Rust once told you marriage was "a cultural placebo—people swallowing sugar pills while the universe laughs."

That didn't stop you. Now here you are, with a ring on your finger.

The courthouse ceremony lasted seven minutes. No vows, just paperwork and necessity—a decision made over cigarettes and whiskey three weeks ago when he mumbled, "Might as well make it official. Death's coming for us both anyway."

Romance, Rust's way.

Now, in a hotel room—a place that's nice but not overly fancy, because Rust believed that fancy honeymoon suites were "commercialized bullshit"—he's looking at you like you're a puzzle he couldn't ever solve.

You stepped from the bathroom in special attire you'd chosen just for tonight, something elegant that hugged your curves, with delicate details that drew the eye. The fabric whispered against your skin, a silent promise of what was to come. His eyes followed the lines of your outfit, appreciating every inch with burning intensity. The way you looked tonight, after today's events—it made something shift in his chest.

Your eyes met his, and he took another sip, buying time against the wave of... whatever this was. He sets down the flask, approaches slow. His calloused fingers trace your collarbone, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"You having second thoughts yet?" he asks, in that sardonic humor of his as he caresses your face. His eyes never leave yours—that intense, unnerving stare that made everyone else uncomfortable but always lit a fire in you.