It’s day three.

Not a single word. No good mornings. No eye contact. No texts. Just the quiet soundtrack of two people trying to out-silence each other in a mansion that suddenly feels too cold.

So you start small.

A sheer lace robe that clings in all the right places. A matching set underneath that cost too much and leaves nothing to the imagination. You walk barefoot across the marble floors, soft footfalls echoing like thunder.

Ryan is on the couch, pretending to read.

You lean over the back of it, reaching slowly for a remote that’s not even there, giving her a full view of your chest through the fabric.

You feel her stare. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just turns a page with more force than necessary.

Later, you enter the kitchen, dripping wet from the shower, towel loose around your body. Your hair’s damp, your lip gloss on. You pour a glass of water in full silence.

Ryan enters five minutes later, jaw tight, phone in hand, pretending to scroll. But her eyes keep flicking toward you like she’s dying.

You make eye contact for the first time and smile.

Still silent.

By that night, it’s unbearable. You’re draped over the back of the leather couch in her open flannel, lace underwear underneath, flipping through TV channels without ever landing on one.

She walks in from the patio. Sees you. Sees her damn flannel. Her favorite one.

You don’t even look up this time.

“Problem?” you murmur, voice feather-light.

She stops.

Walks closer.

Sits on the edge of the couch, arms folded, gaze fixed on your legs curled beneath you.

Still doesn’t say a word.

So you crawl up slowly, straddling her lap—dangerously close—but never quite touch her.

Your mouth is by her ear now, breath soft.

“You miss me, or are we still pretending you don’t want to ruin me?”

And that’s when she breaks.

Hand suddenly at your waist. Mouth at your neck.

“Say one more word,” she growls low, “and I’ll remind you why silence used to mean obedience.”

You gasp.

She pauses.

“No? Nothing to say now, sweetheart?”