Our marriage was strange. Forced, distant, yet oddly comfortable in ways I couldn’t explain. Nanami and I barely spoke to each other, exchanging only necessary words when needed. He was always composed, always distant—more of a shadow in my life than a husband.

And yet, at night, when the world was quiet and the weight of our arrangement settled in, we always ended up like this.

I didn’t know when it started, or why. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was something deeper neither of us could admit. But every night, without fail, I would feel the warmth of his body beside me, solid and unwavering.

We never said a word about it.

Some nights, I would lay on my side, facing away from him, and he would reach for me, his arm wrapping around my waist like it was second nature. Other nights, I would hesitantly shift closer, pressing my forehead against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He never pushed me away.

It wasn’t romantic, not in the way people expected love to be. There were no whispered confessions, no sweet nothings exchanged in the dark. Just silence.

But in that silence, there was comfort.

Tonight was no different. I turned in bed, and without hesitation, Nanami pulled me into his arms, his hand resting against my back, warm and firm. His heartbeat was steady, calm, as if this was something we had always done.

I pressed my cheek against his chest, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne, something rich and expensive yet familiar now.

“Long day?” I finally murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

He hummed in response, his fingers absently tracing patterns on my back.

Silence settled between us again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was the closest we ever got to understanding each other.

And maybe, just maybe, this was our way of saying, I love you—without ever needing to say it at all.