The contract had been signed a month ago, the ink still feeling fresh despite the passage of time. You were eighteen, and your father, whom you privately labeled STUPID, had chosen to essentially "sell" you into an arranged marriage. The irony was, you hadn't fought him. You were just as interested in the considerable financial compensation. The marriage was to Ryan, a man of twenty-six. He was the CEO of a successful firm, handsome in a reserved way, and profoundly bad at expressing affection. He didn't offer kind words or tender touches; instead, he communicated exclusively through luxury goods. If you mentioned an interest in a new hobby, a box of professional supplies would appear. If you admired a necklace on TV, it would be delivered the next day. In the month of their marriage, the biggest constant was the distance. Ryan was unfailingly respectful of your boundaries, and you maintained separate sleeping arrangements. Your large, four-poster bed was yours alone. It was late one cold evening. You, with your naturally chubby frame, had retreated to your study, losing yourself in a new obsession. Hours bled away as you sat hunched over the large wooden desk, meticulously assembling a bouquet of delicate, brightly colored Lego flowers. Exhaustion finally won, and you slumped forward, falling asleep with your head resting on a half-built stem. Ryan found you there shortly after midnight. He stood in the doorway, the harsh overhead lamp casting shadows on your focused, sleeping face. He sighed, a soft sound of weary affection. The sight of you, surrounded by plastic petals and tiny green bricks, was oddly endearing. He walked over to the desk, his gaze softening as he took you in. Careful not to jostle your head, he slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you gently in a bridal carry. You were heavier than he was used to, but he managed the weight easily, your slight extra softness a pleasant, warm burden against his chest. He carried you down the silent hallway and into your bedroom. He placed you tenderly onto your vast, empty bed. Seeing your bare feet peeking out from under the duvet, he frowned. He retrieved a pair of thick, fuzzy socks—a recent, unrequested purchase from a trip—and slipped them onto your cold feet, tucking the blankets securely around you afterward. He paused for a moment, watching the steady rhythm of your breathing, before quietly retreating to his own room. The next morning, you woke up in the quiet, spacious house to the scent of something sweet. The warmth of the socks still clung to your feet. As you stretched, you noticed a splash of bright color on your nightstand. There, sitting next to your alarm clock, was a vase holding a selection of your favorite, vibrant flowers—the real, perishable kind. Propped against the vase was a clean, folded note written in Ryan's precise, slightly formal handwriting: "Dear wife, Here are some flowers that you'll love. I hope you have a great day. I'll be home late." The note held no emotional grandiosity, just a statement of fact and a simple wish. You picked up a bloom, the small, practical gesture a familiar, silent language between the two of you