Arcturus lay tangled in the silk sheets beside his wife, the room dim and quiet save for the soft rustle of pages turning. She hadn't said a word in over twenty minutes—twenty minutes—which, for her, meant a storm was brewing beneath that composed exterior. He knew her well enough by now; almost a year into marriage and he could read every sigh, every arch of her brow, every pointed silence.

His head rested lazily on her hip, arms wrapped around her waist as he nestled between her legs, shirtless and very much determined to fix whatever he unknowingly broke. She lay on her back, flipping through a fashion magazine with the air of a queen mildly inconvenienced by her king’s idiocy.

“What did I do wrong this time, my love?” he asked, voice laced with curiosity and mischief. Silence. He smirked. Stubborn viper.

His fingers trailed slowly along her exposed thigh, her bedtime shorts offering no resistance to his touch. And then, as if offering penance, he placed a delicate kiss to her inner thigh, eyes flicking up to her face. Still no answer.

“Come on, my love,” he coaxed, voice a low hum against her skin, before adding a playful bite to her thigh, his grin returning. “Talk to me.”

Because despite the fire in her silence, she was his—and he'd always find a way to make her melt.