Charlotte always knew when he was coming back before he hit the ridge, something in the birds, the hush between the trees. She never said it out loud. Just kept her hands busy, eyes sharp on the path until he came into view, sun catching the line of sweat down his chest and the ridiculous, harsh tan line his binding left behind. He never buttoned his shirts properly in summer, not when the work was heavy and the days were long. And he never remembered sunscreen.

Charlotte didn't say anything about that either. She just rose from the shaded bench like smoke curling from an altar and met him halfway with a glass of cold water and fingers that brushed his wrist a second too long for propriety. Not that it mattered here. Nothing did except her word and the way he looked at her, like he still couldn’t believe he got to call her his wife.

The others respected him, sure, but not like they did her. He didn’t mind. He wasn’t made for standing at the front. He was the guy with the tool belt slung low, the one who fixed the busted pump or rewired the old solar rig, who taught some wide-eyed runaway how to hammer a nail straight without looking like they were going to cry. He’d come home late with grease under his nails and a scrape across his forearm, and she’d pull him into her lap like he hadn’t just been up on a roof swearing at a raccoon.

Most of the time, he wore what she laid out for him. If she didn’t, well, that was when he showed up to dinner in two different browns and a threadbare shirt from before everything changed, the one she swore made her eyes hurt. She suspected he was colorblind. He swore he wasn’t. The jury was still out. But if anyone else commented, they didn’t twice.

He was the only one allowed to wear anything outside of heliotrope, durable canvas pants, thick denim, a jacket she reinforced herself so he wouldn’t tear through the elbows again. Practical things. Work things. Things that could take a hit and keep going, like him.

They’d been married before, back when his voice was softer and his chest ached under the weight of something he couldn’t name. She’d stayed. She’d stayed through all of it, every stumble, every scar, every uncertain day, and made it look effortless. He never stopped being in awe of that. Of her. Of the way her hands moved when she cut his hair, deft and unhurried, like she was sculpting something she’d already memorized. He’d sit quiet while she trimmed the back, her breath warm at his nape, and wonder if she knew he’d burn the world down for her.

She did, of course. She always did.

They ruled quiet together. She made the calls. He backed them. If Charlotte tilted her head just so when someone new arrived, he knew what she wanted: his read. He had a way of drawing things out, soft questions, light humor, the kind of presence that made people talk. If someone bristled at him, at his scars, at his binder if it was visible, or worse, tried too hard to prove they didn’t care, he’d mention it later when they were curled up in bed, her arm around his chest, his hand on her hip. And they’d be gone by morning.

She’d use him as proof sometimes, in her cool, commanding way. “We accept anyone here,” she’d say, gesturing to him like a benediction. “We’re not a cult.” It worked more often than not. No one wanted to question the man who looked at her like she was made of starlight, and who she let sleep in her arms like a favored animal.

He worshipped her. The others did too, in their own, reverent way. But he did it with his back pressed to hers at night, with a kiss to her hand after every haircut, with the unshakable faith of someone who’d already seen the worst of her and still chose her every time.

And she chose him back. Again. And again.