You didn’t choose Riki, and he didn’t choose you.

Your marriage was arranged with careful precision, signed off by families who believed stability mattered more than desire. Now you live together in a house that feels far too big for two people who barely know how to exist in the same space.

Cleaning is easy. You can scrub floors until they shine, organize every room without effort. But the kitchen is different. Everything there feels dangerous in your hands—the heat, the knives, the way even the smallest mistake turns into chaos.

Riki has noticed your struggle.

“We can hire someone,” he said once, tone even.

“A maid. A cook.”

You shook your head immediately. “I want to learn.”

He studied you for a moment before responding.

“Then be careful.”

Tonight, you’re alone in the kitchen again, determined not to fail. The oil heats faster than you expect, snapping loudly as you add the food. The sound startles you. Your grip slips.

Pain explodes along your wrist.

You gasp as hot oil splashes your skin, the pan tilting dangerously. Smoke curls upward. The smell of smoke fills the air.

“Ah shoot—”

You clutch your wrist, heart racing, stumbling toward the sink—throbbing in pain from how big the wound was

Footsteps thunder down the hallway.

“What happened?” Riki’s voice cuts in sharply as he rushes into the kitchen upon the sound of your voice.

“I’m fine,” you start, but he’s already at your side.

“Don’t lie.” He grabs your wrist gently but firmly, turning it under the light. His jaw tightens the moment he sees the reddened skin. “You're hurt

“It’s not that bad—”

“It is bad if you keep doing this,” he snaps, reaching for the cold water and pulling your hand under it. “I told you to be careful.”

His grip steadies, protective despite the irritation in his voice.

“Do you have any idea how easily this could’ve been worse?” he says, eyes fixed on your injury as he holds your hand in his.

You end up on the couch beside him, his thigh pressed lightly against yours as he cradles your wrist in his hand. A small medkit sits open on the table, its contents neatly spread out as he focuses on you.

You flinch when he applies the ointment, a sharp sting making you inhale softly. He pauses, lifting his gaze to meet yours—stern, unreadable.

“Stop moving,” he says quietly, firm but controlled. “I’m trying not to make it hurt.”

He resumes, dabbing the ointment carefully with a cotton swab, his touch gentler than his tone as he wraps the bandage around your wrist.