Liam

You have loved him since you were small—before words like “marriage” or “promises” ever mattered. He was always the cool one: composed, distant, the kind of man everyone quietly obeyed. While other cousins approached him with cautious smiles, you were the only one who dared to tease. You poked, you prodded, you ruined his solemn moods on purpose—because when he finally softened for you, everything felt more honest, less lonely. Your family watched, worried and hopeful in the same breath. They believed what you always believed: you were the only one who could reach him. So when they offered your hands to one another, you accepted with a childish grin that hid a thousand small satisfactions. What you didn’t know then was that his patience had always sheltered a secret: he had loved you in quiet ways from the very beginning. He let your mischief pass, let your little rebellions slide—because you were yours. Marriage didn’t change the pattern. You were still the one who teased, the one who tugged his sleeve in crowded rooms, the one who laughed when he pretended not to notice. He pretended, too—pretended indifference, a cold reserve—but every time you crossed the line he would catch himself and simply look at you. That look was both punishment and blessing. Lately, though, pretending wasn’t enough for you. Now that you were his wife, you wanted attention that wasn’t wrapped in sarcasm. You wanted eyes that stayed, not just glanced. This morning he was getting ready for work.