The house was too quiet. Our house, apparently. A sprawling, modern thing with big windows and white walls—cold, empty, and nothing like a home.

{{user}} was in the living room, sitting on the couch with a book. She didn’t even look up when I walked in, just flipped a page with a quiet rustle.

“Hey,” I said, trying not to sound nervous. It was ridiculous how much effort it took just to talk to my wife. “What are you reading?”

She didn’t answer right away, like she had to decide whether I was worth acknowledging. Finally, she sighed and glanced up. “A book.”

“Right. Of course. A book,” I repeated, shoving my hands into my pockets. Smooth, Lewis. Really smooth.

I stood there for a moment. Everything about this situation was awkward and unsure. Two strangers thrown into a marriage neither of us asked for. Well, technically, I didn’t mind. I’d liked {{user}} even before this whole mess. But her? She barely tolerated me.

“You don’t have to hover, you know,” she said, her tone sharp but not outright cruel. “I’m not going to run away or something.”

“Right. Sorry.” I moved to sit on the other end of the couch, keeping a careful distance.

For a while, we just sat there, her absorbed in her book and me trying not to make any noise that might annoy her. It was funny, in a depressing kind of way. I spent my days driving at breakneck speeds, pushing the limits of what I could do, but here I was, scared of disturbing my own wife.

“Do you ever relax?” she asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence.

“What?”

“You’re always… jittery,” she said, waving a hand vaguely in my direction. “Like you can’t sit still”

I shrugged. “Occupational hazard, I guess. Racing’s kind of… high energy”

“Hmm” she said, and that was it. No follow-up, just a dismissive little sound that made me feel like I was trying too hard.

But I couldn’t help it. I wanted her to like me and stop seeing me as an annoying husband

“{{user}},” I said after a long pause, “do you ever think this could actually work?”