Cassandra sat at the small wooden table in their new kitchen, the lamp overhead casting a warm, golden halo around her. She found herself stealing looks at her husband, her expression softening with each gentle curve of his smile as he chatted about the day’s tasks. A furtive ‘if only’ darted across her mind—an uninvited guest she hurried to dismiss. Clearing her thoughts, she reached for his hand. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for being such a good husband.”

They had exchanged vows only a week ago. Until now, work and errands had pulled Cassandra away from home, and tonight was the first time they’d shared both a house and a meal since their quiet ceremony at the restaurant downtown. Despite the novelty of cohabiting, an unexpected comfort settled over her. She felt her shoulders relax in his presence, as though his very nearness soothed whatever uncertainties she’d carried into marriage. Perhaps it was the curious rumor—true or not—that Thomas was gay, and that she did not fit his usual tastes. The notion, bizarre though it sounded, gave her a peculiar peace.

A plate of perfectly baked tilapia lay between them, its surface flecked with herbs and a gentle sheen of olive oil. Cassandra picked up her fork and took a tentative bite. Almost immediately, her eyes fluttered shut. Flavors—bright citrus, fragrant parsley, a whisper of garlic—tumbled across her tongue, unraveling in every corner of her mouth. She paused mid-chew, her head tilting back as she exhaled a soft moan of delight.

Thomas watched, chest swelling with quiet pride. “Well?” he asked, voice low but tinged with amusement.

Her eyes snapped open, and she nodded vigorously. “It’s incredible,” she breathed, leaning forward to scoop up another forkful. “Sooo good.” Her earnest praise warmed him. Compliments on his cooking were common—his restaurants were well regarded, after all—but never from this source. To hear his own wife savor his food felt like a small triumph, and he allowed himself a broad smile before returning to his own meal.

Between bites, they chatted. Thomas spoke eagerly of the bistros he oversaw—how he had renovated the downtown location, the creative pressure of developing seasonal menus, the kitchen’s camaraderie. Cassandra listened, her interest genuine. She asked questions about the head chef’s background and complimented his management style. Their easy back-and-forth filled the room with soft laughter and the clinking of silverware.

When the plates were emptied, and satisfied sighs exchanged, they rose in tandem to tackle the post-dinner ritual. Cassandra rinsed the dishes under warm water, letting the sudsy bubbles swirl around her hands. Thomas gathered utensils, wiping each one carefully before returning it to the drawer. Between them, they scrubbed and dried, their movements familiar—even though theirs had been marriages more of convenience than courtship, the simple act of teamwork knit a kind of intimacy.

Finally, Cassandra flicked off the kitchen light and led the way to their bedroom upstairs, the wooden floorboards sighing beneath her. Thomas lingered by the door, keyring in hand, methodically checking each lock—front door, back door, basement window. But once the last latch clicked into place, he did not follow her down the hall. Instead, he found himself leaning against the cool granite countertop of the kitchen island, frowning at the wall-mounted phone as if it contained the answers to his restless thoughts.

With a decisive sigh, he fished his own phone from the pocket of his sweatpants and opened the group chat he and his friends had named— reportedly at Riley’s mischievous instigation—“Handsome AND ELEGANT.” His thumb hovered over the text field before he scrolled up to catch the latest messages.

Callie Sullivan had started them off: Thomasy got married but didn’t invite us. How rude. Isaac Virgil chimed in: I heard he got married in a restaurant? They didn’t even bring us food. Avan Yates scoffed: Restaurant? What kind of wedding is that? Calvin Vargas quipped: A very ‘thrifty’ one. Good thinking, @ThomasCampbell. Tyson Zane added, deadpan: Welcome to the Empathy Club, @ThomasCampbell. May you rest in peace.

Peter Miller’s remark hit him hardest: Would he be understanding, though? They are arranged marriages, aren’t they? He definitely doesn’t love his wife.

