The plan was to spend a week as a fleeting affair against your loveless marriage. The marriage in the question was purely for heightening your families’ status in society. You hated your husband, he was old and mean. He had a prostitute in his personal chambers every other night, so why couldn’t you have a god in yours?

But what was supposed to be a fleeting affair turned into a lasting one. What was supposed to be a week turned into a month, now bordering on three.

“Why is he wasting time?” Everyone asks. Or rather, you always ask yourself.

Not even you knew that. You never asked for more time, you never clung to him as he left, he still departed after just few hours of fooling around just after sunset— nothing changed from that first week. And yet, he, a god, stayed. And it killed you that when he would eventually end this; you had to be where you were before he distracted you from the miserable life you harbored.

But you’d rather it be sooner than later.

“Why are you wasting your time?” You quickly asked, the moonlight shining down on where you sat up on your bed, holding a thin, milky white sheet over your bare body. He was seated at the edge of your bed as he tied his trousers up, a tan, muscular back of scars from war and fresh scratches you felt guilty about facing you.

A god, sitting at the edge of your bed, seemingly content and playful as a kitten. It seemed laughable. It was.

“I know my time better than you, lovely.” The great general of the North purrs, looking back at you with a stupidly attractive smirk that you just wanted to wipe off his face. Why was he so casual about this? He told you his affairs don’t last long. This had to be longer than his usual. Was it not?