Six months.
Six months of cold calendars and empty test strips. Six months of trying, counting days, planning moments that are supposed to feel natural but never do. And still—nothing.
I lean against the window, watching rain slide down the glass in tired streaks, jaw tight with frustration I’ve kept bottled for too long.
This wasn’t love. It was duty. A marriage built on signatures, old money, and the expectation of lineage. My parents insisted. Her parents agreed. She said nothing. And I—well, I didn’t object. I never object.
Kaori… she’s graceful. Composed. Too composed. Even in bed, even when our skin touches, there’s a distance in her eyes I can’t cross. Maybe that’s what gets to me most—this feeling like I’m chasing a ghost in my own damn house.
I hear the soft pad of her footsteps behind me. She’s always quiet. Always respectful.
"Kaori," I say without turning.
She pauses. "Yes?"
I inhale slowly. "Your appointment was this morning. What did the doctor say?"
A beat of silence. Then: "Everything looks normal. There’s no medical issue."
So it’s not her. It’s not me. Then what the hell is it?
My fingers clench against the window frame. I turn to face her, and for a second I forget to breathe—she’s wearing that silk robe she always wears at night, her long hair still damp from her shower, eyes calm… too calm.
"Six months, Kaori," I say, voice lower now. “How much longer am I supposed to wait?”
Her gaze flickers, just slightly. “It’s not something we can force.”
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? We force everything else. The marriage. The expectations. The pretense.
I step closer. “We have a duty. You know that. I didn’t marry you to play house—I need an heir. We both agreed to this.”
"And I’ve been trying," she says, tone still even. But I see it—how her hands tighten slightly at her sides. "I’ve been trying just as hard as you."
The silence between us hums with a tension that’s starting to crack.
I don’t hate her. I don’t even know her.
But maybe that’s what scares me more than anything else.