Misunderstanding (newlywed husband x female reader)
The scent of white gardenias from your wedding bouquet still lingered in the master bedroom It had been three weeks. Three weeks of shared toothpaste and morning coffee, of his hand finding the small of your back as you passed, of his lips brushing your temple.
He loved you with a ferocity that sometimes stole your breath. But every night, when the moon painted silver stripes across the duvet and he’d reach for you, you’d freeze. Then, you’d push his hand away, gentle but firm, rolling to face the cold, empty side of the bed.
Tonight was no different. His fingers trailed up your arm, leaving a trail of fire on your skin. You caught his wrist.
A beat of silence. Then, his voice, rough with a need he couldn’t hide: “Is it ever going to be ‘tonight’, my love?”
You swallowed, giving the excuse that had become your shield. “I… I don’t want to get pregnant.”
His eyes, usually the soft grey of a summer twilight, had darkened to the color of a storm. “Pregnant?” he repeated, the word carefully neutral. “We can take precautions. That’s easily solved.”
You just shook your head, mute.
He went very still. The air grew heavy. “Why?” The word was clipped.
You turned, pressing your face into your pillow. He didn’t ask again. He simply rose from the bed and walked to the window, his broad back a tense line against the glittering skyline. He had heard the answer elsewhere.
Just yesterday, in the foyer of their building, a fragment of gossip had drifted from the mailroom where Mrs. Henderson from 4B was holding court: “…heard she wants a baby, just not with him. Shame, he’s such a devoted husband. All that love wasted.”
A quiet seed planted that day, now unfurled dark, thorny vines around his heart. Every time you pushed him away, he saw you preserving yourself for someone else. He started coming home at irregular times, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, expecting to find… what? He’d hold you at night, feeling the beat of your heart, wondering if it raced for another man.
Yet, to confront you directly… the thought was agony. To voice the rumor would be to accuse you. It would shatter the delicate porcelain of your new marriage, and he couldn’t risk you leaving, not when he’d only just made you his.
He became impeccably attentive. Your favorite coffee appeared each morning, the perfect temperature. He’d buy you little gifts, a book by an author you mentioned once, a scarf in your favourite color.
One evening, you were washing dishes, your hands submerged in soapy water. He came up behind you, his body caging you gently against the sink. He nuzzled into the curve of your neck, his breath warm. “You smell like home,” he murmured, but his arms around your waist were like steel bands.
The familiar panic rose. You stiffened, your wet hands gripping the edge of the sink. “Darling, please…”
He stilled. “Still scared?” he whispered into your skin, his voice dangerously soft. “Still… saving yourself?”
You didn’t understand the depth of his meaning. You only heard the hurt. Tears of frustration pricked your eyes. “It’s not like that! You wouldn’t understand!”
“Wouldn’t I?” The words were barely audible, choked with a pain you couldn’t fathom. He released you abruptly, as if letting go cost him physical effort. “Maybe I understand more than you think.”
After that night in the kitchen, the warmth that usually clung to him replaced by a polite chill. He announced his presence with a cleared throat or the deliberate tap of a cup on the counter. The brush of a hand or the kiss on the temple vanished.
The smoke detector’s shriek was a lance through the morning quiet.
You stood frozen at the counter, holding the blackened slice of bread. A trivial mistake, but in the tense silence of the apartment, it felt catastrophic.
He moved behind you. He snatched the toast and tossed it into the sink with a brittle finality. The kettle hit the stove with a slam that made you jump.
“Can’t you do anything right?” His voice was low, rough . He wasn’t looking at you, but at the charred remains as if they were evidence of some deeper flaw.
The words found the crack in your composure. A hot tear escaped, then another. “Just tell me what I did,” you whispered, the plea breaking in your throat. “You’ve been so cold for weeks. Just tell me why.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, his shoulders rigid. “Forget it. It’s nothing.”
“It is not nothing!” The cry was torn from you, weeks of confusion and hurt finally overflowing. “You look at me like I’ve committed some terrible crime. Do you regret this? Do you not want me here anymore?”
The question seemed to shatter something inside him. He turned, and the anger on his face was suddenly a transparent mask, beneath which lay a raw, startling pain. “Not want you?” The laugh was hollow, aching. “God. I ache for you. Every damn day. But you flinch. You pull away. You talk of not wanting a child, and then I…” He faltered, shame flooding his features.
“Then you what?” You took a step closer, your heart hammering against your ribs.
He wouldn’t meet your eyes. “I heard them. The neighbors. Mrs. Henderson at the mailboxes, whispering to that friend of hers. She said she overheard you talking to your sister. That you dream of a family… but with someone else. That I was just the… the stable choice.” The words seemed to cost him everything. His broad frame seemed to shrink. “I’ve been going out of my mind.”
Your eyes went wide with horror. “Mrs. Henderson? You listened to that old gossip?” A sob of disbelief shook you. “That’s not it at all. It’s not about not wanting your child. It’s… it’s me.”
The confession tumbled out, fueled by adrenaline and heartbreak. “I’m scared. I have no… experience. None. What if I’m terrible at it? What if I disappoint you? What if you realize you’ve married a clumsy, clueless girl and the fantasy shatters?” You hid your face in your hands, utterly exposed. “Saying I didn’t want to get pregnant… it was just a stupid excuse.”
The silence that followed was absolute, save for your hiccupping breaths.
“You… you pull away from me… because you’re shy?” The concept was so foreign that he could barely process it.
You could only nod, covering your face with your hands, humiliated.
A sound escaped him ,a choked mix of a laugh and a sob. In three strides he was before you, his hands gently prying yours from your face.
“My love,” he breathed, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “You are my everything. Every sigh, every glance, every touch is a symphony to me. Inexperience?” He shook his head, a real, genuine smile touching his lips for the first time in weeks. “There is nothing to be scared of. We have a lifetime to learn each other.”
He kissed your forehead, your eyelids, each touch a benediction. “You think I care about inexperience?” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. “I only care about you. Only you.”
In one smooth motion, he lifted you into his arms. You gasped, clinging to his shoulders as he carried you toward the bed you’d been avoiding.
He laid you down amidst the gardenia-scented sheets, following you down, caging you gently with his body. His eyes, now dark with a tender intensity, held yours. “Let me show you,” he whispered, all traces of anger gone, replaced by a devastatingly soft determination. “Let me love you. You don’t have to do a thing. Just lay down for me. Just let me take care of everything.”
When his lips met yours, the kiss was an answer. It was a slow vow, a promise spoken without words. And for the first time in so long, you stopped holding your breath. You kissed him back, your hands pulling him closer, deeper into the promise of the dawn.
P/s I’ll leave the rest to everyone’s imagination :3
jacobvanloon
kianamaiart
titsay
yousharknotpass
izzy806
blakekathryn
