He stepped through the door cautiously, as if waiting for permission. Ever the poor seam boy, the notion that these pristine, red-brick homes were reserved for blonde haired, blue eyed merchants that walked around casually, bouncing on their heels, as if without a care in the world was so deeply ingrained into his personality that it had almost become an aspect of it. Old habits die hard he guessed and he's done it before. Once upon a time underneath a haze of ignorance, he hated each and every merchant. Now he's married to one.
He hears the snort of his brand new wife and whereas usually he would give her that amused smirk and they would do things that her father definitely would not approve of, now his grey eyes inspect each surface, searching for a crack, a smudge of black not left by his own hand, a chip in the flawless plaster. A sense of normality - an imperfection to make it feel less like an untouchable mansion and more like a home.