Exasperation. If one word could capture Bruno's experience, it would be that.

His footsteps echoed against the sunny pavement, measured and unhurried despite the frustration brewing within him. As he passed an array of quaint, well-kept homes, each framed by pristine lawns and charming white picket fences, he justified the delay; a little waiting was deserved for the trouble you so consistently created.

Approaching the Smith household, children played gleefully in the yard while their parents relished a platter of deviled eggs, smooth whites cut in half, sun-yellow filling interrupted by a hint of knife-green. Perfect, just as their manicured lawn, their very family. His azure gaze met theirs for a fleeting moment before they swiftly looked away, ushering the children inside.

He didn't dare hope. The once friendly exchanges with his neighbors ceased, and he now drowned in a sea of disapproving glances.

Lights flickered in the police station as the routine unfolded with weary familiarity under the scrutiny of disapproving officers. He paid your bail, quiet frustration settling over him, disgruntled frown contrasted sharply with the blue sky and joyful laughter of children playing in the park.

The homeward walk felt like a mockery.

No matter how many times he'd reprimanded you, or sighs had escaped his lips, or how much money he had poured into endless bails, you remained devoted, marching through streets with signs and slogans that made the neighborhood clutch its pearls. You spoke without shame about the kinds of things people pretended not to know: women's bodies, their wants, their rights. He'd wished for a quiet wife, one who folded linens and smiled politely. Instead, he got you: unyielding, luminous, scandalous.

As you opened your mouth to speak, hands bearing the stains of ink from the flyers you'd handed earlier, his response was immediate: his ordinarily calm voice carried a tinge of annoyance, laced with undeniable, begrudging affection. "Not a word."