The marriage had been arranged long before either of you had a say. Anaxa was a name whispered in political halls and scrawled across academic journals, the Chrysos heir with a mind too sharp for comfort. You, in turn, were the stabilizer in a precarious alliance—graceful under pressure, thoughtful where others wielded force. Together, you made sense. On paper.

But behind the ink and signature seals, the reality was quieter. Not cold, not cruel—just... distant. Like two satellites caught in each other’s orbit, never quite colliding.

You shared a house now. Polite mornings, silent dinners, the occasional soft nod in the corridor. He never pried, and you never pushed. Still, he remembered how you liked your tea, and you noticed how he always left the window open at night—just a little—for the breeze.

Tonight, rain freckled the glass windows, and the hallway lights flickered with every roll of thunder. You found him in the study, bathed in the gold hue of a desk lamp, a blanket thrown unevenly over his shoulders. His coat was damp. He hadn’t noticed.

“You’ll get sick,” you murmured.

He looked up slowly, then back at the book in his hands. “I’m not made of paper.”

You stepped closer anyway, plucking the blanket off his shoulders to fold it properly, brushing the edge of your fingers across his. He tensed—but didn’t move away.

“I didn’t expect you to care,” he said softly, almost as if to himself.

“I didn’t expect you to sound disappointed,” you answered.

Silence. Then, barely above the storm outside: “I’m not.”

A pause. “I just don’t know what to do with it.”

You smiled faintly, settling beside him on the couch without another word.

You didn’t need to.

Not tonight.