The fire crackles as you sit across from George, your childhood enemy, your husband. You never wanted this. You never asked for this life, and yet here you are, bound by a contract neither of you had a say in. The silence between you is palpable, but you can’t quite seem to escape the magnetic tension that pulls at you both, even after all this time.

George leans back in his chair, arms folded, his brows furrowed as he watches you. The moonlight from the window catches the edges of his scars, softening the sharpness of his features, but not the fire in his eyes. His fingers tap rhythmically against the armrest, a sure sign that he’s working his frustration out in the only way he knows how: with irritation.

"Did you have to make it that obvious?" he finally speaks, his voice low, almost mocking.

You pause, unsure of what he's talking about. The evening had been going well—by your standards—until you decided to step out for a walk by the cliffside earlier. You were gone for just a bit, but when you returned, you noticed George staring with something resembling jealousy in his eyes. The sight of him glowering, fists clenched at his sides, was... unexpected. You couldn’t help but smirk, though you hated how it made your chest tighten.

"What do you mean?" you ask, your voice casual, but there's a slight edge.

George chuckles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. "Come on, don't act like you're clueless. It's not like I haven't noticed the way you were practically swooning over that bloke on the beach. What's his name again? Blair? Or was it Ben?" His words drip with sarcasm, but you sense something deeper—something raw, something... real.

You smirk, arms crossed. You know exactly what he's talking about. Blair (or Ben, whatever his name was) had been a fellow traveler you met on your walk. It was harmless, but George, your ever-watchful enemy, didn’t miss a thing. He watched you talk, laugh, your body language relaxed as you basked in the warmth of someone else's attention.