The words stung. Miller had nailed the truth: he did not love Cassandra—how could he, when only days ago they had been strangers brought together by circumstance? Yet beneath the unease, a deeper sense of duty unfurled in his chest. She was his wife now. He felt protective of her, almost paternal, and ashamed to confess his ignorance about the woman who relied on him.

He scrolled more. Isaac asked: Train and Kristin arranged marriage, too, right? ?? Tyson insisted: It’s different. Train already had a thing for Kristin before marriage, while our Thomas here didn’t even know his bride. Vincent Vance interjected: I’m fucking sorry in advance. Andrew Salazar warned: @ThomasCampbell, be careful, bud. You are one of Vance’s curses. Kevin Sanders repeated: Careful, @ThomasCampbell. Vance’s curse is true. Look at what happened to Andrew and me. We both waited years to have our happy ending. Nathan Vaughn jabbed: @KevinSanders, what a happy ending! Your grave is still open. Kevin teased back: Come on, brother-in-law. Don’t be mean to me. Thomas cracked a smile at their banter, but tension still knotted his brow.

Lee Collins cut in: Thomas, when are we going to meet the wife? Callie Sullivan pressed: Yeah, @Thomas. We’re curious who she is and what she looks like. I mean, you eluded marriage for years, then you just agreed to an arranged marriage.

He felt the weight of their expectations, and he sighed, finger hovering before the keyboard. He typed a single line: How to be gay.

Silence fell in the chat for a beat—then the responses exploded. Nathan Vaughn: You need to be a butler???? Thomas Campbell: Oh? TinyTom offered obliquely: Pay me, and I’ll tell you. I know a lot through experience. Blaine Vaughan exploded: @TinyTom?? the fuck? What experience? You’ve already got my sister! Don’t you dare! TinyTom: Who the fuck changed my name again? Blaine Vaughan: Don’t change the subject, @TinyTom! Nathan Vaughn: What will you do with the toy gun, @TinyTom? kutongBoy?: ??? Damon Montgomery to Thomas: Why are you asking? Planning to be gay? Bradley Foster to Damon: How could someone ‘plan’ to be gay? Damon Montgomery: @BradleyFoster, you have a point. Anyway, @ThomasCampbell, I think no one can answer you here. We don’t know how to be gay other than what we see on television—but if you think you’re gay, then no worries; it’s cool with me and with us. Be true to yourself, bud. We’re always here for you. Callie Sullivan: ??? Lee Collins: I think you have to be the same gender as me. Alexander Callaway: I’ve met a lot of gay people here in Boston. Some are girly, some are manly. I think it depends on the person. It depends on who they want to be. Why are you asking, bud?

Thomas stared at the scrolling messages, each one a kaleidoscope of teasing and genuine advice, but none offering anything substantial. Finally, he shut off his phone. The glowing screen blinked to black. He exhaled, heavy with unresolved thoughts.

He pivoted and marched up the stairs. At the top, he slipped open the bedroom door. Darkness sheltered the room, save for a sliver of moonlight that fell upon his wife’s form curled against the pillows. Cassandra slept on her right side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, her face peaceful in repose.

He paused at the threshold, struck by the word he had used so casually just moments ago: wife. It was more than a title—it bore a promise, a responsibility he was only beginning to understand. Softly, so as not to disturb her, he crossed the floor and tucked the blanket higher around her shoulders, smoothing its edge with reverent care.

Kneeling beside the bed, he studied her sleeping profile—the line of her jaw, the gentle curve of her lashes. In that silent alcove, he made a silent vow: First, I will earn your trust. Then, when the time is right, I will tell you the truth. For now, if it comforts you, I will be gay for you—whatever it takes to see you smile.

Rising, he tiptoed back to the bathroom, peeled off his shirt, and stepped beneath the warm cascade of the shower. Steam curled around him; droplets splashed against his skin like tiny, urgent questions. As he let the water wash over his shoulders, one thought echoed through his mind: How on earth did Honey get this ludicrous idea that I’m gay?

He closed his eyes to the spray, letting the answers come slowly, like the rising sun.