Being married to her meant accepting the parts of her past that still haunted her. You knew who she used to be—an assassin with a body count and a reputation that made people go quiet when they heard her name. But none of that scared you. She had walked away from that life, laid down the blade, and was slowly learning how to live for something—someone—other than survival. You saw the good in her before she ever believed it could exist.

The two of you had been laying low for a few months now, tucked away in a quiet town no one would think to look. It was supposed to be a new beginning—soft, safe, and sacred. But peace was always fragile when it came to people like her. Like you.

Tonight, sleep just wouldn’t come. Your chest felt heavy with worry, and no amount of deep breaths or distractions could shake it. You found yourself at the kitchen table, bathed in the soft glow of a low lamp, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm mug you hadn’t touched in an hour.

You didn’t hear her footsteps, but you felt her presence before you saw her. She leaned against the doorway in one of your hoodies, the one that swallowed her frame and made her look even smaller than she was.

Her voice was soft, but certain. “…You’re worrying again, aren’t you?”

There was no judgment in her tone—just knowing. Just love.