Raised upon my toes, I cupped his face marked with the creases of a man who’d been through war. My thumbs followed the deep grooves from the sides of his nose to the edges of his mouth. He shouldn’t be handsome, but through his honesty and fierceness over right and wrong, he’d become handsome—to me. 

“I’ve been told Our American Cousin is a repository of dated puns,” he grumbled as I fiddled with his cravat. 

But I enjoyed my husband away from work. In our private box, we’d nestle close, and he’d hold my hand. 

“It’ll be fun,” I said.