going to get me into."

"And I can think of no one better to lead down the path of sin and vice than you, querida," he joked in return. Though the smile stayed put — as much a permanent fixture of his face as his eyes or nose — his tone of voice softened noticeably as he added, a touch more serious than before, "Is there any reason why you're doubting that? If — if there's anything I've done — "

"No," Imelda cut in firmly, if only because it broke her heart to see him like this, so unguarded, searching for answers, his nervousness only exacerbated by the fact that she couldn't keep her own worries in check. "No, it's nothing you have done at all. And it isn't so much that I have doubts, it's simply . . . " her voice trailed off, unable to find a word to accurately describe the tumult of emotion brewing inside her. Rather than speak, for a few moments she instead chose to remove her hand from Héctor's, raising it to gingerly stroke the sharp line of his cheekbone, feeling the scratch of just-beginning stubble against her fingers. "I wanted to make sure, I suppose," she concluded at last, finding it easier to make direct eye contact with him the more she spoke. "Sometimes I still feel as if all this has only been a wonderful dream. And any minute now, I might wake up. And you might be gone."

A smile returned to Héctor's face, this time as it's own rueful ghost. "You think you're the one who feels like they're dreaming? It sounds like you're finally getting a taste of what I have felt from the moment I met you," he said, in a voice so astonishingly sincere, so free from his usual teasing and cleverness, that at first, Imelda didn't quite know how to process it.

With a snort of laughter, she replied, "You were drunk the moment you met me."

"Eh, details! Imelda," he sighed, a note of playful impatience in his voice as he leaned closer and pressed his forehead against hers. "Sol de mi vida. I would greatly appreciate it if you would just let me fawn over you, huh? For just one little second? No overanalyzing required?"

"Well," she answered, her mouth curving into a smile as she rolled her eyes and leaned closer, "since you did ask so nicely . . . "

Scarcely had the last syllable left her parted lips than did Héctor reel her in for a kiss, soft but lingering. One of the most interesting things about her husband, Imelda noticed in the moment, was the way he used his hands. They were always restless, surely an after-effect of his playing the guitar, but even so, they were purposeful. His touch was skilled and feather-light as it glided from the smoothness of her hair to the curve of her neck, then her shoulders, finishing at her waist. It really was as if he thought he was dreaming, she realized; he was being so tactile, determined to find concrete proof that this was all real, that she wouldn't simply vanish in a sudden puff of smoke under his touch.

"There," said Imelda when she pulled away at last, smirking ever so slightly at the fleeting look of disappointment that crossed his features. "You got it — your one second, and then some."

Laughing in spite of himself, Héctor reached to brush a lock of flyaway hair from her face and replied, "I forgot you take things so literally. Come on — just a few more seconds? Un poco más?"

"Later," she found herself promising, shaking her head and giving him a playful nudge to the ribcage. Honestly, the way he could make her lose track of things so quickly! It was a wonder that her head remained on her shoulders at all these days. And how could she not completely lose herself whenever he was around? His dark hair, tousled and unruly as ever, those big, friendly eyes, that crooked smile — he was certainly the type that could draw a person in. "Right now, I have to tell you something. Something important."

Recognizing the seriousness of these words, the smile vanished from her husband's face. It was bizarre, seeing him so somber; if anything, it only made her all the more nervous. In the brief, somewhat ominous pause that followed her words, he took the time to shift completely onto the bed, kicking off his shoes and curling up a bit closer to her. "I'm listening, mi amor," he breathed, in a voice barely above a whisper, a voice she'd only ever heard him use rarely — one she knew he saved for her, for occasions just like this. "What is it?"

Well, this was it. If there were ever a time for her to gain enough courage to say what she had to say, this would be it. How strange this feeling was — usually, she marked herself a fairly confident woman, never one to hold back or mince words, not even with her husband. (Actually, out of anyone in all the world, Héctor was probably the one who had seen the worst of it, poor thing.) How to begin? The gravity of such a thing made it difficult for her to gather her thoughts together; to stall for time, she drew in a deep breath, leaning her head gingerly against his shoulder. Somehow, just the sensation of having him close to her was enough to act as a healing balm for all those nervous thoughts buzzing around in her brain. Everything would be fine . . . it had to be.

