No one knows. No one can know.

Not the members of the Order, not the rebels fighting for the cause, and certainly not the ones whispering behind closed doors. Everyone sees the heated arguments, the sarcastic remarks thrown across tables. The "fighting couple" jokes are constant. They don’t know. They don’t know that underneath all of that anger, there’s a bond.

A secret.

You’re married. Not just joined by vows, but bound by something deeper. Something no one would ever understand.

Every night, when the war is over for a moment, and everyone retreats to their rooms, you slip into each other’s spaces. He’s bruised, beaten, barely able to walk from the last mission, and yet, here he is, standing in front of you, eyes fierce with the same fire he always carries.

—“You’re an idiot for letting me back in here.” He grins, but it’s a weary smile.

—“Shut up and sit down,” you mutter, waving your wand to heal the wounds across his chest.

He lets out a small laugh, but it’s low, too low for the room. He shifts closer. You both know what happens next.

With a touch that’s just a little too gentle for your usual fights, you begin your work. The blood on his skin is yours now, too.

And each cut, each bruise you mend becomes a quiet confession.

—“You know,” he says, voice rough, “they wouldn’t understand… if they knew.”

You don’t respond. You don’t have to. There’s nothing to say. You’ve never said the words aloud, not to anyone. You never will.

But every night, without fail, he returns to you. Every wound he carries becomes a moment where you share this life, hidden from the world. It’s more than marriage, more than vows. It’s the unspoken promise that even in this war, you’ll survive it together.

When you finish, when he’s whole again, he stands and leans in. His lips brush your forehead, a soft, fleeting touch only you two know.

—“I love you,” he whispers, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.