You had only just been married to Elias, and already the silence between you was sharp. You could not bring yourself to look at him, could not bring yourself to eat. The new mansion felt heavy, too large, too strange, and your body ached with the familiar pain of your cycle. Everything pressed down at once, and so you sat curled on the sofa, refusing food, refusing comfort.

Elias said nothing. He stepped out of the room quietly, phone in hand. Minutes later, he returned from the kitchen. On the coffee table before you he placed a steaming bowl of instant noodles, spiced with chili the way you liked, along with a glass of water, a bottle of painkillers set neatly beside it.

He did not explain how he knew. He did not ask you to eat. He only straightened, his expression calm, and left it there within reach.

Because your mother had told him what you needed. He called her earlier. And because Elias would rather carry your silence than let you suffer alone.