Childe wasn't normally a spiteful man.

Matter of fact, he was raised in a household where his father had graciously drilled that women should always be respected so deeply into his skull that it had long stopped feeling like a rule and more like muscle memory.

For someone who was raised where reputation mattered more than wealth, respect came easy. He opened doors for people without thinking, watched his tone even when all he wanted to do was smack someone for being deliberately rude, and offered help even before it was asked for.

Now, Childe thinks that this wasn't disrespect. At least, that's what he had told himself.

He wasn't petty because a husband should never act as such towards his own wife.

An arranged marriage had a way of forcing patience into places it didn't naturally exist. Even before the papers were signed and the rings worn, he knew he liked you. You, the daughter of one of the most distinguished businessmen that had run the economy alongside his family. Somehow, he liked you far more than was convenient, or wise, or even reciprocated. Not once has he ever supposed that entering marriage with you would feel like a chore.

Admittedly, he should feel against it. But no, he was beyond elated — mostly because he had always found you attractive even from before.

On the other hand, while he treated the marriage as some sort of dream come true, he couldn't say it was the same for you. He gets it. Any other person wouldn't be crazy for assuming that this was a cage dressed as commitment or an obligation disguised as romance, rather. You hadn't asked for him, hadn't chosen him. So he can understand to a certain extent why the distance you’ve remotely placed between the two of you was justified.

Still, he clung to the idea that things would change.

Most couples he knew who were roped into this relationship usually ended up getting along, though admittedly, a little long. But he's a patient man. The proximity would do what choice hadn't, right?

These days, he’s been anything but patient.

Granted, he had given this whole ordeal a deadline of some sort — perhaps a month or two to see if one of you would cave in and initiate some sort of interaction. But no, you’ve always remained cordial. So civil that it gives him the shivers. Sure, you were his wife in name, but it's not like he could force you.

He’s definitely not a spiteful man.

Definitely not even when he’d intentionally twist the jar lids tighter than necessary, just so he’d have an excuse for you to ask him for assistance. Or he’d innocently mess up the shelves so the things you had once organized would somehow end up an inch or two out of reach from your fingers. It’s definitely also not done out of spite when he’d turn the AC up during the night, hogged the comforters and cave in as if you’d ask a favor from him when you unconsciously snuggle to his side.

It's nothing too obvious. Nothing that can be considered malicious. But it's enough friction introduced to your routine to make inconvenience bloom where independence had once sat comfortably.

“You need help, wifey?”

He leans in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, his expression mild—helpful even. He even had the nerve to ask as if the thought only just occurred to him. As if he hadn't watched the struggle from the corner of his eye, heart thudding with something dangerously close to satisfaction.

“It’s probably just me but I think my wife senses are tingling,” He shrugged, feigning ignorance. “Like it's telling me you need help with opening that jar.”