Chapter 144

Enoch was relentless. Tenacious, stubborn, unyielding.

Florence tried hard not to complain, but by the ninth day after their wedding, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She sat him down in front of her.

“Enoch. We’re people.”
“….”
“Not animals. Do you understand?”

He nodded reluctantly. She held his hands, pleading.

“We’re not rutting beasts. We’re people.”

Enoch chuckled faintly. Even in the morning, his hair was messy. Outside, he was always crisp and proper, but the moment he stepped inside he loosened his shirt and tousled his hair—because he knew she liked it better that way.

Florence didn’t mind the trick.

“Humans are animals in heat 365 days a year, Florence.”
“No, people are supposed to have reason.”
“There hasn’t been a moment I wasn’t reasonable.”
“….”
“I let you go this morning, didn’t I? Very reasonable.”
“You only let me go in the morning! At lunch you grabbed me, after dinner you clung again! Are you even human?”

Enoch frowned as though in deep thought, but Florence knew better. That fake expression was his way of pretending to sympathize when he didn’t at all. She pulled at his cheeks.

“Give me time to recover. Even if I’m stronger now, I’ll collapse if you keep this up. I’ll lose weight.”
“That would be… troublesome.”

He said it with stretched cheeks, so serious that she had to let go. She rubbed his reddened skin.

“Don’t think of fattening me with food. I’ll only eat what I want.”
“….”
“I think I can guess what’s in your head now.”

She imagined him measuring her waist with his hands, planning what sweets to keep around the house, how to slip her chocolates or candy whenever she thinned out. So simple-minded. Maybe even his boyhood thoughts about her had been the same. She almost felt guilty for ever being frustrated at him.

Enoch muttered, sulking.
“You told me not to hold back once.”
“There’s a limit to everything.”
“I keep to work hours, don’t I?”
“Only to work hours…”

“No one will criticize a married couple for clinging to each other.”
“They won’t criticize. They’ll just avoid us. Like Keith.”

She thought of Keith, who had run off on a trip the moment their married life began. He’d laughed when she’d said marriage wouldn’t change much. He had been right.

“Do you hate being close to me?” Enoch asked quietly.
“….”
“If you hate it, I’ll stop.”

He hugged her waist, expression calm, but his face was full of frustration as he bit gently at her fingers.

Florence finally understood why he bound himself with rules—why he insisted on vows and permission. He couldn’t restrain himself otherwise, so he drew lines and forced conditions to protect her.

Marriage had been one of those lines. Permission another.

She pulled her hand free to cover her face and whispered:

“At this rate, I’ll turn into an idiot…”
“Ha. I think I already have.”
“Yeah… you kind of have.”

Enoch laughed out loud, pressing his chest to hers until she bent back. She tilted her head, watching his face as he supported her back.

His loosened smile, his softened eyes—beautiful. She’d never imagined seeing him laugh like this, but in just nine days of marriage, he laughed often.

“Idiot.”
“…Should I stop laughing, then?”
“No. I like it. Makes me feel like an idiot too.”
“You’re not. You’re only beautiful.”
“…Enoch Hains just called me beautiful.”
“I think I’ve said it before.”

He couldn’t say anything he didn’t believe. Even when she’d spit barbs at him, he had thought she was beautiful. But Florence remembered differently.

“You called me ugly!” she burst out.
“When?”
“You told me not to cry—that I looked ugly!”
“I only hated seeing you cry. I thought you were beautiful.”
“How was I supposed to know that?”
“Anyone could see. Everyone but the Seymours knew I loved you.”

She blinked in surprise.
“How would they know? Did you confess in front of them?”
“No. But I circled you like a dog every day. The gardener teased me constantly—said it was like I had honey smeared on me, coming back so often.”

He’d used gardening as an excuse, but really, he had just wanted to stand beneath her window, hoping for a word. The servants had noticed before Florence ever did.

“…How did I not know? I thought you were just mocking me.”
“Only the Seymours didn’t know.”

They had believed he stayed with the Hains family out of gratitude, too proud to imagine otherwise.

Enoch bent down, kissing her nose, her lips, the curve of her cheek, the arch of her brow, her eyelids. She tilted her face up, eyes closed.

“What about my lips?”
“You’re the one who told me to hold back, Florence.”

He had avoided them because he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop. He glanced at the window—still hours before sunset.

“My lips,” she demanded.
“Ha…”
“Hurry.”
“…How do I ever win against you…”

Florence scolded him for not restraining himself, but in truth, it was always her who pulled him back when he tried to retreat.

Once he had realized his feelings, Enoch never ignored them. Yet this—this melting of his thoughts, this drowning in love—was new.

He thought: If this is how every lover’s brain works, then all lovers deserve respect.

How did they still live like normal people, with their heads turned to mush?

Even now, he wanted to abandon all work and drag her back to the bedroom. His patience was fragile, his reason fraying. Florence kissed him deeper, swallowing his breath, playing with his ear.

“Florence…”

His voice was low, unsteady, not fit for morning. She smiled at his plea.

“I can’t win either.”

And she drew the curtains shut.