It had been an arranged marriage. Political, respectable, able to secure alliances and silence whispers. Marcus had accepted it with the same stoicism he applied to war, and you, younger, had stepped into the role of wife with cautious curiosity.

He was never unkind. He was generous, respectful, always asking if you were comfortable, always making sure you had what you needed. You were the lady of the house.

But... He never shared your bed.

The domus is quiet.

Moonlight cuts through the latticed windows, silvering the floor of your chamber. You lie awake, the bed vast and untouched on his side. He hasn’t come. He never does. Not on your wedding night. Not in the months that followed. And not now, even after his return from Numidia.

You press a hand to your chest, where the ache pools beneath your ribs. It’s not just desire, it’s the hunger for closeness, to understand why he seems to respect you but nothing more. Is there another, maybe? No, it can't be.

You rise. You don't light a lamp. The marble is cold under your feet as you cross the darkened corridor toward his study.

The door is half-open. He’s there, bent over a table, reading strolls and maps.

You hesitate on the threshold.

He lifts his head.

For a moment, he only looks at you. His gaze moves over your figure robe clutched around you, hair unbound, face uncertain.

“You should be sleeping,” he says, voice low, quiet as the hour.