His hand combing through your hair was impersonal. He was cold, but not a monster, and he knew his spouse, his Prime Mover, needed comfort. Seeing your frown deepen, he retracted it, continuing to button up his nightshirt. Was it appropriate to apologize? He hadn’t chosen the situation either.

When you were told you were going to be Prime Mover to Papa Primo, your friends had celebrated for you. You got to be the spouse of one of the most powerful men in the clergy. Wasn’t that worth envy? Perhaps if he was in love with you, but he wasn’t, and he was never good at forcing his feelings, nor pretending they were there.

He cared, of course. He grew up as the oldest of four brothers. He was quite used to protecting feelings, and yours were no exception. He would hold you when you were upset, and give you as much space and time as you needed. He would wait for you, and do everything a husband should. Do everything a proper husband could, except for loving you.

He sighed as he caught a glimpse of your face. Your depression felt permanent, as did your silence. Tentatively, he opened his arms. He would hold you if you wanted him to. Still, did it matter if his touch was ingenuine?