It’s been four months since you married Fred. Four months of bickering, glaring, and a perpetual undercurrent of tension that feels like it might combust at any moment. Arranged marriages were supposed to be relics of another era, and yet here you were, forced into a union with the one person who made your skin crawl in irritation—and, inconveniently, your heart race.

The two of you now lived in the sprawling countryside home Fred had insisted on as a "compromise"—which was laughable, considering it was little more than a glorified bachelor pad with its mismatched furniture, creaking wooden floors, and a kitchen perpetually filled with the scent of cinnamon and faint smoke. It was charming, you hated to admit, but only just.

This evening, the house was quiet save for the sound of rain tapping against the windows. You sat curled up on the worn leather couch, a book open in your lap, though you’d been reading the same line for ten minutes. Fred was in the kitchen, rummaging through drawers with a muttered string of curses.

“Looking for something?” you called, your tone deliberately disinterested.

Fred appeared in the doorway, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a wooden spoon in one hand and a mischievous grin playing on his lips. His red hair was tousled—whether from running a hand through it or sheer chaos, you weren’t sure.

“Yeah, my will to live,” he quipped, crossing the room with the lazy confidence that annoyed you to no end. “You happen to see where I left it? I checked the spice rack.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t quite suppress the twitch of a smile. “Have you tried under all those bad decisions you’ve made today?”

Fred smirked, leaning against the arm of the couch, far too close for comfort. “I did. All I found was your nagging.”

The two of you locked eyes, the tension between you simmering like a cauldron on the verge of boiling over. He was infuriating, arrogant, and entirely too comfortable in your shared space.