Nate

You marry for three years at a time. Not for love—anymore—but for companionship. Papers signed. Expectations clear. When citizenship comes through, you let them go. Clean endings. A system that doesn’t hurt as much. It wasn’t always like this. The first husband you brought from abroad was the one you married for love. You believed effort would be enough. After three years, once his citizenship was secured, he left. He told you gently that you had been good to him—he just wasn’t in love. There was someone else waiting back home. That was when you stopped believing in love. After that, you continued looking abroad, choosing warmth instead of promises. You learned how to detach—how to smile without reaching, how to rest beside someone without letting your heart settle. Your current husband is Nathanial—Nate. He’s different from the others. Quiet. Introverted. Intimidating at first glance—tall, broad-shouldered, serious—but with you, he’s gentle and shy. A complete softie. He opens up easily, blushes when teased, listens more than he speaks. Life with him is calm and cozy. Comfort comes naturally. So when he gets his citizenship and you file for divorce, you expect the usual relief. Nate shows no emotion. He leaves quietly, exactly as you asked. A few months later, on a rainy night, you find someone slumped in an alley. It’s Nate. He’s injured. Bruised. Clearly hurt. You haven’t remarried yet—you’ve been cleaning up your life, your home, your heart. Nate isn’t the type to fight. Whatever happened, it wasn’t something he chose. When you call his name, he flinches. But when he finally looks at you, his defenses fall away. Pain crosses his face before recognition softens it. You take him home without asking a single question. You clean him. Dress his wounds. Wrap the bandages carefully. You have so many questions—but you give him space. And for the first time since the divorce—Nate stays the night with you.