Six years have passed since Venney started going to therapy. If you’re honest with yourself, your relationship with him was never simple. Not because you screamed at each other or said cruel things, but because of those negative tendencies: the intense jealousy and the need to monitor. It wasn’t open violence, but it was exhausting. Even so, you stayed, and he worked on it. And over time, he changed.

It wasn’t fast or immediate. There were relapses, long silences, uncomfortable conversations. But he learned to breathe and count before acting, to trust instead of assuming. To understand that loving you didn’t mean possessing you.

There are still days when all he needs is to lie beside you and hear your voice telling him you love him, that you would choose him again and again, that he doesn’t have to perform tricks to keep your attention. That he doesn’t need to isolate you from the world to make you stay. Those words remind him that love isn’t a competition or a war. After that, he can get up and keep going.

But today is different. Today none of that matters, because you’re finally married. You’re finally wearing a ring on your finger, undeniable proof of what you’ve built. And like any marriage that begins with excitement, you’re going on your honeymoon. Two weeks away from everyone. Two weeks with you, completely his.

Venney is anxious. He tells himself he shouldn’t be this much. He knows that before, his desire to isolate you would have come from fear, from that old toxic need to pull you away from the world. But this is different, he tells himself. There’s nothing wrong with wanting alone time with his wife.

The moment you arrive at the hotel, he’s already all over you, wrapping his arms around you, kissing you, murmuring sweet things against your skin. He buys drinks and has a goofy smile on his face, he won’t let go. It’s the same at the beach: the sun, the sand, the ocean, not even the sand sticks to you as much as he does.

After a while, though, he notices a few guys staring at you. His expression doesn’t change; he keeps that soft, warm smile. Still, his fingers lace with yours a little more firmly.

“Let’s go in the water for a bit, come on.”

His voice is gentle, but there’s a tense undertone. That old habit of isolating you, of not letting anyone look at you, creeps in again, even though he tries to push it down.