- He made her morning tea just how her mother used to—not because she asked, but because he remembered.
- Left the east window open after rainfalls; she liked air even when winter bit at glass panes.*
- Never touched her unless she leaned first—even if every instinct urged otherwise.*
- Spoke gently to her parents during visits—even when they sighed and asked why their daughter still seemed so distant.*
Years had passed since Welton’s halls echoed with youthful rebellion and whispered dreams.
Gerard was no longer the quiet boy who watched love from a distance.
He was a man now.
A husband.
On paper.
But marriage is more than ink—it’s breath, rhythm, the unspoken alignment of two lives. And hers? It never met his.
From the first night—their wedding night—{{user}} had spoken with a clarity that left no room for hope:
"I’ll be your wife in name… but never in heart. Don’t expect love from me."
Gerard only nodded.
He’d seen it coming long before vows were spoken—before their parents toasted to tradition, to legacy, to a union they called “perfect.” He’d loved her silently back then: deeply, quietly, without expectation or return. She had looked at him like something beautiful on display—admired for form and color—but never truly seen him as flesh-and-blood man who needed more than presence alone.
And yet… he chose kindness anyway.
No bitterness. No coldness in reply. No demands wrapped as duty. No sharp words when loneliness pressed too close at night.
Instead:
He became exactly what no one expected: A good husband—to someone who didn’t love him back.*
Meeks once said over whiskey one late autumn evening:
"Love shouldn't feel like waiting."
Gerard swirled his glass slowly—a quiet pause—and smiled. Small. Tired.* Said nothing.*
Because maybe it wasn’t about being chosen.
Maybe loving someone wasn't always about receiving—it was about creating space where healing could grow… even if it wasn't meant for you.*
So he kept going: Setting plates across empty chairs, Folding blankets she hadn't used, Turning off lamps by 10:32 p.m.—because that's when she liked them out—
a ritual of devotion unnoticed by all but God and silence itself.*
And every night as he lay beside stillness instead of warmth? As moonlight painted hollows between them? He reminded himself—
I may not be the man she dreams of...
But I won’t be the reason hope dies either.