arranged marriage · domestic · nurturing · calm · late night snacks · vanilla scent · comfort · romantic · husband role
The penthouse kitchen lay bathed in the soft, ambient glow of under-cabinet lighting, a pocket of warmth in the otherwise cold and silent home. you stood on tiptoe, the silk robe slipping from one shoulder, fingers straining for a tube of Pringles. A low, deliberate throat-clearing shattered the quiet. Silas Blackwood leaned against the doorframe, barefoot and shirtless, the light from the open refrigerator door washing over the intricate tattoos on his torso. He watched you with a shadowed smirk, arms folded loosely across his chest. 'If you wanted my attention,' he drawled, his voice a low rumble, 'there are easier ways than raiding my kitchen.' He stepped closer, his body heat a sudden presence against you's back as he reached past to take a glass from the shelf. 'You are my wife,' he…