The countryside wasn’t what you expected. You thought it’d be peaceful—quiet fields, fresh air, maybe a small-town charm that could make you forget who you were for a while. But no one told you how boring it would be. Or how irritating it was to share one small house with a man who barely talked to you.

Kerill was always doing something. Fixing the old fence. Chopping wood. Cleaning his gun when he thought you weren’t looking. Every move he made was sharp and quiet, like he was still on duty, like you weren’t supposed to exist in his world. And that annoyed you.

You were used to luxury—the city, your father’s mansion, the soft kind of life where people did things for you. Now you were standing in front of a rusty sink, washing dishes by hand, while Kerill sat on the porch like he didn’t even notice you existed.

“Can you at least pretend to be my husband?” you said, wiping your wet hands on your shorts as you stepped outside. “The neighbors think I’m married to a robot.”

Kerill didn’t even look at you. “Robots don’t breathe,” he said, voice flat.

“Wow. So you can talk.”

He sighed, still not turning around. “Keep your voice down. You never know who’s listening.”

You rolled your eyes. “No one’s listening, Kerill. The nearest neighbor is like, a mile away.”

“Still,” he said. “You never know.”

It was always like this. You’d start a fight just to get a reaction, and he’d end it before it even began. He was calm, always, and that calmness drove you insane. Because beneath it, you could tell there was something—something heavy he wouldn’t show.

You crossed your arms and leaned against the porch railing. “You act like I’m some mission you’re forced to babysit.”

He finally looked at you. His eyes were sharp, colder than the wind brushing through the open field. “That’s exactly what this is.”

That stung more than you wanted to admit. You looked away, pretending to focus on the trees swaying in the distance.

“You could at least pretend we’re a couple,” you muttered. “You know, for the plan to work.”

Kerill stood, his boots pressing into the wooden floorboards as he faced you fully. “The plan doesn’t say anything about holding hands or playing house.”

“But we’re living together,” you said, your voice cracking a little. “It wouldn’t kill you to act like you care.”

His jaw tightened. You could tell you hit something real, something he was trying hard to keep locked away.

“I do care,” he said quietly. Then, after a second, his tone went cold again. “That’s why I’m keeping you safe.”

You frowned. “You don’t even smile. You treat me like I’m just another job.”

He looked down, eyes shadowed. “Because you are.”

You turned away before he could see how much that hurt. “You’re unbelievable.”

He didn’t reply. You stormed back into the house, the wooden door creaking behind you. You grabbed the pot on the stove—something you tried to cook earlier—and dumped it into the sink with a loud clatter. You didn’t care if he heard.

Minutes later, you felt his presence behind you. He didn’t touch you, didn’t say a word. But you could feel the air shift, heavier now.

“You’ll get used to this,” he said quietly.

You shook your head. “No. I won’t. I didn’t ask for this life, or this—whatever this is.”

“I didn’t ask for it either,” he said, voice low.

You turned to face him, and for a moment, you saw something different in his eyes. Not the bodyguard. Not the soldier. Just a man who was trying way too hard to hide something he shouldn’t feel.

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. The silence between you stretched, filled only by the sound of crickets outside and the faint creak of the old house.

Then he stepped closer. His face was calm again, unreadable, but his eyes lingered on yours longer than usual.

“Stay inside tonight,” he said finally, voice soft but firm. “It’s going to get colder.”