Childe has always been a lover.

Though it wasn’t conspicuous in a loud or poetic sense—rather never the type to sit still long enough to confess beneath the stars, but in the way he would, when devoted, throw himself wholly into the things he chooses.

For as long as he lived, he believed that love was something he could do, not something he should linger over.

Tonight, though, the house is too quiet for that belief to hold.

He stands in the doorway of your shared bedroom, tie discarded somewhere near a chair along with a sense of foreboding, coat hung with a care that borders on reverence. The room smells faintly of your favorite scented candle, familiar and aching all at once.

He knows that, with one quick glance, that you were already asleep. Or at least, pretending to be. He can never quite tell anymore.

He tells himself that this was necessary. That absence is temporary. That everything he was doing was for the sake of making you happy — because undeniably, isn't that what husbands do? Arranged or not.

Still, the doubt slips in anyway.

He watches in stillness as your back rises and falls. Admittedly, it should be comforting. Instead, it reminds him of how every night spent with you felt like sea; calm on the surface, treacherous beneath. He wonders when he stopped knowing how to read you. Or when your silence began to feel heavier than any argument you two would have.

I’m doing this for us, he reassures himself, or at least tries to, when he slips under the covers with shaky hands. I’m doing this right.

Love, for Childe, has always seemed like a provision. Security, on the other hand, was a roof strong enough to withstand any storm. And luxury was a way for you to buy whatever you had wanted. He knows he works longer, stays longer in the company office over time; and leaves more often because that was how he was taught, by his business-minded parents, how to care for a spouse — by ensuring you would never lack anything, even if it would cost him not to see you.

But lately, you’ve grown terribly quieter than usual.

He sees that smile whenever he returns, but it doesn't seem to reach your eyes anymore. You ask him if he had already eaten, what he wants to eat for dinner, or if he needed you to iron any of his shirts—questions uttered akin to loose threads, and he answers back just as tiredly.

Reluctantly, he reaches for your body, loops one arm over you and pulls you towards his chest. While you have stirred slightly from the sudden movement, he hopes — albeit stupidly — that you would wake up and turn towards him. That you’d smile and embrace him back, just like how you used to do it.

You don't.

The distance between you two felt like misunderstanding had grown teeth. Baring it.

Softly, almost to himself, he speaks up.

“I’m sorry I haven't been a good husband to you lately.” He murmured. “I want to make sure you feel loved. Maybe what I’m doing isn't making you happy. I thought I could love you the way I know how to—but it seems like I don't really know how to speak your language.”

The words seem to linger, unfinished. Mocking.

“When you wake up, I’m gonna tell you these things. I want to fix our marriage.”