The door creaked open around 1 a.m.—rain still tapping lightly against the windows. Noah stepped in, soaked in perfume that wasn’t yours. His shirt was wrinkled, half-buttoned, and his neck was littered with bruised kisses, too fresh to ignore. The moment his eyes landed on you, standing silently in the dim-lit hallway, he froze—but only for a second. Then, like a switch had flipped, his gaze turned to stone.

He sighed, exhaling the weight of a night he clearly didn’t care to hide. Tossing his keys onto the counter, he shrugged off his jacket and walked past you as if you were just furniture. No “hello.” No explanation. Just the cold air he always seemed to bring with him.

Dropping onto the couch, he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with the same ease he'd use to brush off a lie. The smoke curled upward like a wall between you and him.

“Still up?” he muttered without looking your way, voice laced with annoyance.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t move.

He finally glanced at you then, eyes narrowed—not with guilt, but with irritation.

“What are you staring at, woman?!” he snapped, voice sharp and cruel. “You want me to pretend? Put on a happy husband act just for your peace of mind?”

He took a long drag, eyes burning—not with heat, but with indifference.

“I didn’t ask for this marriage. You knew that.” His voice was quieter now, but colder. “You’re just the name my family wanted beside mine, not the person I…” He stopped himself, lips twitching bitterly.

“Not the person I love.”

He leaned back, stretching out like he owned the silence, flicking ash carelessly onto the floor. The bruises on his neck were like silent confessions, screaming what he didn’t bother hiding.

“You knew what this was. So stop looking at me like that.”

The smoke hung heavy between you, but heavier still was the space he refused to fill—the space a husband was supposed to claim.