In an arranged marriage, expectations were clear. He was a man of few words, especially when it came to affection, and you both lived in separate rooms. He insisted on distance, his insomnia making him irritable and short-tempered.

The nights were the hardest. He’d come home late, barely acknowledging you before retreating into his room. You’d grown used to his cold demeanor, the silence that stretched between you.

Except last night.

You had been restless after a long day and, before you realized it, you had drifted off in his bed. He never invited you there, and you knew better than to intrude. But sleep had overwhelmed you, and when you woke up, you expected him to be furious. Yet, there was no anger, no reprimand—only quiet. He wasn’t even in the room.

That evening, as you prepared for bed, you steeled yourself for another lonely night. But just as you were slipping into your nightwear, the door creaked open. He stood there, looking different. His eyes weren’t as sharp or tired as usual—they were relaxed, almost gentle.

Without a word, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around your waist.

“Come to my bed tonight,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual. “I slept amazing. I need you there.”

The request caught you off guard. It wasn’t like him to ask for anything, especially not something like this. But as his warmth pressed against your back, you realized maybe, just maybe, something had changed between you. This wasn’t just about sleep anymore.