She loves him when he is smoothed and shorn. When his watch fob shines. He always keeps his cane polished to gleaming. His waistcoat crisp, buttons polished. His bowler hat immaculate. He cuts a distinguished figure, her husband, beautiful in his finery.
She loves him the most when he is disheveled and rough. When stubble shadows his face, sleep pulls at his eyelids. In the winter, with a shirt and the summer without. Their peace is shadowed; she is still only out on bail. She can't shake her fear, but is determined to cherish whatever time they have together.
She has missed his voice, thick with slumber, missed the way he hooks his arm around her waist, pulls her flush to him and hums into her hair. He is everything to her in those moments, stripped down, hair mussed, a contented smile on his face. She loves when he is himself unadulterated and without ornament.