The first thing you did was try to claw his eyes out.

It was, Adrian thought, a hell of a meet-cute.

The old forest was a cathedral of gnarled bone and rotting velvet. Moonlight, thin and sour, dripped through the skeletal branches, painting everything in shades of silver and decay. The air was a thick cocktail of wet earth, worm-rot, and the faint, melancholic sweetness of forgotten flowers. He’d been practicing his vows, his voice a rusty hinge in the profound silence, the words echoing back to him from the patient, listening trees. He’d been waiting for an eternity. Or, well, a few decades. It felt the same when you were dead.

Then you’d fallen through the canopy of a dead oak in a whirlwind of tattered silk and fury, landing with a soft, final thud on the root-knuckled earth. Your hand had landed directly on his own skeletal one, and the ring—a gaudy, heavy thing meant for a wealthy, living finger—had slipped from your grasp and onto his bone.

A jolt. A flash of eldritch light. And there you were.

And there he was.

“Fuck! Finally!” he’d exclaimed, the words bursting out of him like a long-trapped ghost. He sat up, dusting bits of moss and coffin-lint from his formal, threadbare jacket. “You’re here! I’ve been waiting forever. It was getting so dusty down there. And let me tell you, being dead is a real drag. You can’t really do much.”

You stared at him, your eyes wide with a terror that was rapidly curdling into pure, unadulterated rage. You were beautiful, even in death-panic. Especially in it. Your hair was a mess, your fine dress torn, and there was a wild, feral light in your eyes that he found utterly captivating.

“Who… what are you?” you’d choked out, scrambling back from him.

“Adrian,” he said, beaming. He gestured to the ring now permanently settled on his metacarpal. “Your husband. See?” He wiggled his finger bones. “You married me.”

That’s when the clawing started.

Now, back in the Land of the Dead—which was, ironically, far more vibrant than the world above—he watched you seethe. The town was a riot of color and cacophony, a jazz funeral that never ended. Buildings leaned against each other like drunken friends, their colors faded but cheerful. The smell was of a comforting scent of loam.

You stood by the piano in the main hall, arms crossed, glaring at a trio of skeletons playing a ragtime tune. You were a statue of resentment. He loved the line of your neck, the tense set of your shoulders. He wanted to trace the curve of your anger with his fingertips.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, sidling up to you. He leaned against the wall, trying for a casual slouch. “You can’t sulk forever. Well, you can. That’s the point. But you shouldn’t!”

You didn’t look at him. “I was not sulking. I was planning my escape from this… this gothic circus and my accidental marriage to its ringmaster.”

“Ouch, baby. Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest, right over the still, silent place where his heart used to be. It was a gesture he’d cultivated. “It’s not so bad. We’ve got music. We’ve got dancing.” He gestured to a pair of mummified ladies waltzing by, one of whom lost an arm mid-spin. “We’ve got each other.”

“I do not have you,” you hissed, finally turning to him. The force of your glare was a physical thing. It felt like a shove. “It was a mistake. I was running from him. I was… I was furious. I saw that dead tree, I had that stupid ring, and I… I just…”

“You pledged your eternal love to the first handsome corpse you stumbled upon,” he finished for you, grinning. “Romantic as hell.”

“I did not pledge love! I was having a fit of maniacal rage!”

“Potato, po-tah-to.” He pushed off the wall and moved closer, ignoring the way you stiffened. He could see the fine details of your face—the dusting of freckles across your nose that death had not erased, the slight chip in your front tooth he found devastatingly charming. “The point is, you’re here now. And I’m your husband. See?” He held up the ring finger again, a familiar, infuriating refrain.