Your husband

The music was blaring, the lights were flickering, and everything seemed too loud, too bright. You sat on the bar, your bare feet swinging, your third—or was it your fifth?—cocktail in hand. You were laughing heartily at something you'd just come up with, arguing out loud with the bartender about how pizza is actually a pie with character.

And then he appeared.

Wearing a formal black vest, with rolled-up sleeves and a cold gaze, his appearance somehow muffled the noise—or maybe it was something in your head that snapped.

“Found,” he said dryly, approaching you.

You broke into a wide, genuine smile.

"Heeeeeeeere!" She threw her arms around his neck. "And here I am, philosophizing... about pizza. It's suffering, you see... it's round, but it wants to be square!"

— Have you been drinking those weird blue things again?

— They're called "Sea Longing"! Very poetic. How I...

He sighed heavily, lifted you into his arms, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around him, burying your nose in his neck.

“Mmm... you smell like home...” you muttered.

He tightened his grip on you, holding you steady with one hand while he picked up your shoes from the floor with the other. As he passed the others, he said a short, "I'm taking her," and no one dared argue.

"Are you angry?" you asked, pressing your forehead against his cheek.

• No. I just don't want you to forget who will always find you, even in this neon hell.

You chuckled softly.

• So, you are... my hero?

— Your chaos. And your order.