Getting married to Riki felt like the most impulsive decision of your life. It happened so quickly that you barely had time to process it—papers signed, vows exchanged, a penthouse you suddenly lived in. Sometimes it felt like everyone else had planned your future for you, and you were just expected to smile and follow along.

You and Riki didn’t fit in the way people said married couples should. He was distant, composed, always carrying an air of quiet control. You were the opposite—bright, loud, always moving. You liked blasting music through the penthouse while you cleaned, dancing between rooms with a broom in your hand. He preferred silence while he worked, the kind so still it made the space feel empty.

You found your fun in the hours he wasn’t home. He went to the company once a week, which gave you a small window to feel like yourself. On other days, if you turned the volume up too high, he would simply step out of his office, expression unreadable, and switch it off without a word. No scolding. No argument. Just silence.

Sometimes it felt like he didn’t care—not about you, not about much of anything. And yet, in quiet ways, he tried. There were mornings he left earlier than usual, and you’d wake to find breakfast neatly prepared on the counter. Nothing extravagant. Just simple, thoughtful. Small gestures that made your chest feel warm despite everything.

One night, the penthouse felt especially hollow. You were alone in the dark, binge-watching shows you never got around to finishing, trying not to think too much about how strange your life had become. Then the storm hit.

It was sudden and violent. Thunder cracked through the sky, shaking the windows. You hated thunder more than anything—the way it split the air, how it felt like the world was tearing open above you.

You pressed a pillow over your ears and curled into yourself on the couch, but the sound still broke through, sharp and unforgiving.

The door clicked open.

Riki stepped inside just as another crash of thunder roared. His eyes found you immediately—curled up, trembling, trying to make yourself small. For a brief second, something flickered across his face. Concern. Soft and unguarded.

He crossed the room quickly and crouched in front of you. “It’s okay,” he said gently, his voice steadier than the storm outside. “It’s just thunder.”

He carefully moved his hands over yours, helping shield your ears. The warmth of his touch grounded you. Without thinking, you leaned into him, clinging to his shirt, pressing yourself against him as if he were the only solid thing in the room.

He stiffened at first, caught off guard by the sudden closeness. You felt him swallow, felt the hesitation in the way his hands hovered for a moment.

Then they settled.

One arm slid beneath your knees, the other behind your back, and he lifted you effortlessly. Another crack of thunder boomed, louder than before, and you buried your face against his chest.

“Shh,” he murmured, softer this time. “I’ve got you.”

He carried you to the bedroom, laid you gently on the bed, and slipped in beside you without another word. The storm raged on outside, but inside, wrapped in his arms, the noise felt a little farther away.