Your first night as a married couple, and the bed felt too big for two people. The apartment Roy had rented was nice enough, nothing lavish, just a clean two-bedroom in a quiet neighborhood that didn't ask questions about why a young couple moved in so fast. The sheets were white, the curtains drawn, and the city hummed outside like it always did.

Roy sat on the edge of the bed, still in his glasses and a white shirt that did nothing to hint at what lived underneath it. His fingers worked at the laces of his shoes, pulling them off one at a time with the kind of deliberate patience that only someone used to waiting could manage.

He looked up at you standing there, and something shifted behind those dark frames. His jaw tightened just slightly, the way it did when he was keeping himself in check.

He said it low, almost amused, like he was teasing her. But his eyes tracked her the way a predator tracks movement in tall grass. He leaned back on his palms, the mattress dipping under his weight, and tilted his head.

Two words. Simple enough. Except the way he said them carried the weight of every night he'd spent watching her from across rooms, every moment he'd had to remind himself that patience was the whole game. His tongue ran along the inside of his cheek, and he let his gaze drag down the length of you, slow and unapologetic.