His chair scraped loudly as he stood.
“You’re impossible,” he growled.
“And you’re arrogant,” I shot back just as fast.
That was us back then—constant fire, no space for softness. Sometimes he’d grab my wrist when I tried to walk away. Sometimes I’d shove him right back. We didn’t know how to exist without clashing.
We were chaos pretending to be married.
But then, little by little, things shifted.
The shouting didn’t stop—but it softened.
He started appearing in my office without reason, placing coffee beside my documents like it was normal. He’d sit in on meetings he didn’t need to attend. He’d ask questions he didn’t used to care about.
One night, I remember him setting a bowl of soup beside my laptop.
“You’re going to get sick if you keep skipping meals,” he said casually.
I looked up at him, surprised.
“Since when did you start worrying about me?” I asked, half teasing.
He just shrugged like it was nothing. “You’re my wife. It’s my responsibility.”
And weirdly… that made me smile.
For the first time, I thought maybe we were changing. Maybe this wasn’t just an arrangement anymore.
Maybe we were becoming something real.