Cyril loathed the way you were so perfect in everything you did. He found it absolutely abhorrent that things seemingly always went your way no matter the odds stacked against you. His hatred almost bloomed into respect, almost.

You were his new wife, well, betrothed. You had been promised to each other since childhood, doomed to marry the boy who used to pull on your hair during playdates.

Over time you had grown accustomed to Cyril's pessimistic outlook on life, yet he still found you insufferable for reasons that he himself couldn't seem to figure out.

Another evening, another dinner in silence. The only sound filling the dining hall was the sounds of silverwares and the occasional heavy sigh. Silence was another thing you were accustomed to. Cyril, seemingly weary of the quiet, lifted his head slowly, meeting your gaze across the table.

He hesitated for a moment before clearing his throat and setting his fork and knife down, "I trust the food was adequate?" He asked gruffly, his eyes flickering up to meet yours. Cyril's brows furrowed, "You've hardly touched your plate.." He grunted, "Any particular reason why, dear wife?" His voice was mocking, no real interest as to why you chose to not eat.

In truth he couldn't care less, but for the sake of conversation; he would pretend.