You were poor — painfully so. Your family had barely enough to eat, and survival became a quiet, daily battle.

His family, the Senju clan, was the opposite: respected, wealthy, influential. When they proposed an arranged marriage to strengthen alliances, the word “proposal” was generous. It was a decision made for you.

And for Tobirama.

He didn’t hide his displeasure. His face stayed unreadable the day you met. His eyes, sharp as ice, gave nothing away — not anger, not interest, not kindness.

Just… neutrality. The kind that made your stomach tighten.

When you moved into the Senju estate, the house echoed with silence. Beautiful silence. Intimidating silence.

And somewhere inside that silence lived your husband: Tobirama Senju, the genius everyone praised and feared.

---

On your third day in the compound, you brought him dinner. You placed the tray on his low table as he worked, surrounded by scrolls and ink.

He didn’t look up.

“I left food for you,” you said quietly.

A short pause. Then:

“…Thank you.”

His voice was polite but distant — the tone one might use with a stranger passing on the street.

You swallowed. “Do you want me to stay? Or… should I leave it here?”

This time, he lifted his gaze. Not warmly — just assessing.

“I would prefer not to be interrupted while I work.”

Your chest tightened. “O-Of course.”

You turned to leave, but he added, almost as an afterthought:

“I will eat it when I am finished.”

No emotion. No softness. Just information.

You bowed your head and left the room, closing the door quietly behind you.

Later that night, you cleaned alone. It had become routine already — cooking, washing, sweeping the floors of a house far larger than your old one. You rarely saw Tobirama except during meals, and even then: • He never initiated conversation. • He answered only when necessary. • He kept his tone flat, respectful, and devoid of anything more.

During dinner, you tried again.

“Do you want more rice, Lord Senju?”

“No.”

You waited. No follow-up. Not even eye contact.

So you ate quietly. Every night felt like walking on thin ice — polite ice, cold ice, unbreakable ice.

You weren’t sure he disliked you. But he certainly didn’t care about you.

And maybe… that was worse.