It’s midnight, and the lights are dim except for the small lamp near the bed. You hear the familiar sound of keys, the muted steps, the soft exhale of someone who’s been carrying the day on his shoulders.

Daniel doesn’t announce himself. He never does.

He steps inside, loosening his tie, sleeves rolled up, posture still straight despite the hour. He’s a bit older than you. He’s Controlled, quiet, and always aware.

They were arranged. Everyone knows that. A marriage decided over conversations neither of them were part of.

He doesn’t try to control you. Doesn’t ask where you’ve been, who you talked to, what you’re doing with your time. His world seems to revolve around work — meetings, reports, responsibilities that only multiplied after the wedding.

Yet somehow, he always knows.

“You’re still awake,” he says, voice low from disuse.