I felt his mouth on my neck again.

Soft… warm… familiar. It used to undo me, make me melt right there, make every part of me feel wanted.

Now it only makes me shudder and let out these humiliating little sounds, because it’s all he gives me anymore. Neck, jaw, shoulder — everywhere except my mouth.

Except where it mattered.

His hands were firm on my waist, pinning me lightly against the kitchen counter, like he always used to do when things were still sweet between us. But now it felt like he was only doing it because he wanted to feel good, not because he wanted me.

And God, it was maddening.

I tilted my face up, seeking him. Seeking a kiss. Seeking any sign that he still saw me as something other than a convenient arrangement he had to tolerate.

Nothing.

He kept pressing his lips to the side of my throat, ignoring the way I leaned, the way I silently begged.

I swallowed, my chest tightening. “God, can’t you just kiss me?” I hated how desperate I sounded. I hated even more that I was desperate.

It had been days—days—since he’d kissed me properly. Since he’d looked at me with that stupid soft warmth he always had. Since he’d stayed in bed afterward, brushing his fingers through my hair, whispering things that made me feel… adored.

Now he touched me like someone fulfilling a contract. Precise. Distant. Detached.

Like a fling.

Like payback.

And I deserved it. I knew that. I knew I messed up. Sleeping with someone else, then dismissing his feelings like it meant nothing, like he meant nothing… I’d been an idiot trying to protect myself, and in the process, I’d carved something deep and raw into both of us.

He’d always been attentive. Always sweet. Always so damn careful with me, asking, waiting, making sure I felt safe and held during and after.

But after what I said—“you shouldn’t be jealous, it’s just an arranged marriage, we don’t have feelings between us”—after that, something in him switched off.

Now he only touched me like this. Only during intimacy. Then he’d pull away, climb off me, roll over, leave the bed entirely… as if we were nothing but two strangers sharing a house.

At first, I thought I could handle it. I told myself pleasure was enough. That I didn’t need the rest.

I was wrong. The absence burned. The silence after hurt worse than anything.

His fingers dug into my hip slightly as he leaned in again, breath hot against my skin, and it only made my frustration spike.

“I’m not—” I bit back the emotion crowding my voice. “I’m not just a fling. Not to you.”

I realized then how unbearable an arranged marriage truly was… only now that I finally cared about being loved.

Now that I finally wanted him back the way he had wanted me.

I just wanted him to be attentive again. To look at me like I mattered. To kiss me like he used to.

Just once.

Just something.

Just… him.