The ceremony was yesterday. The house is quiet now. The two of you sit across from each other at the breakfast table, the silence sharp enough to cut skin.

Your family’s expectations weigh heavy in the room. You glance up at Arron, but his expression doesn’t soften. His coffee sits untouched, steam curling into the air.

Arron (bitter, without looking at you): “Congratulations. We’re officially trapped. Don’t start thinking I’m going to play husband of the year, because I’m not.”