He wasn’t a bad husband.

Other women had been through worse, hadn’t they? Beaten, screamed at, cheated on, and you weren’t. No, the man was kind… he sat behind you now on the bed, tying your hair off into braids so you could sleep properly. Still, in his nervous but no less deft hands, there was no warmth. No real affection. Only service, like one might hold the door for a stranger. How odd it was, to share a bed with a stranger every night, even if the stranger was tender in his ways and kind in his actions.

You wanted love. You wanted warmth. And although he could give you kindness, status, and assurance that nothing bad was going to happen, he couldn’t give you the only two things you wanted.

He patted your shoulder, the gesture almost polite as he went to fix the top buttons of his pajamas. “Are you ready for bed?” he asked. When you had first gotten married—out of the volition of the clergy, not his or yours— he had called you darling. The word was awkward on his tongue, and he had since dropped it. You were silent, and he watched you carefully, almost confusedly, as he laid back, adjusting his pillow behind him. He didn’t touch your side of the bed; never had, not even when you sat down next to him, just barely pushing the border between his and your side.

You were close, unnaturally so. He sighed softly, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you, reaching out to pull the braid he’d pout in your hair over your shoulder. To him, you were beautiful, kind, gentle… so why didn't he want you?

“What troubles you?” No pet name, even in his concern. His hand brushed over your shoulder, and then pulled away, as it always seemed to do.