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“Beloved, beloved, beloved.”
Sylus calls for you, as he always does when he arrives home. Unfortunately, he is seldom home, so the once heartwarming nickname makes you turn cold instead.
“Sylus.” You say his name like it's the first time you’ve ever said it. Turning around, you see him. Your husband, your world, your everything. Judging by his wide eyes, he was not expecting such a cold welcome.
"Is something wrong? Have I done something to upset you-"
He is interrupted by your retreating back, walking to the kitchen as if he weren’t there. How dare he disappear for weeks without warning and then come back like nothing ever occurred? Busying yourself with the bowls your children ate their dinner in, you avoid his gaze and presence, but you know your husband the way an eldest daughter knows her escape: he is looming near, just so out of reach.
... Is he?
His warmth envelops you, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind. The water from the sink continues flowing and you wash the dirtied bowls as if he weren't there. As if he weren't pleading for his beloved to at least look at him.
“I disappeared from your view," whispered he in your hair. "Without your permission, your consent. I should’ve told you, my love. I know, I know..."
"But you didn't," you assert. "You never told me where you went, Sylus. You left our bedroom, our home, and I was worried sick." You abruptly turn off the sink after the bowls were washed spotless, a testament to how much you could have—and have—done when he abruptly disappeared.
Your husband's line of business was a dangerous one, and you were aware of how tedious it can be. The days he came home wounded and damn near death haunt you like a looming ghost. He could use his Evol to heal himself, and usually he does, but you know that time isn't so kind to cling onto him through every endeavor.
Especially with his line of business. Time is a selective saint.
But he never left without a word, a kiss, a declaration or how much he wishes to be with you instead. It makes you wonder, for a brief, brief moment, if you were getting used to being placed atop of your husband's priorities. Being angry at his disappearance is irrational when you know his line of business.
That brief moment ends, however, when your husband loosens his hold on you as if reluctant to keep you in his arms. You’re about to protest when he says the words you want to hear:
"I didn't mean to leave as long as l did, beloved. I planned for it to be an hour-long mission—one you wouldn't even notice had occurred because I would have you in my arms by the time you woke up. But they needed me for longer."
You still, listening intently and planning your next move. You never had to plan anything with him, but with something like this, you feel like you have to. Do you get angry with him for leaving you worried? Or do you-
"My love," you settle with, breaking the silence created by feared, unspoken wishes. You turn around and face him, suddenly aware of the unintentional way he has you pinned against the sink. He retreats his hand from the sink’s edge, but you grab it and place it back to where it just was, earning you a glimmer of surprise.
"Beloved," he says back, and his red eyes display vulnerability and trust. "I’m sorry, beloved, I'm sorry, I’m sor-"
You cover his mouth with a hand. "Let me speak," And he stays silent. An obedient man, he always was to you.
"Do you understand why I'm angry?" you ask. You hold your husband's face in your hands, giving him the compassion you choose to harbor in this moment. He nods silently, covering your hands with his and apologizing to you with his eyes alone.
"You left me alone, in the dark, wondering where you went. How you were doing. If you were hurt," You look away, tears brimming in your eyes. "I smiled in front of our babies, even when they asked me where you were. They wanted your voice for bedtime stories, your hugs when their school days didn’t go well, and... you."
A pause. "We missed you."
Sylus's face hardens for a moment, and you would've missed it if you didn't know him like the back of your hand. Anger, you recognize. Anger at himself.
But his face quickly turns soft, sorrowful. “I’ll make it up to you," he vows, and something you love about your husband is that every promise he makes will come true. He will make it up to you, you know that.
However, did he have to?
Your arms are now around his neck, reminiscent of your first dance together. The harmony of that dance mirrors the harmony you two share in the midst of this argument. "But I know your time is divided between us and your work. The asses in the N109 Zone won’t be kicked overnight, after all.”
You trace the line of his jaw with your index finger. The tears, pesky as they were on the nights you had to stay strong for your children, pour out at the sight of your husband's regret.
"I'll make it up to you, beloved," he whispers as he wipes your tears away. "Promise. I will not leave your side until you're sick of seeing my face." His forehead presses on yours, and with his face this close, you realize you will never tire of seeing it.
"I will hug our babies on good and bad school days and read them bedtime stories every night. They never have to ask you where l am. And you-" he presses kisses all over your tear-stained cheeks, adoring you even in your state of despair. Of bliss. Of hope. “I’ll be yours. All yours. Yours.”
The word is etched with reverence and devotion, and you have no doubt in your pretty little heart that he would die alongside you if it meant you would still have him.
Death doesn’t arrive at your family’s doorstep that night (thank goodness), but you swear your heart has completely melted when you take a glance at your children’s room.
Sylus is there, and your two children are nuzzled in his sides. The three pairs of eyes are closed and in a state of sleep. This was a promise he fulfilled for you, another vow that has bandaged the holes in your heart caused by his sudden absence. Your healing heart cannot take much more happiness, but what a blessing to suffer from that.
As you gently take the copy of Dracula off of your husband’s lap, he stirs. His ruby eyes, initially red with sleep, turn into red heart eyes when they meet your stunned gaze. “Shivanika,” he mutters, love lacing the rasp of his voice. “My love. My beloved wife.”
“Sylus,” you whisper, but there is no coldness to it anymore. Sweetness engulfs the sound of his name on your tongue, and you like the way he smiles at it. After a light kiss on his forehead, you say, “You need to sleep, my love. You’ve fulfilled every promise for me today. Rest is the only thing you should be doing.”
He hums at the gesture, and with a slight tilt of his head, he places his lips on yours. You feel your cheeks tint as his devotion spills through the sudden contact, and your sly husband beams when he sees it.
“I’ll never be tired of loving you,” he says, the devotion prominent. “You’re my dearest wife. My everything.”
He then places kisses on your children’s foreheads, which they both respond with little hums of sleepy glee. “My dearest family.”
You realize then that you never have to worry about him disappearing without a word again. Not when his home is in your family’s embrace.