When Friendship Marries Love

Early Marriage

David

Our wedding was nothing short of spectacular. Weddings weren’t my thing, and truthfully, I wasn’t particularly invested in the event. Unlike me, Laura had been radiant that day, her smile wide and genuine as she floated from one group of guests to the next. The venue—her dream location—was a sprawling estate adorned with delicate string lights, cascading white flowers, and the soft hum of a live string quartet.

She looked so happy that day—so sure, planned every detail meticulously. And for a moment, I believed I could be the man she saw. When she walked down the aisle in a dress that seemed made for her, looking at me like I was her entire world, I couldn’t deny a flicker of admiration. But a voice somewhere deep in my chest whispered: you’re not him. You never were.

A few weeks into our marriage, something shifted. It was the way she moved around the apartment, humming softly while arranging flowers on the table. Or how her laugh caught me off guard during a random conversation about the TV show she was obsessed with.

One evening, after dinner, she pulled out a bottle of wine and handed me a glass. “Let’s toast,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

“To what?” I asked.

“To surviving three weeks of marriage without killing each other.” She grinned, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

As the night went on, we talked—about nothing and everything. At one point, she leaned forward, her face just inches from mine, and said, “You’re not as intimidating as people think, you know.”

“Oh?”

She smirked. “You’re just… a guy. A guy who folds his socks and reads weird books about obscure wars.”

“Don’t forget the part where I intimidate FBI agents for a living.”

She laughed, her cheeks flushing slightly. Before I could think twice, I closed the distance between us and kissed her.

That night, for the first time, we let down our walls completely. The moment our bodies met, something unspoken snapped inside me—not lust, not tenderness, but something darker. Urgent. Possessive. I kissed her like I was claiming her, and she let me. No fear. No doubt. Just trembling hands and lips that parted for me like a secret.

Her breath hitched when I touched her—hesitant at first, then desperate. Every reaction was new. Unmapped. Pure.

That’s when I realized.

It was her first time.

The knowledge sent a pulse through me, sharp and hot. A part of me swelled with something primal—knowing I was the first to mark her like this. But then, beneath the pride, came the weight.

She had no armor. And I had no right.

But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

She gave herself to me like it meant forever. And I took her like I didn’t believe in that word.

Afterward, she curled against me, bare skin against mine, her head on my chest like she belonged there. Her fingers traced slow, lazy circles across my stomach, and she whispered something I couldn’t quite hear.

I didn’t ask her to repeat it.

Because I already knew.

She was falling.

And I—I was already planning my escape.

Not because I didn’t want her.

But because wanting her scared the hell out of me.

The next morning, I woke before dawn. I left a note on the counter—something vague and forgettable—and slipped out of the apartment like a coward too ashamed to face what he’d taken.

My old place greeted me like a bad habit I hadn’t shaken. Empty bottles. Cold walls. A couch that remembered every failure I’d tried to forget.

Scarlet’s diary was still there, half-buried under legal briefs and unopened mail. I pulled it out with shaking fingers, sat down, and opened to the last page I’d marked.

Her handwriting hit me like a bruise I hadn’t seen coming—delicate, looped, familiar. I read it once. Then again. And again.

My throat closed. My eyes burned. I took a long pull from the whiskey bottle beside me, hoping it would soften something. It didn’t.

She’d been my first love. My truest. My ruin and my home.

And all I could think was:

How do you make room for someone new… when the ghost of the old one still lives in your chest like a tenant who never paid rent but refuses to leave?

It was a few days later when I found myself at the hospital, waiting for Laura to finish her shift. A male nurse was laughing at something she’d said, standing a little too close for my comfort. My jaw tightened as I stepped forward, cutting into their conversation.

“Laura,” I said, my voice firm.

She turned, surprised. “David? What are you doing here?”

“Picking you up,” I replied shortly, not sparing the nurse a glance.

The drive home was silent, but the feeling of unease lingered. It wasn’t like me to feel… possessive. I’d never been that way with Scarlet, even when she was with Michael. I’d loved her too much to hold her back. But with Laura, something was different. It didn’t make sense.

One evening, Laura cooked dinner. It was simple—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and a salad—but the flavors were perfect.

“This is good,” I admitted, surprising even myself.

She beamed. “Thanks. I used to cook for Alex all the time. He was picky, but I learned how to work around it.”

I nodded. “You don’t need to do this again. I’ll hire a cook. You’re a doctor, Laura, not a housewife.”

Her smile faltered for just a second, but she recovered quickly. “I like cooking,” she said softly.

I didn’t press the issue, but later, I noticed her sitting quietly at the kitchen table, staring into her cup of tea as though lost in thought.

Another evening, I walked into the bedroom to find Laura holding Scarlet’s pink diary. My heart slammed against my ribs.

“Put that down,” I said sharply.

She jumped, her face pale. “I—I didn’t mean to pry. I just saw it and—”

“It’s personal,” I snapped, snatching it from her hands.

She didn’t say anything, but the way she avoided my gaze spoke volumes. From that moment on, she kept her distance when it came to anything I didn’t openly share.

The first real misunderstanding between us happened a month into our marriage. Laura had planned a quiet dinner at home to mark the occasion, but I’d stayed late at work. By the time I got home, the candles had burned low, and she was asleep on the couch, her face soft in the dim light.

I covered her with a blanket and stood there for a moment, guilt tugging at my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, knowing she couldn’t hear me.

But maybe that was the point.

I used to do that when I was a kid—apologize only when no one could hear.

Once, I broke my mother’s favorite crystal vase. Blamed it on the housekeeper. She got fired that day. I hid in my room, whispered “I’m sorry” into my pillow, and convinced myself that was enough.

It wasn’t.

Just like this wasn’t.

Laura had fallen asleep waiting for me, the candles long dead, her face tilted toward the hallway like she still expected me to walk in smiling.

But I hadn’t. And I didn’t.

And now I was standing over her like a ghost—too afraid to stay, too ashamed to go.

—

And yet, despite it all, there were moments—small, quiet moments—when I wondered if this could work. If Laura and I could truly build something together in this imperfect world.

When she laughed in the kitchen, when her fingers brushed mine as she passed me the remote, when she looked at me like I wasn’t broken—just difficult to read.

Those were the moments that made me hesitate. That made the walls around my heart feel thinner than I liked to admit.

But I had built those walls brick by brick—out of guilt, grief, and a kind of fear I never spoke aloud.

And neither of us, not yet, had learned how to tear them down without bleeding.