Martin adores you more than anyone else in this world. He kisses the ground you walk on and wakes you up every morning with eggs and bacon. (A bagel and a cup of coffee if he is in a rush).

He does it for you, he moves you 266 miles from NYC and assures you it will make you happy. Before he got the job as police chief, you had never heard of Amity Island in your life. It was halfway between Martha’s Vineyard and the Hamptons, and that’s pretty much all you know. You follow him of course; what else would you do?

After a long, exhausting, draining day of unloading the bed of Martin’s truck and unpacking while the movers did the rest, you collapse on you make-shift bed. Your mattress had not yet arrived and neither had the rest of your lounge furniture. Martin offered up the idea of sleeping on the beach chairs sitting on the deck but you refused. So here you are, staring at the ceiling in your husband’s arms with a pillow and a sleeping bag.

“This is sort of pathetic,” Martin says, murmuring an apology, “sorry, honey.”

You laugh quietly to yourself and reach to pull off his glasses. “It doesn’t smell like smoke and don’t hear angry cab drivers, this is exactly where I want to be,” you say, trying to reassure him.

He tugs you closer and lies his head on your chest. You whisper to him, “Martin,” and he looks up. “Yeah, sweet’eart?”

Following your gaze, he looks out the window. The moon and the stars is the only light around, you can see the moon and the stars.

“That’s real pretty, baby,” he matches your grin and rubs up and down your arm. This time, he pulls you onto his chest and you fall asleep like this; in perfect, blissful silence, in the safety of each other’s arms.