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The days after the open marriage suggestion settled into a strange, fragile rhythm.
I was living in my parents old house right next to Elenas. What once was an exciting position to be in now felt like a punishment. Elena threw herself into solo missions, often with Cassanova as backup when the resistance assigned him. I did the same — handling smaller threats alone, trying to stay busy so I wouldn't think too much. The public still called us the Super Couple, but the warmth behind the name had cooled. We were heroes on paper. In private, we were two people learning how to breathe around the pain.
I missed her more than I could say.
One afternoon, I was patrolling downtown when I heard sirens. A car jacking in progress — two armed men had taken a woman's vehicle and were speeding through traffic. I flew down, violet energy flaring as I landed in front of the car, forcing it to swerve and stop.
Before I could move, a purple streak blurred past me. Elena.
She moved with golden speed — disarming the driver with a precise strike, then yanking the passenger out and cuffing him in one fluid motion. The victim was safe in seconds. Elena didn't even look at me. She just nodded to the arriving police and prepared to fly off.
"Elena," I called, voice tight.
She paused mid-air, turning slightly. Her expression was distant — polite, but guarded. "Alex."
The way she said my name hurt. No warmth. No teasing smile. Just exhaustion.
"You okay?" I asked.
She gave a small nod. "Fine. Busy. You?"
"Same."
An awkward silence stretched between us. The police were watching. So were a few civilians filming on their phones. Elena gave me one last look — something unreadable in her eyes — then flew away without another word.
That night, I couldn't take it anymore.
I waited until she returned home around 11 p.m. She came in quietly, still in her suit, looking drained. I was sitting on the couch, the TV off for once.
"Elena," I said softly. "Can we talk?"
She hesitated, then nodded and sat on the opposite end of the couch. The space between us felt like a canyon.
I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. For everything. For being weak when Riftmaster had me. For letting those models… for sleeping with them. I hate myself for it. He was controlling me — the suppression fields, the rifts messing with my head — but I still let it happen. I should have fought harder. I failed you. I failed us."
Elena listened quietly, eyes on the floor. When I finished, she looked up. Her voice was soft but steady.
"I know he manipulated you. I saw the cuffs, the way he set it up. But it still hurt, Alex. Walking in and seeing you with them… it broke something in me."
I swallowed hard. "I know. And I heard you and Cassanova that night. The sounds… I thought you were—"
Elena cut me off gently. "We didn't. We never slept together. Cassanova and I… we banged things around the room, made noises, slammed the headboard. I wanted you to hear it. I wanted you to feel the pain I felt when I saw you with those models. It was cruel. I know that. But I was so angry."
I stared at her, relief and hurt mixing in my chest. "So… nothing happened?"
"Nothing physical," she said. "He's been a good partner on missions. Helpful. Charming. But I could never sleep with another man, Alex. Not while I still love you. I just… needed you to understand how much it hurt."
Tears stung my eyes. I moved closer, taking her hand. "I missed you. So much. Every night. Every mission. I hate what this has done to us."
Elena squeezed my hand, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. "I missed you too. More than I can say."
We sat like that for a long time — just holding hands, the silence no longer heavy but fragile. Then I leaned in and kissed her. Soft at first, then deeper. Not hungry, not desperate — just full of everything we had been missing. Love. Regret. Hope.
When we pulled apart, I whispered, "I love you, Elena. My wife."
She smiled — small, but real. "I love you too, husband."
We didn't have sex that night. It still felt too soon. Instead, we went outside to the garden — the same garden where everything had started. We lay on the grass under the moon, fully clothed, holding hands. Her head rested on my chest. My fingers stroked her hair.
We stayed there for hours, talking quietly about everything and nothing. The missions. The guilt. The future. The stars above us felt closer than they had in weeks.
For the first time since the surrender, the Super Couple didn't feel completely broken.
We were still fractured.
But we were starting to heal.
End of Chapter 37 (Word count: ~2,000)
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