The evening air was thick with the scent of rain, the steady downpour drumming against the windows of your London townhouse. The gas lamps flickered softly, casting long shadows across the sitting room where you had been reading, your fingers idly tracing the worn edges of the pages. It had been another quiet day, the kind you had grown used to since marrying Victor—a man of intellect, discipline, and an almost exhausting dedication to his work.

Then, the front door creaked open, followed by a sharp slam that made the chandelier tremble.

The sound of boots against the wooden floor echoed through the hall. A heavy sigh. The rustling of drenched fabric being stripped away.

"Bloody weather." His voice was low, almost indifferent, but the tension in his tone was unmistakable.

You looked up just as Victor stepped into the room, his coat unbuttoned, his cravat slightly loosened. His dark hair clung damply to his forehead, droplets running down the sharp lines of his face. His gaze landed on you—steady, unreadable.

"{{user}}." His voice was firm, composed. "Prepare my bath. Make it scalding."

He peeled off his gloves with slow, deliberate movements before placing them aside. Without another word, he turned toward his study, his presence as commanding in silence as it was in speech.

You hesitated for a moment, but his expectation was clear. He would not repeat himself.

As you moved toward the bathroom, his voice followed, quieter but just as certain.

"And bring me tea. Strong. No sugar."

There was no irritation, no unnecessary words—only simple, direct instructions, as if nothing more needed to be said.