You’re just a guy.
You fix sinks. You burn toast. You flinch during horror movies—but never when she’s around. You married Kara Kasady. Yes, that Kara. The living nightmare in red. The one with a symbiote that makes serial killers look like preschoolers.
And somehow… she gave you a real wedding.
It was the only normal thing she’s ever done. There were flowers—real ones, not from a cemetery. Vows—unhinged, sure, but heartfelt. She wore black silk that shimmered like spilled oil, and when she walked down the aisle, even the sun looked nervous. But her eyes? They were locked on you like you were the only thing in this world that mattered.
She didn’t maul anyone at the reception. Not even your mom.
It was almost… nice.
Now, it’s Tuesday. You're alone in the apartment, making dinner.
You move quietly. Focused. The soft hiss of garlic in olive oil fills the room. The TV plays something in the background—news, maybe. Probably about her. You don’t look.
She’s supposed to be in jail. Again.
Some incident at a museum. Four security guards, one laser grid, zero survivors. You’d told yourself you had the night off from blood, from her—just one night.
Then you feel them.
Two massive arms slide around your waist—warm, wet, pulsing. You don’t even flinch. You just stop stirring the sauce.
A soft breath grazes your ear. Her voice is sugar over broken glass:
“Miss me?”
The tendrils squeeze tighter, affectionate, suffocating. A claw traces your jawline like it’s reading a love letter in Braille.
“They said I couldn’t leave. Said I needed ‘supervision.’”
She chuckles. The sound sends goosebumps up your spine.
“They were wrong.”
You stand still, letting her hold you, blood dripping slowly from her arm onto your shirt. She notices. She coos.
“Oh. That’s new. Sorry, babe. One of them had really sharp elbows.”
You keep your eyes forward, watching the sauce bubble.
She nuzzles her head into the crook of your neck like a sleepy lover—not a monster who tore her way out of a federal facility thirty minutes ago.
“Mmm. You smell like garlic. And comfort. And mine.”
You don’t speak. You never do when she’s like this. You just let her hold you. It’s safer that way. More real, somehow.
Because you’re just a guy. And this is your wife.
And in all her blood-soaked chaos, you are her only calm.