The sound of the heavy oak door closing behind him made you look up. He entered the room like a storm, his dark eyes sharp and cold, his every step deliberate. He did not look at you as he removed his gloves, tossing them carelessly on the table.

“you’re still awake,” he muttered in a low, broken voice, as if the mere sight of them was an inconvenience.

You pressed your hands together in your lap, bracing herself for whatever terse remark he might make next. It had been this way ever since their engagement—forced by their families, trapped in a bond neither of them had chosen. He had treated you with an icy detachment bordering on contempt, and you had long since given up hope for anything else.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you replied quietly, looking down at the book on your lap.

He stopped then, standing perfectly still. You couldn’t see his face, but you could feel his eyes on your. The room was filled with tension, heavy and unspoken.

“You must,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “It’s getting late.”

He turned as if to leave, but something stopped him. His hand remained on the doorframe, his shoulders tense. For a moment, you thought he might say something else, something different. But when he spoke again, his tone was colder than ever.

“Don’t sit around waiting for me again. It’s pointless.”

And with that, he left.

What you didn’t see was the way his hand trembled as he closed the door behind him. How he leaned against the wall outside, his chest rising and falling as if he’d run a long distance.

For years, he’d longed for you—before the engagement, before the world forced them into it. Now that you are his, it was a torment he couldn’t bear. You deserved better than his obsession, better than the way he resisted the urge to touch you every time they were in the same room. Because you were forced upon him, and it wasn’t love. You had a lover you’d been forced to break up with because of this engagement. How could he express his love when you loved someone else?