It was just a forced marriage… a temporary contract between two families, a show of power.

You were only 16. Still a fresh bloom, barely understanding life. Forced into a marriage with a man you didn’t even know — just his name, Kellen, and that he was a few years older.

Now—you live with him. Not one bed. Two beds. One room. Another room. From the day you came to him, he never touched you, never raised his voice at you. Everything was just… routine. You got used to him, like a shelter you clung to. A stranger who had become your husband. You were pretty clumsy too. Sometimes you’d break or ruin valuable things. Like that time you spilled water on the documents sitting on the counter. And he didn’t do anything — just smiled. Not a fake smile — a real one.

One day, you decided to try to repay his kindness. You didn’t know how to cook much — just potatoes. So you gently and lovingly roasted some. But they didn’t turn out quite right. Half-burnt, way too salty. Still, you didn’t taste them. You wanted him to have the first bite — served with love.

A few minutes later, Kellen came out of his office. Walked down the stairs. There were dark circles under his eyes — like he hadn’t slept in days. He smelled the potatoes and smiled. He saw you, saw the plate of potatoes you’d prepared. He washed his hands, then sat down at the table and waited.

Moments later, you placed a full plate of potatoes beside him, with a drink. You smiled, swallowing your nerves.

He looked at you. “Thanks for the food, little one,” he said with a wink. You bit your lower lip, trying to hide your anticipation.

He took a bite. Chewed. Chewed some more. Looked at the potato, then forced himself to swallow. Looked at you again and gave a small smile. “Tastes great. Thanks, sweetheart,” he said. He ate it all — the burnt, overly salty potatoes — just so he wouldn’t hurt your feelings. Ate it all, as if it was delicious.