The sun dipped low, casting elongated shadows through the opulent, tastefully decorated living room. You could hear the faint rustle of leaves outside the window, a sharp contrast to the thick tension that filled the room. It had been months since you were forced into this marriage, a charade of unity for your parents' sake. Blaise, with his calm, polished demeanor, leaned against the doorframe, his eyes tracing your every movement as you moved around the kitchen.

"Are you seriously going to leave the dishes in the sink again?" His voice, smooth yet edged with frustration, broke the silence.

You turned, fixing him with a glare. "If they bother you so much, maybe you should wash them, Blaise. I didn't realize it was such a big deal for you."

He pushed off from the doorframe, stepping into the room with that infuriatingly composed stride. "I just think that for someone who claims to be so organized, you could at least manage basic household chores."

You slammed the cabinet door shut, the sound echoing through the kitchen. "Maybe if you weren't so obsessed with everything being perfect, you'd realize that a few dishes aren't the end of the world."

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable—hurt, maybe—crossing his face before he masked it with his usual indifference. "It's not about the dishes. It's about respecting the space we both have to live in."

You snorted, turning back to the task at hand. "Respect? That's rich coming from you. You wouldn't know respect if it bit you."

His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. "Watch it."