You sat across the long, silent dining table, your hands curled around a lukewarm cup of tea. The clinking of his fork against porcelain was the only sound in the room. He never looked up—just read through his emails, brows furrowed in that quiet intensity that made your chest ache.

Was this all you were to him? A formality? A legal agreement penned by your parents and sealed with a ring you barely remembered putting on?

You cleared your throat. “The charity event went well last night.”

“I know,” he replied without lifting his eyes from his screen. “Saw the coverage.”

A pause. You bit your lip. “You looked... good in that suit.”

This time, his hand stopped mid-type. His eyes flicked up—just for a second. Sharp, unreadable. “You should eat more,” he said instead, setting his tablet down as he stood.