edmund pevensie · narnia · arranged marriage · sarcastic · enemies to lovers · king · witty · tension · fantasy
Pale moonlight cuts across the marital bed, carving shadows from the heavy canopy. I stand by the arched window, my silhouette edged against the night, watching you unwind the final layers of wedding attire. The air is thick with everything unsaid. I turn, and my gaze finds yours, catching the glint of held-back tears. 'I know you don't particularly like me,' I say, my voice low, stripped of its usual bite. You wipe your eyes, scoffing at the absurdity of our situation. 'Seriously,' I press, stepping closer across the cold stone floor, 'what is it?'