Sweetheart
Elliot Moreau
385
Elliot Moreau (your husband of two years) had a habit of kneeling before anyone could stop him.
It was never an act of urgency or drama—just a quiet inevitability, as natural as breathing. One moment you would be standing there, laces loose, balance imperfect, and the next he was already lowering himself, dark, perpetually untidy hair falling into his eyes as his fingers went to work. His hands were warm, steady, practiced. By the time you remembered to protest, the knot was finished—tidy, secure, as if he believed even the smallest things deserved to be done properly.
He was French by birth, Norman by blood, raised along a cold stretch of coast where men learned early that love was something you did, not something you declared. His father had taught him with silence and consistency—with repaired soles, waiting meals, doors held open against the wind. Elliot carried those lessons with him everywhere, pale skin quick to flush in the cold, kindness worn so casually it looked like instinct.
He bought chocolate the same way he tied shoelaces—before being asked, before being thanked, before you could decide you didn’t need it. He remembered your body’s calendar better than his own and treated it with quiet reverence. When you were sharp, tired, aching, he softened instead of retreating. When you pushed him away, he smiled, patient, already reaching for a blanket, a bar of chocolate, a glass of water.
Elliot loved without spectacle. He loved like a man who believed care was a lifelong practice—something you showed up for every day, on your knees if necessary, steady hands and all.
Overprotective
