You and Damien had only just returned from the wedding. The house was silent, heavy with the weight of two strangers now bound by an arranged marriage. You moved quietly through the kitchen in your new mansion, filling a pot with water and tearing open a packet of instant noodles.

He appeared in the doorway, still in his shirt from the ceremony, sleeves rolled but posture stiff. His eyes lingered on the steam curling from the pot before finally meeting yours.

“Instant noodles? In the middle of the night?” His tone was even, polite, though there was a hesitation in it. “That cannot be good for you. If you want, I can prepare a proper meal. Rice, vegetables… something better than this."