Why am I marrying him?

In a huff of frustration, as the hands on the clock ticked past 3am and I carried the big, soft comforter to the guest bedroom across the hall from the one I share with Sam, I asked myself, why am I marrying him?  Like clockwork, reliable as the minutes ticking past one at a time, never ceasing despite the ebb and flow of humanity, he stalked into the room where I had settled in to the partially deflated, queen size air mattress, kneeled at the side of the bed, nothing visible but his figure silhouetted by the light from the streetlamp streaming in through the window behind him. He refused to leave, he asserted, until I came back to bed with him. To our bed. I prickled. This is my bed now, I growl, even as I turn over in my mind that this bed is uncomfortable. I want to go back to my big, comfy bed and melt into the down comforter and sleep and forget all of this. But I can't. It's my pride, my damn pride, that has exiled me into the guest bedroom. My feelings have been hurt, and, damn you, this will not stand. He eases his hand into mine, somehow finding it in the dark quiet of the early morning hours, his thumb instinctively caressing the ring on my left hand. I snatch the hand away, roll over, will him to leave, and then, pray he does the opposite of what I've willed him to. To stay here, in the dark and the quiet and the angry and to stay with me. To fight for me, and to love me despite my damn pride. So the question remains, why am I marrying him?

Daytime. The same bed. He's flopped down, cycling kit half stripped off after an invigorating, exhausting afternoon ride. I've come and laid down, perpendicular to him, stroking the disarray of thinning hair as he draws in heavy, satisfied breaths. He rolls over onto his stomach, his face squished between the air mattress and the weight of his shoulder. Golden soft afternoon sun streams in the windows and the quiet is light and effortless. Quiet but for the soft scrape of three day old stubble on the vinyl of the mattress, until suddenly he shifts, extends his arm, slowly intertwines his fingers with mine, kisses my fingertips. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you." He says, his eyes locked on mine, gentle but serious as sin. His earnesty disarms me. As I lay on this mattress, in our first house together, half sick with the flu, hair ratty and face pale and plain without makeup, the first thought that springs to his head is I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you? This, I think, this is why I'm marrying him.