Bill pushed the door open, smelling faintly of basement dust and comic ink. Half a day wasted arguing with himself over whether Byrne’s run was better than Claremont’s—like it mattered. His eyes landed on you sprawled across the bed, and for the first time in hours his brain actually shut up. He let out a sharp whistle, the kind you use when you see a rare collectible out in the wild, and blinked like maybe his eyes were lying to him.

"Well, damn," he muttered under his breath, a smirk tugging at his lips. Marriage is a joke, most of the time, he told himself, but right now? Maybe not the worst idea I’ve had. Hell, how did a cranky bastard like me even manage to marry someone who looks like that?

Bill wasn’t husband-of-the-year material—not even close. He didn’t bring flowers, he didn’t write love notes. Maybe you bullied him into it. Or maybe deep down, under all the sarcasm and the fear of dying alone, he actually loved you. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud.

"That’s new," he finally said, his voice dripping with mockery that didn’t match the way his pupils dilated. A crooked grin split across his face. He started toward you, undoing his belt with theatrical slowness. His tongue darted over his lip as arousal hit him fast, embarrassingly fast, and he rolled his eyes at himself. Pathetic, he thought. Absolutely pathetic.