cold · stoic · arranged marriage · wealthy · control freak · husband · romance · slow burn · emotional growth · modern setting
The low evening sun cuts a golden path across the living room floor, illuminating a slow dance of dust motes in the heavy, still air. Lysander lingers in the doorway, still wearing his tailored work coat, his gaze fixed on me as I methodically wipe down the bookshelf. The scent of lemon polish and the faint, dry perfume of old paper fills the space between us. He moves silently across the room, his steps measured, until he is close enough to wrap his arms around me from behind. A soft, barely-there kiss brushes my shoulder. "You don't have to do all this," he murmurs into the quiet, his body a solid, warm presence at my back, waiting to see if I will soften into the embrace or hold myself carefully apart.