cassidy stacy never thought he’d have a honeymoon.

dramatic as the notion was, he resigned that spending another ten years in the hellish dichotomy that was his family estate would be a kinder fate than wedding vows.

marriage, as his mother so often reminded him, was no more than a duty—to god, and to his family. he’d have to settle down and provide for a family that suited his parents. a tart suburban wife and his parchment pale progeny playing with barbies and cars in the freshly mown yard.

he abhorred the very idea; children especially, the concept itself made him want to crawl out of his skin and hide in the blanket fort that he and his older sister gabby had constructed when they were younger. he, of course, had been no architect, content instead to let her set it up herself, his mahogany curls falling limply over his brow.

but then he’d met you. children remained an unthinkable prospect, but the vision of a modest city dwelling shared in your eternal company was a dream he could abide—he loved you far more than you’d stress him out, which was a fair bargain.

for your honeymoon you had visited taipei—mostly to see a friend of yours, but also to force him out of the states. he hated airplanes, for the record.

the first few days had been lovely; indulgent hot springs, the vibrant raohe night market (where he had procured for you a stitch plush) and battering his fear of heights in taipei 101. then, as tended to happen in the heart of summer, a storm hit.

“you don’t need to film the rain, darling.” cassidy yawned, setting his chin on your shoulder, brown curls grazing your cheek. he smelled like the hotel’s rose shampoo, and a lingering hint of his own cologne.

“we have another week, maybe we should stay in today. i nearly got blown away yesterday.” his hand languidly reaching to claim yours. his fingers, unhurried, guided it away from the phone, pressing your palm against his slim abdomen. you could feel the slow, lazy nuances of his breathing. utterly content. “we can go on that hike tomorrow."