I'll leave it up to you to decide his identity. :)


Husband, she thinks. I have a husband.

She turns and looks at him, lying sprawled next to her in the smooth sheets, dead to the world. His bright hair spills over his forehead, dishevelled from their revelry. The bed is weighted unfamiliarly; she has a man in her bed, and it is the oddest thing. Comforting and yet thrilling in a new way – nothing like the rush of danger that licked down her spine during her childish forays into mortal peril. This is a quiet thrill, simmering at the base of her spine, like a crouched tiger waiting for the opportune moment. And it's made that much sweeter by the certainty that he feels it in return.

Those heady moments when they come together are something out of this world. But the way she is now, lying with him in their brand-new bed, in the silence between satisfaction and anticipation, is another kind of fulfilment in itself.

This because she isn't looking into those drawing eyes, falling until she feels she has lost herself – she isn't drowning in his touch, or submerged in the rushing words which fall from his lips –

And yet. She still feels that he is one with her, in her; and she has given herself to him irrevocably.

My husband, she whispers, and the words are sweet on her tongue.