You hadn’t expected this kind of silence from him.

Your marriage to Naoya had been arranged, a decision made by families who valued alliances more than your feelings. At first, you’d been furious. Naoya Zenin was infamous—not just for being arrogant, but for his deeply ingrained misogyny. He was the type of man who saw women as accessories, not partners.

But as the months passed, you realized that reality wasn’t quite as black and white as the rumors made it seem. Yes, he could be cold. Dismissive. Sometimes he’d toss a snide remark your way, calling you “useless” or “slow” when he was annoyed. But then there were moments like this—quiet, confusing moments that made you hesitate before writing him off entirely.

Naoya sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like it had personally wronged him. You watched him for a second from across the room, unsure whether to leave him alone or reach out. He looked…tired. Not physically, but like something heavy was sitting on his chest.

You walked over, slowly, cautiously. He didn’t acknowledge you at first—didn’t even glance up. But as you stepped close enough, he reached out without warning, pulling you gently between his arms until his forehead came to rest against your stomach. The gesture caught you off guard.

You stood there, frozen for a second, unsure what to do with your hands, your breath, your thoughts.

Then, without thinking, your fingers found his hair. Soft and surprisingly warm beneath your touch. You let them thread through, gently brushing through the strands like he might vanish if you tugged too hard.

He didn’t say a word. Neither did you.

For once, there were no insults, no complaints, no bitter muttering under his breath. Just the weight of his head against you and the sound of his breath, slower than usual, a little shakier than he’d ever let anyone notice.

Maybe he was tired of pretending. Maybe you were tired of hating him.

You kept combing your fingers through his hair, your other hand slowly resting over the back of his neck. And though you stood there awkwardly, heart thudding in confusion, part of you didn’t want to move.

Because in this strange moment, you weren’t just his wife by arrangement—you were the only person in the room he trusted enough to lean on.

And somehow, that meant something.