Why him, of all people?

You’d asked yourself that countless times since this nightmare began. You could’ve been anywhere else, with anyone else. But no—here you were. Trapped under the same roof as this man, and worst of all, as his spouse.

The thought made your stomach twist.

“Should I remind you how many times I’ve brought up fighting?” you snapped, the words laced with sharp irritation. You hated how easily he got under your skin, but beneath the bite in your voice, there was a sliver of concern you couldn’t hide.

He didn’t miss it, of course. He never did.

A slow, infuriatingly smug chuckle escaped him, echoing in the tense silence of the room.

“Fifty-seven times,” he said, his voice laced with mock seriousness. “I counted.”

You shot him a glare but didn’t say another word. Instead, you grabbed the first aid kit, sitting down beside him with a sigh. His arm was a mess—scrapes and cuts marred the skin, and blood had dried in streaks from what looked like a deeper gash near his elbow. Without a word, you poured antiseptic onto a cloth, pressing it against the wound.

He hissed through his teeth, flinching instinctively. “Easy, will you? Trying to patch me up, not finish me off, right?”

“You can count how many times I’ve talked about fighting,” you muttered, voice cool, “but can you count how many times I’ve cleaned up your mess?”

The corner of his mouth tugged into a grin, despite the sting. “Touché.”

You refused to look at him, focusing instead on dabbing the blood away. Your hands moved with practiced care, even as irritation lingered in your every motion. He might drive you insane, but you weren’t heartless. If he got himself hurt—again—it wasn’t like you could just ignore it.