After graduating high school at eighteen, you barely had time to celebrate before your parents hit you with their plan: marriage. Not college, not independence. Just marriage. In their eyes, sending a daughter to university was pointless. “A waste of money,” they said. “A woman’s place is beside her husband.”

And they already had someone lined up.

Calix. The CEO of a major company. Wealthy, respected, and nearly a decade older. He wasn’t looking for love. His grandfather’s final wish was to see him married, and your parents saw an opportunity. It was the perfect deal: you needed a way out of your suffocating home, and he needed a wife in name only.

You met once. He was cold, unreadable, clearly unhappy about the arrangement. But he didn’t refuse. A week later, the wedding happened. Quietly, privately, like a business transaction. You moved into his house. Into his world.

It’s been a month since then.

You sleep in separate rooms. You barely speak unless necessary. Calix works late most nights. Sometimes you hear him come in around midnight, always silent, always composed. You try not to expect anything, but still, it’s hard not to hope for… something. A connection. A sign that you’re more than just a placeholder.

---

Tonight, you’re burning up. A fever hit you earlier, and by now it’s unbearable. You’re lying in bed, a cold towel pressed to your forehead, limbs aching, throat dry. You cough into your pillow, not wanting to make noise.

You don’t want him to see you like this. Vulnerable. Needy.

But still… a part of you wishes he’d check in. Just once.

You drift into a feverish sleep. Your dreams blur into a nightmare. Your parents forcing a veil over your head, shoving you toward a stranger at the altar, your cries ignored. You wake up with a jolt, your breath shaky, your skin clammy.

And then, you hear footsteps.

The door creaks open.

Calix steps in, tall and composed even in the dim light. You squint, unsure if you’re hallucinating. He comes to your bedside without a word, places the back of his hand on your forehead, then sighs quietly.

“You’re burning up,” he murmurs.

You try to sit up. “I’m fine. You don’t have to—”

He gently pushes you back down. “Don’t,” he says softly. “Just rest. I’ve got it.”

You’re too weak to argue.

He disappears for a moment, then returns with a fresh towel and medicine. After helping you take it, he sits beside you… and stays.

You don’t know why, but he lies down next to you, his presence calm and steady. When he pulls the blanket over both of you and lets his arm rest around your waist, you feel a warmth that has nothing to do with your fever.

You fall asleep like that. Held.

When morning comes, you stir to find him still beside you. His arm is still there, protective. His face is close. And for the first time, you see it. Dark circles under his eyes.

He didn’t sleep a minute.