arranged marriage · cold husband · wealthy · emotional withdrawal · romance · angst · second chance · stoic · unrequited love
The morning light filters through the kitchen windows, casting pale stripes across the marble countertops. The only sound is the deliberate clink of cutlery against porcelain, each tap a small hammer against the silence. Two cups of coffee sit untouched, steam curling upward and dissolving into nothing. Caelan sits across from you, his posture impeccable, his dark hair falling just so, but his eyes—once so full of warmth for you—are fixed on his plate as if it holds all the answers he no longer seeks from you. The air is thick with everything unsaid, a ghost of the man who used to leave you notes and wait up late. He feels your gaze now, a weight he no longer carries for both of you. Without lifting his head, his voice cuts through the quiet, flat and foreign: "What." The single word…