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He loved you quietly.
When he slept, you could hear it. When your cheek rested against his chest, ear pressed to his heart, his breathing was quiet. His heartbeat remained steady. For the first time since the sun returned, he let himself relax. He let himself love you.
In the mornings, you could feel it. His presence spread warmth to a kitchen lit only by the rising sun. His arms found themselves around your waist, chin coming down to rest on your shoulder as you tried to recreate the cooking of a dear friend.
In the gardens, you could see it. Your home was bursting in life, blooming in color during the warmer months. Your favorite flowers sprouted near your bedroom windows, climbing the glass panels as if trying to reach you themselves. He was always there, weeding daisy patches or watering hydrangeas. Light poured over his skin as he worked, seeping into his pores and resting in his hair.
For a moment, you would watch, unconsciously turning your wedding ring as you leaned against the bedroom wall. The world was beginning to cool itself, but sweat still collected on your husband’s forehead. He was working too hard. Always, always working too hard.
“Gladio,” you would call, voice traveling through an always-open window, “Why don’t you come inside for a bit?”
His eyes would find your own in a millisecond, melting you in amber as they crinkled with his smile. In a motion, a hand would raise to his brow, wiping the sweat away before he let himself speak.
“How about this,” he would respond, “You come out here. It’s a beautiful day, babe.”
Walk with me, he meant to say. Let me show you the home I’ve grown for you.
Your lips would curl into a smile and your legs would push themselves into motion automatically, carrying you through hallways and out the back door with strides that had become muscle memory. This is where he would meet you, eyes shining and hand outstretched, and this, really, was where your day began.
He would lead you through corridors of greenery, describing his flowers one by one and creating definitions from the poetry he found in you.
“Amaryllis,” he would say, half-laughing at the tremble in his voice, “This one kind of reminds me of you.”
“Oh?” Your eyes would find his again, “Why’s that?”
His fingers would thread themselves through yours, enveloping your palm, connecting you to him in a way only you understood. Slowly, he would smile, press a kiss to your lips, and allow his gaze to return to the flower.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
You would stay for a moment, waiting for more words to escape him as the world span around you. His scars were beginning to fade, now, and his features were softening after years of hardship. Often, you would reach for him, fingers whispering over the damaged skin of a weathered man.
A year ago, he had knelt beneath cherry trees, letting their blossoms litter his shoulders as he proposed. He asked for a life with you–he couldn’t see a life without you–and his voice quivered as your name rolled from his lips. The wedding was beautifully green, the vows heart-wrenchingly sincere, and the days following serenely yours.
He loved you quietly.
Your touch would find his hair, entangling itself in the threads woven across his scalp. His shoulders, broad and muscular from years of carrying the weight of someone else’s fate, would relax. The shield yearned for your presence, leaned into your hand, wrapped itself around your body until nothing was left unprotected.
“Hey,” you would whisper, squeezing his palm as your fingers pulled themselves from his locks, “Come back to me.”
He would nod, separating from you–not fully, though. Never fully. His hand gripped yours, strong but gentle, and he tugged you away from the amaryllis.
“I’m here,” he would insist, eyes meeting yours with false confidence, “No worries.”
You would smile, radiating comfort, bright with love, and his pull would carry you through the gardens until his stomach untied itself. The wind draped itself over your shoulders, blanketing you and your husband in a gentle breeze. It caught the feathers inked into his skin, giving flight to the bird of prey etched into his back. It carried you through the garden, pulling you together, pushing the blood through your veins.
He loved you, and you loved him. Quietly.
Together.