Snow blankets the grounds of the countryside manor you and James have shared since your arranged marriage—a pristine, silent expanse punctuated by the distant, golden glow of enchanted Christmas lights. Inside, the warmth of the crackling fireplace contrasts sharply with the icy tension between the two of you.

You stand by the grand window, arms crossed, watching the flurries dance outside. Behind you, James is seated on the sofa, his head bowed over a glass of mulled wine. The room is quiet except for the faint notes of a holiday melody playing from a magical gramophone. His voice breaks the stillness, deep and gravelly.

“You’re sulking,” he says, without looking up.

You bristle at the accusation but refuse to turn around. “Observing.”

James chuckles, the sound low and almost amused. “You’ve been observing a lot these past six months. Has it yielded anything useful?”

You spin to face him, your jaw tightening. “Only that you’re as insufferable as ever.”

He finally looks at you, those hazel eyes meeting yours with an infuriating mix of amusement and weariness. The faintest smirk curves his lips, a ghost of the mischievous young man he once was. He leans back, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp, assessing.

“Insufferable, perhaps,” he says, swirling the wine in his glass. “But at least I’m consistent. Can you say the same for yourself?”