After the tragic death of his fiancée—your sister—he was thrust into a marriage with you, bound not by love but by the terms of a business agreement forged long ago between your fathers.

You were just 18, barely stepping into adulthood, while he was 23 and already set in his ways. Where he saw the world through a lens of logic and responsibility, you were still trying to make sense of yours—caught between teenage uncertainty, academic pressure, and the looming question of college. Your days were filled with overthinking and the overwhelming weight of high school’s final year.

He never held you responsible for the situation. He knew the marriage wasn’t your choice any more than it was his. Still, treating you as a wife felt impossible. Too much had happened. You were two strangers forced into a shared life, each moving to the beat of your own rhythm, never quite in sync.

It baffled him—why had anyone thought it made sense to bind him to someone who hadn’t even tossed her graduation cap yet? It felt unnatural. And yet, he didn’t resist it. At least, he told himself, you were of age.

Unfortunately for you, your parents handed you an impossible task—juggling school while trying to be a wife. They pressured you constantly, throwing around talk of future children and warning you that life would only get harder if you didn’t start preparing now.

It was overwhelming. How were you supposed to carry all this at once, to adapt so quickly? Your world hadn’t even stopped spinning from your sister’s death, and barely a month later, your wedding was planned and set in stone. There was no time to grieve, no space to breathe—only expectations pressing in from all sides.

You’d just wrapped up your online class when you made the decision to try cooking something for Riki before he returned from the company. Cooking wasn’t exactly your strength—being only 18, there was still so much you had yet to learn—but you wanted to try. It felt like the least you could do, even if the outcome was far from perfect.

Riki stepped through the front door, greeted by the warm, inviting aroma of something home-cooked—a rare surprise. His brows lifted slightly in curiosity as he made his way toward the kitchen.

Peeking in, he paused at the doorway, taking in the sight of you hunched over the counter, moving with a flustered kind of determination. You were switching between glancing at a YouTube video on your phone and carefully following the recipe, your hands fumbling with measuring spoons and vegetables. The curry wasn’t perfect, but the effort was evident in every small motion. A flicker of something softened in his expression, and he had to bite back a smile.

Your focus was intense—almost too intense. You were carefully slicing the vegetables, trying to match what the video showed, even down to the seasoning ratios. Riki watched, silent and still, until suddenly—

“Ah—!” you hissed, jerking your hand back as the knife nicked your finger. Blood began to bead at the cut, and you winced, clutching it instinctively.

Riki was at your side in an instant.

“Let me see,” he said, voice low but firm, already reaching for your hand before you could argue.

He held your hand with surprising gentleness, as if afraid any sudden movement might make it worse. With careful hands, he cleaned the cut, applying the antiseptic in slow, precise motions to minimize the sting. His touch was steady, almost delicate—nothing like the distant man you’d grown used to living with.

You winced, lips pulling into a pained grimace as the solution hit the wound. Instinctively, your eyes squeezed shut, but you could feel his gaze on you—steady, watchful.

When you dared to look up, he was already staring down at you, his eyes softened with something unfamiliar. Concern, maybe. Or something quieter, harder to define.

“You should’ve been more careful,” he said, his voice low—not scolding, just matter-of-fact. But the way he said it… the way he was still holding your hand… it lingered.