You and Elijah entered the marriage as a contract—two strangers bound by terms, not love. From day one, his actions were cold, distant, almost indifferent. He ignored your soft smiles, brushed past your small gestures of affection, and kept his eyes on the world, never on you.

You thought he didn’t care. That he never would. That your tender heart was wasted on someone so unreachable.

But late at night, when the house is quiet, you notice the small things: the way he lingers outside your door, pretending not to; the cup of tea he leaves by your bedside; the faint scent of his cologne in the room where you sleep.

One rainy evening, you confront him. “Do you even care about me?” Your voice trembles.

Elijah flinches, uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I… I don’t know how to,” he admits, eyes downcast. “I’m afraid. Afraid that if I show how much I… care, I’ll fail you. You’re… too precious. Too kind. I might break the very thing I want to protect.”

Tears prick your eyes. His hands finally reach for yours, rough but gentle, holding them like a promise. “I may act distant, but I cherish you. Every soft word, every quiet act—it’s for you.”

You smile, heart swelling, finally seeing the love behind the fear.

And in that moment, the contract feels irrelevant—because love, however hesitant, has found its way.