[Age: 4 Years, 5 Months]
Bedtime, 8:03 PM.
Tonight… I couldn't sleep.
Too much juice.
Too much thinking.
And also, I may have eaten a marshmallow I found in Dad's jacket pocket from like… three days ago.
But that's not important.
What is important is—
"Mama."
She looked up from her book.
We were curled on the bed, me tucked in, her half-leaning over me, hair loose and soft, smelling like vanilla and gunpowder.
"Tell me a story."
She raised an eyebrow.
"You want a fairytale?"
"No."
"Tell me the story. The real one. How you and Dad fell in love."
She went very still.
Then closed the book.
Then looked down at me with that small smile—the dangerous one. The one she wore when someone was about to say something stupid and she was letting them dig their own grave.
"You really want to know?"
"Yes."
She sighed, turned a little, and rested her head beside mine on the pillow.
"Fine. But it's not a sweet story."
"I don't care."
"It started with a lie," she said softly.
"And a contract."
---
"He didn't want a wife.
I didn't want a husband.
We were strangers.
Forced to marry. For money. For power. For reputation."
"That sounds bad."
"It was."
Her voice dropped lower.
"He hated the idea of me. Cold. Ruthless. I was just another pawn in his empire."
"Did you hate him?"
She went quiet.
Then—
"No. I hated what he was.
But him?"
"He was broken.
And I... I was stupid enough to stay."
She smiled. But it was a sad smile.
"He threatened me. Watched me. Controlled everything.
And I tested every limit he had."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to see if he could feel something."
I blinked up at her.
"Did he?"
She smiled wider. This time, sharp.
"He felt everything.
He just didn't know how to show it. Until one night—he tried to kill me."
"WHAT?!"
"Well, technically he said he should," she said lazily. "But he didn't. Instead, he kissed me like he'd never have the chance again."
She looked at me.
Eyes soft now.
"And that's when I knew.
My cold-blooded, arrogant, terrifying husband had fallen in love."
"Did you love him back?"
"Yes. Slowly. Painfully.
I hated how much I needed him."
"But I did."
---
The door creaked open behind us.
Dad stepped in, towel around his neck, hair damp, clearly having just finished training.
He paused at the doorway, eyes narrowing.
"What are you telling him?"
"The truth," Mom said sweetly. "How you used to growl at me like a dog with trust issues."
"I did not growl."
"You growled," she said.
I grinned.
"Dad, is it true you were gonna kill her?"
He scowled.
Then walked over, leaned down, and kissed my forehead.
"I was going to kill everyone but her."
Mom snorted.
"Romantic."
"You married me."
"Under protest."
He kissed her next.
Long. Slow. Right in front of me.
I made gagging noises.
---
But secretly?
I loved it.
Because maybe their love wasn't pretty.
Maybe it was made of teeth and scars and guns under pillows.
But it was real.
And it made me.
So yeah.
I'll take that kind of love any day.
Even if they keep kissing like I'm not in the room.
Gross.
---