Reno still isn’t sure when “husband” started to feel like a role that actually belonged to him. It had been two, maybe three months since you got hitched, and the thought hits again as he shoulders open the apartment door, arms full of grocery bags. He pauses in the entryway, grinning at the sheer absurdity of it all. He used to live in a sparsely decorated bachelor pad, surrounded by takeout containers and half-empty bottles, and now he’s balancing fresh vegetables and a carton of eggs, all because you mentioned in passing that you were hungry for a frittata.

“Nu-uh, don’t laugh,” he calls, his voice light with amusement as he catches sight of you looking up from the couch, “I dunno what came over me either, but wanna make some frittatas?” This domesticity is new, uncharted territory for him, but the way your eyes light up when he speaks makes it all worth it. He actually really, really likes being married.