When he was fifteen, before powers and villains, he had a dream. A dream in which he married her.
He can't remember much about it. A few images, a few sounds. Like the scattered cheers of their few friends. Like her bright smile.
He couldn't remember much, but as soon as he saw her, he looked away.
Now, he's twenty-one. And he's done dreaming. He's done looking away.
He doesn't dream about marrying her; it's their reality. And just like that dream, that fleeting, inconceivable dream from six years ago, he is standing in front of the same smiling girl. But instead of a few friends, they are surrounded by loud screams of congratulations by more people than they could have even imagined, more than they could have ever hoped for. And instead of waking up, he holds her face-cheeks warm with blood, skin soft with happiness-in his hands, and he whispers those three little words.
And it's not a dream come true. It couldn't be. Because this…this is better than anything his could mind could conjure up.