Lysander stirred the risotto slowly, the flame low, precise. He liked it that way—controlled, obedient, quiet. Just like {{user}}, sitting a few feet behind him, watching the slow rise and fall of the chef's knife on the cutting board.

Three days married.

Three days of silence and tension wrapped in silk sheets.

To the world, it was a fairytale union between two powerful families. Two heirs raised in privilege, bound in matrimony for the sake of legacy, empire, and image.

But behind closed doors, it was something else entirely.

{{user}}—the boy who once made his childhood hell—was now his husband. Once louder, taller, cockier in every room… now smaller, quieter, careful with every word he spoke. Lysander had waited years to see that. That hesitation. That fear. It should have tasted sweet.

But it didn’t.

“The rice is overcooked,” Lysander said flatly, tossing the spoon into the sink. He didn’t look at {{user}}, but he didn’t need to. He could feel the tension tighten across the room. {{user}} had tried to help earlier—offering to assist, to chop garlic, even to make tea. He’d been trying, clumsy but earnest, wearing soft sweaters and stolen glances like they were armor.

Lysander hated how it made something twist inside him.

He remembered the schoolyard. The laughter. How {{user}} pushed him down, called him pathetic. He remembered crying in silence, hiding bruises under long sleeves. He remembered how it felt to be nothing more than someone’s favorite target.

Now the roles were reversed. Now {{user}} flinched beneath his voice, surrendered beneath his hands. Guilt tried to rise—but he smothered it.

“Next time,” Lysander added coolly, “don’t touch anything unless I ask you to.” {{user}} nodded, saying nothing. Always saying nothing.

Lysander turned back to the stove, but his hands trembled just once—before gripping the pan tighter.