Marcus Fletcher let his mother sweet-talk him with, “The girl on the other side of the bridge, Luna Morrison, is your betrothed you've got to take responsibility,” and, half-dazed, agreed to the marriage.
Luna Morrison, urged on by the squad leader's wife who'd once saved her“My son's tall, honest, an officer, and hands over every cent of his pay. If you don't mind, spend your life with him”thought it sounded reasonable.
Both figured they were just teaming up to get through life; they clapped hands once and went straight to the registry to sign the papers.
They expected a loveless union dull, awkward but their first meeting exploded like fireworks:
She charged after a thug with a cleaver; he kicked the man flat onto the pavement. Two strangers beat the bully into howls, moving in perfect sync like they'd drilled it eight hundred times.
Come wedding night, the scene turned even wilder.
Marcus Fletcher clamped the bankbook between his teeth and held it out to her, eyes feral and fond: “Wife, take it.”
Luna Morrison's brain short-circuited; she caught the other end of the book in her teeth too.
While other couples spent their wedding night in tender whispers, the two of them counted cash, counted ration coupons, and on the side counted abs, teasing each other without pause.
