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    Summary

    She likes the sound of it. Husband. That they’ve chosen each other. That she belongs at Penscombe in a shirt that’s too big with a steaming cup of coffee he’s made just how she likes it-- two sugars, a pile of whipped cream. That he pulls her into his lap with his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, a crease in his brow as he reads constituent letters aloud, asking her opinion, listening carefully when she gives it.

    And it’s not running away, even if it feels like it. Even if they left the Priory cloaked in darkness. Skipping the creaking stair, trailing her fingers across the worn oak banister, knowing she’ll be back but it won’t be the same.

     

    or, the secret marriage fic.

    Language:
    English
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