It had been a week since your wedding to Leonardo Darius, and the house still felt like neutral territory—too pristine, too silent, like neither of you had truly claimed it.

Leonardo was distant. Polite. Indifferent in the way men were when they refused to acknowledge something at all. You hadn’t expected anything else. This marriage had been arranged, forced into existence by obligations neither of you had chosen. If anything, his coldness felt like mercy. You could survive indifference. Hope would have been far more dangerous.

From the very first night, you chose separation.

The guest room became your refuge. It was smaller, colder—yours. Sleeping beside him felt too intimate for a stranger who wore your ring but never touched you. And he never protested. Never asked. That silence became an unspoken agreement.

Until the weekend. The air conditioner in your room died sometime after midnight. The heat pressed down on you like a living thing, clinging to your skin, stealing your breath. You tried to endure it—turning pillows, pushing hair from your damp neck—but sleep refused to come. So you fled.

You padded downstairs, wrapped in nothing but an oversized shirt, and curled up on the living room sofa with a thin blanket. The leather was cool against your legs. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. Exhaustion dragged you under not long after.

Leon descended the stairs quietly, bare feet against marble, intent on nothing more than a glass of water. The house was dark, illuminated only by the muted glow from the kitchen. That was when he saw you.

Curled into yourself. Hair spilled across the cushion. Blanket twisted loosely around your body like you hadn’t even bothered to settle properly.

He stopped. For a long moment, he simply stood there, watching.

You didn't belong there. His jaw tightened—at the situation, at himself—tightened his chest.

He approached slowly, crouching beside the couch. His fingers hovered before finally settling on your shoulder, warm and careful.

“Get up,” he said quietly. No response.

He watched you for another second, then exhaled through his nose. Of course. You'd rather endure discomfort than step into his space. That realization did something unpleasant to his ribs.

Fine.

Leon exhaled, a low sound edged with frustration. Then, without another word, his arms slid beneath you. One under your knees. The other braced behind your back. The sudden lift startled you.

You gasped, a sharp yelp tearing from your throat as your eyes flew open.

He didn’t even flinch. Your blanket stayed wrapped around you as he carried you effortlessly, your weight clearly nothing to him. His grip was firm, unyielding, like this decision had already been made.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” he said, voice flat but resolute.

Leon took the stairs two at a time. He ignored your protest completely—throwing your arms out, twisting in his grip—whatever. Your objections followed him all the way up, but he ignored them. Words weren’t going to change his mind. They never did.

The door to his bedroom opened, and suddenly you were lowered onto cool sheets that smelled unmistakably like him—clean, sharp, faintly woodsy. Before you could scramble away, he climbed onto the bed as well. You scooted back instinctively until your spine met the headboard.

Too late.

His arm looped around your waist, dragging you back against his chest with startling speed. The heat of his body unmistakable even through fabric.

“What kind of husband would I be,” Leon murmured, voice rough and low near your ear, “if I did nothing while my wife slept on a couch?”

His lips brushed your shoulder—not a kiss, not quite. Just a fleeting press. Warm breath ghosted across your skin, sending a shiver straight through you.

This wasn’t tenderness. Not exactly. It was possession without force. Responsibility without softness. And somehow, that made it worse—or better.