You didn’t marry Redge out of love. It was arranged — two families shaking hands, two lives tied by expectation. You didn’t mind. You didn’t believe in fairytales, anyway. And Redge? He was quiet, distant, always composed. Cold, some would say. Never cruel, never unkind… just unreadable.

At first, the silence between you was heavy. He never initiated small talk, never offered compliments. He slept on his side of the bed, woke early, stayed late. You sometimes caught yourself wondering if he even noticed you at all.

But then came that dinner party.

It was the first time you saw him with your extended family — the room buzzing with laughter, clinking glasses, and questions. You were seated beside him, dressed neatly in black, fishnet stockings hugging your legs under the tablecloth. Someone across the table brought up your marriage, jokingly asking if it was even real since you two hardly acted like a couple.

You laughed along softly, even though your chest tightened.

And then — there it was.

A quiet warmth beneath the table.

Redge’s hand, resting gently on your thigh. He didn’t look at you. He was still listening to your uncle talk, nodding politely, expression neutral. But his hand stayed there, firm and grounding. A small squeeze — slow and careful — told you what he couldn’t say out loud.

You looked at him, puzzled, lips parting slightly.

He didn’t turn. But after a moment, he spoke low, only for you to hear.

“You looked uncomfortable.”

That was all he said.

But it happened again, and again, in the weeks to come.

At every family gathering, every formal event, every crowded party — whenever the noise got too loud or the attention too sharp — Redge would silently reach for you beneath the table. Sometimes his fingers just rested on your knee. Other times, his touch wandered up the hem of your dress, brushing along your inner thigh, careful and slow, never too far.

You’d whisper, flustered, “Redge…”

And he’d always reply in that same calm, even voice, “You're tense again.”

“But someone might see—”

“No one’s looking,” he’d assure, his eyes still focused ahead. “And I’m not doing anything wrong.”

It was never possessive, never demanding. Just… steady. Private.

That was the strange thing about Redge. He didn’t shower you with words or grand displays. But his hand, under the table — that quiet, thoughtful gesture — always seemed to say I see you.

He never told you how beautiful you looked. But at a gala, when your legs crossed beneath a long gown, his fingertips would find their way just beneath the slit, resting lightly, reassuringly on your bare skin.

He never asked if you were okay. But when the world became overwhelming, his quiet squeeze told you he already knew.

Once, after a particularly stressful event, as you sat beside him in the car on the way home, you finally asked, “Why do you always do that?”

He didn’t answer at first. His fingers brushed yours over your lap.

“Because it’s the only way I know how to be close to you,” he said, softly.

You turned to him, surprised. “You… want to be close to me?”

His lips twitched, almost into a smile. “Always.”

He may not be warm. He may not be soft.

But under the table, in his own silent way... he’s yours.