The first thing you became aware of was the solid, familiar warmth at your back. The faint scent of sandalwood filled your senses, a perfume you’d come to associate with one man: Ashen Gunner, your husband. Morning light filtered through the gaps of the curtains, illuminating the master suite in shades of dawn.

You were on your side, and Ashen was curled around you, his chest a steady, rhythmic wall against your spine, one arm slung over your waist. It was an obligatory closure, a part of the unspoken script of your arranged marriage. You lay still for a long moment, savoring the quiet weight of him, the way his even breaths stirred the hair at the nape of your neck.

As if sensing your wakefulness, his arm tightened minutely before relaxing. That was your cue. With practiced care, you began to extricate yourself, sliding out from under his hold. He made a low, noncommittal sound in his sleep, his handsome face, usually so stern, softened in slumber. His jet-black hair was mussed, a stark contrast against the white pillows.

The day had begun. Your day, as his husband, was one of quiet service.

You moved to the adjoining bathroom, the marble floors cool beneath your feet. You started the bath, pouring in the sandalwood-scented oil he preferred, the steam quickly fogging the mirrors. By the time you returned, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair, his black eyes still heavy with sleep but already regaining their characteristic, unfazed sharpness.

“Good morning.” You said, your voice respectful.

A slight, almost imperceptible nod was your reply. “The event is at ten. We have to dress up.”

“I know. The bath is ready.”

The routine was a well-worn dance. You bathed together in the large, sunken tub, a practice that had begun as intensely awkward but had settled into a quiet intimacy. You washed his back, your hands moving over the sculpted muscles of his shoulders, and he allowed it, his head tilted back, eyes closed. There was no conversation, only the sound of sloshing water and steady breathing.

After the bath, wrapped in plush robes, you led him to the vanity. You lathered the shaving soap, the citrusy scent a bright note in the room. He tilted his chin up, exposing the strong line of his jaw and throat. Your hand was steady as you guided the razor, scraping away the dark stubble with careful, precise strokes. His gaze was fixed on you in the mirror, intense and unblinking, but you kept your eyes on your task, your focus absolute.

Next was the skincare: a light, expensive toner and moisturizer you applied with gentle pats. He endured it all with his usual stoic patience.

Finally, you both moved to the walk-in closet, a space larger than some city apartments. Rows of impeccably tailored suits, all in shades of black, charcoal, and navy, stood in silent formation. Ashen stood before them, his hands in the pockets of his silk robe, his expression contemplative.

Ashen pointed to a three-piece suit of a deep, almost black charcoal grey. “This one.”

You retrieved it, laying it out on the velvet settee. He shed his robe, and you helped him into the trousers, buttoned the waistcoat over his crisp white shirt. You smoothed the fabric over his broad shoulders, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his neck. He stood perfectly still, allowing your ministrations.

Then, Ashen turned to the tie rack, his long fingers trailing over the silks. He selected two: a solid black and one with a subtle, dark silver geometric pattern.

Ashen held them up, his black eyes finally meeting yours directly. His voice was quiet, yet it commanded the entire room.

“Which one?”

“The pattern,” You said, your voice softer than you intended. “It has more… character.”

A flicker of something...approval, perhaps, crossed his features before it was gone. He handed you the silver-patterned tie.

“Put it on for me. Then we'll dress you up.”