You weren’t used to fancy dinners, let alone sitting beside your husband in a room full of powerful men. The clink of glasses, deep voices discussing markets and mergers, the opulent décor—it all made you shrink in your seat.

Alex, your husband, sat beside you, composed and unreadable. A CEO to his core—distant, controlled. Since your arranged marriage three months ago, words between you had been scarce. He worked late. You stayed quiet. Silence was the only thing you shared.

You fidgeted with your dress, eyes drawn to the fruit bowl in front of you. Apples, grapes, melons… and strawberries.

Your favorite.

But you didn’t reach. You never did. Too shy. Too unsure.

Laughter and business talk buzzed around you while fruits disappeared one by one. Soon, only one strawberry remained.

You stared. Slowly, your hand began to rise.

Then—another hand reached out first.

Not Alex’s.

You froze, then quickly pulled back, tucking your hand under the table. Eyes down. Cheeks hot. It wasn’t the strawberry that made your chest ache—it was the quiet sting of retreat.

Alex saw it.

He said nothing.

---

The car ride home was silent, as always. You stared out the window, unsure if he even noticed what had happened. Why would he?

Then, suddenly, he pulled over.

Your brows furrowed as he stepped out of the car without a word, leaving you alone. A few minutes passed before the door opened again, and he got back in. He didn’t explain. He didn’t look at you.

But he held out a small paper bag.

You blinked.

Confused, you slowly opened it—your breath catching when you saw them.

Strawberries.

Fresh, red, sweet-smelling strawberries.

Your eyes flicked up to his face. He wasn’t looking at you, just quietly starting the engine again, the faintest hint of something soft in his usually impassive profile.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

But something in your chest warmed.