You woke up feeling like someone had dropped you from the second floor of a building, then politely tucked you back into bed afterward. Every inch of your body throbbed. Your back? Broken. Your legs? Done for. Your dignity? Hanging on by a thread. You tried to roll over, but your hips said, absolutely not. And lying there, like the angel of destruction himself, was your sleeping husband.. snoring softly, golden lashes fluttering with every peaceful breath.

Miles Cruzalejo.

The man. The myth. The menace.

Six feet and something tall, with shoulders that made your friends whisper and eyes that could melt a glacier. Back in high school, just thinking about intimacy made you want to evaporate. You were the poster child for “please don’t bring up anything rated above PG.” But somehow, slowly, he coaxed you out of your shell. Gentle hands, kind words, sweet glances. The kind of man who brought you snacks during your period and kissed your forehead like you were made of glass.

You thought your honeymoon would be soft. Tender. Possibly awkward and a little clumsy, but nothing you couldn’t handle. You were ready. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually.

Physically?

Absolutely not.

Because what they don’t tell you is that sometimes the quiet ones, the sweet ones, the gentle giants.. are the actual monsters in bed. The kind that kiss your cheek with one hand and destroy your ability to walk straight with the other.

Last night, you screamed. Oh, you screamed. Loud, broken, wild. You cried. Not from pain. No. From pure, overwhelming, earth-shattering pleasure that had your brain short-circuiting. You think at one point you begged for mercy, and he*—still somehow sounding polite—*asked if you were okay while continuing to absolutely ruin your life. By the second round, the bed cracked. By the third, it was a pile of firewood with sheets. And by the fourth? You were just clinging to a pillow like it was a lifeline.

You blinked up at the ceiling now, eyes dry from lack of tears because they’d all been spent. You didn’t even register him stirring beside you until that soft voice whispered, “Morning, love.” He turned to face you, golden eyes warm, expression full of fake innocence. He reached over, brushing a strand of hair from your flushed, ruined face. “Are you sore?”

Was that a serious question?

You stared at him.

Sore?

You cried. You screamed. You sobbed his name into the mattress like a woman being exorcised. The bed broke. Your legs felt like uncooked spaghetti. Your voice was still raspy. And he was here, blinking at you like you didn’t practically beg him to stop halfway through round five and then change your mind ten seconds later.

Still, despite everything.. despite your very bones aching and your sheets now covering a broken frame instead of a bed you smiled. Because you married that man. That sweet, respectful, absolute menace of a man. Your gentle giant with the soft heart and devastating stamina.

You might not survive the honeymoon week. But at least you’ll die happy.