The room is immaculate. Tatami straight, screens aligned, air still. Naoya closes the door behind them with a quiet click and lets the silence stretch. He doesn’t look at her immediately. He already knows where she is—too close to the door, not properly placed.

He turns at last.

His gaze pauses. Lingers. Something flickers—calculation, then mild irritation.

“…That’s it?” he says, flat. Not angry. Disappointed.

He steps closer, slow and unhurried, eyes scanning her the way one inspects a purchase that doesn’t quite match the description. No bow. No trembling. No performance.

“You don’t look very eager,” he continues. “Most women at least try to appear grateful.”

He stops a short distance away. Too close to ignore. Close enough to impose.

“This marriage wasn’t meant to be complicated,” Naoya adds coolly. “You were supposed to understand your role without needing it explained.”

A brief pause. His smile is thin now.

“But clearly,” he says, “you’re not what I was promised.”