"Héctor . . . how would you feel if I told you that you were going to be a father?"

Imelda could practically feel him freeze beside her. And this was what she had anticipated, this was where it all went downhill — this was the part where he left her, right? Just like she'd always feared? Was this the part where she woke up? Feeling panic rise like bile in the back of her throat, she lifted her head from his shoulder and turned her gaze directly to his, terrified of what she would find when she looked there. And what she found was — blessedly — not fear, but something closer to, dare she even think it, acceptance? Was she imagining it, or was that glint in his eyes one of barely-restrained joy, the very same sort of happiness she usually saw in him when he played his guitar? Did she dare let her guard down and hope for the best?

"What?" he gasped, in a voice so quiet that his tone was nearly impossible to read. Usually, Héctor was an open book, with her in particular. It was unnerving to say the least to be unable to glean any sort of idea of what he might be feeling from his body language. "You mean that? I mean — you aren't joking with me?"

Almost numbly, Imelda shook her head. "No," she said. "No, it's true. I — I am going to have a baby, querido."

Yet again, he had hardly let her complete her sentence before he let out a half-strangled cry of glee, scooping her into a tight embrace. Héctor had never been a man who experienced emotions on a quiet scale; whatever he felt, he felt loudly, and this case was no exception. Of course, such a display of happiness was more than welcome from Imelda's perspective; she was certainly grateful for the chance to finally put those fears to rest. No, of course he would never leave her, of course not, he wouldn't think of it, especially now that they had a family of their own to think about. Gently, he rocked her back and forth in his arms, face pressed against the crook of her shoulder — he was mumbling something, more charming sweet nothings, she supposed, but they were muffled against her clothing and difficult to hear. Heart swelling with a sudden burst of affection, she leaned into the hug and traced her fingers softly up and down his spine, savoring this moment of togetherness from a man who was so constantly on the move, so hard to contain.

"I don't believe it," he said when he pulled back from the embrace at last, as breathless as if he'd run for hours without stopping. "Me — a father! You — you're going to be a mother! The two of us — can you imagine — us, as parents!" And here he was, showering kisses upon her once more, raining them, light and soft, onto her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her jawline. "A real family. You, me, and a baby."

Imelda allowed herself an awkward, gasping sort of laugh, blinking away a sudden surge of tears that threatened to spill over. Beaming, practically shaking with relief and joy of her own — happiness that her worries hadn't yet permitted her to properly feel — she asked, "You are happy, then? Say it again, I don't think I caught it the first time."

"Of course I'm happy!" he cried right out of the gate, not catching her sarcasm. Pulling her closer yet again, he murmured more softly, more seriously, "Of course. Was — was that really what you were so nervous about? Did you really think I would be anything less than over the moon about it?"

This time, it was Imelda's turn to sigh. She shook her head, stroking her fingers lovingly through his hair. "Of course not," she said. "Not really. I just . . . need to know that you will be here to help me. I cannot provide for this child alone, Héctor. Our baby will need you as much as me. We're lost unless we do this together, do you understand that? You — I know you love music more than anything. If this keeps you from playing . . . "

"I don't love music more than anything." He searched her gaze for a moment before reaching, tentatively at first, to take her face in his hands. "Not more than you." A smile found its way back onto his features, teasing as ever, and he added, "My songs don't kiss nearly as well as you do. I'd get lonely after a while, I'm afraid." It was a jab more to lighten the mood than anything else, and Imelda appreciated his effort; she laughed, giving him a playful smack on the shoulder. After a moment, though, he grew more serious once again and, giving her a quick peck on the cheek, added, "I do love you, you know. As long as you'll have me, I'm here."

"And you'll never leave me?"

"Never," he whispered, punctuating his sentence with another slow kiss. "Not ever."