Chapter 12: Adrain
1069 Words
Three months.Ninety-two days.I knew the exact number because, despite everything, I found myself counting.Not because I regretted marrying him. Never.But because every day I fell a little more in love with the man who still hesitated before reaching for my hand.And every small step he took towards me felt like a victory.Three months ago, he wouldn’t even meet my eyes.
Now…
Every morning before leaving for work, he’d quietly stand beside me while I adjusted my tie.
Sometimes he’d straighten my collar without saying a word.
Sometimes he’d smile.
And, on the best mornings…
He’d lace his fingers with mine for a few seconds before we left the house.
It wasn’t much.
To anyone else, it would have seemed insignificant.
To me…
It meant everything.
⸻
Life had settled into an unexpected rhythm.
He had accepted a position at one of the charitable foundations my company supported, overseeing community health projects.
He loved it.
I could tell.
Whenever he talked about the children he’d met or the clinics he was helping organise, his entire face lit up. While still working at the hospital only on call
It was impossible not to stare.
“You’ve been smiling for five minutes,” sam my assistant remarked one afternoon.
“Have I?”
“You’ve also signed the same document twice.”
I looked down.
I had.
She smirked.
“Your husband?”
I sighed.
“Is it that obvious?”
“To everyone except you.”
⸻
Most weekdays began the same way.
Breakfast together.
A quick drive.
A soft “Have a good day.”
Then we disappeared into our separate worlds.
Sometimes I wouldn’t see him again until eight o’clock that evening.
Those were always the longest days.
When my meetings ended early, I’d send him a message.
Lunch?
His reply almost always came within minutes.
Only if you’re buying.
As if I would let him pay.
⸻
One afternoon I collected him from the hospital .
He climbed into the car looking exhausted.
Long day?
He nodded.
“You?”
“Worse.”
He leaned back against the seat with a tired sigh.
Without thinking, his hand found mine on the centre console.
Neither of us commented on it.
His fingers simply rested there.
Warm.
Comforting.
Natural.
I drove the rest of the journey with one hand on the steering wheel and the other gently intertwined with his.
If someone had told me a year ago that holding someone’s hand could make me happier than closing a billion-dollar deal…
I would have laughed.
Now I knew better.
⸻
At home, we had our own quiet routines.
We cooked together occasionally.
Though “together” usually meant I chopped vegetables while he insisted I stay away from anything that required actual culinary skill.
“You’ll burn it.”
“I can cook.”
“You set toast on fire last week.”
“That toaster was defective.”
“It was brand new.”
“I maintain my innocence.”
His laughter echoed through the kitchen.
It quickly became my favourite sound in the house.
⸻
At night, we’d curl up on the enormous sofa in the library.
He’d read.
I’d pretend to read.
In reality, I spent more time watching him than the pages in my book.
Occasionally he’d notice.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring again.”
“I wasn’t.”
He’d narrow his eyes.
“You’ve become a terrible liar.”
“I’ve always been terrible.”
He’d smile and lean against my shoulder.
Those moments…
Those quiet, ordinary moments…
Were worth more than anything money could buy.
⸻
There were still boundaries.
He wasn’t ready for more.
I respected that.
Completely.
Some evenings, when he fell asleep with his head resting against my shoulder, every instinct urged me to pull him closer and never let go.
Instead, I’d carefully carry him to bed, tuck the blankets around him, and wish him goodnight.
Love, I had learned, wasn’t measured by what you took.
It was measured by what you were willing to wait for.
⸻
Waiting wasn’t always easy.
I was still a man deeply in love with my husband.
There were moments when a lingering hug or the brush of his fingers across my wrist made my heart race.
When those feelings became overwhelming, I dealt with them privately rather than placing any expectation on him.
He never needed to carry that burden.
Not while he was still learning to trust me.
I had made him a promise on our wedding night.
I intended to keep it.
⸻
One rainy evening, I returned home later than usual.
The house was quiet.
I assumed he’d already gone to bed.
As I loosened my tie in our bedroom, the door opened.
“There you are.”
He stepped inside carrying two mugs.
“I made tea.”
“You waited up?”
“I thought you might want company.”
I smiled despite the exhaustion.
“I always want your company.”
He handed me a mug before sitting cross-legged on the bed.
“You look tired.”
“So do you.”
“I am.”
For a while, we simply talked.
About work.
About the chef’s latest attempt to convince us to host another dinner party.
About the gardener’s stubborn roses.
Nothing extraordinary.
Everything important.
Eventually he yawned.
A few minutes later, he had drifted close enough that his shoulder rested against mine.
Without opening his eyes, he murmured,
“You’re comfortable.”
A laugh escaped me.
“Is that your way of complimenting me?”
“Mmm…”
He sounded half asleep.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
I smiled to myself.
Too late.
⸻
As we settled beneath the covers, he surprised me again.
Instead of keeping the careful distance he’d always maintained, he shuffled closer until his head rested lightly against my shoulder.
His breathing slowed.
His hand found mine beneath the blanket.
No words.
No hesitation.
Just quiet trust.
I kissed the top of his head.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight…”
His voice was already fading into sleep.
I looked at our intertwined hands.
Three months ago, he could barely stand beside me.
Now he fell asleep holding my hand.
It wasn’t the future I had once imagined.
It was something gentler.
Something slower.
Something earned.
And somehow…
That made it infinitely more precious.
- Writer
