The morning sun peeked through the curtains, after the romantic night. casting stripes of gold across the small apartment. Kohinur stirred, blinking, only to find Rahan already there, hovering near the breakfast table with a ridiculously serious expression.
"Good morning," he said, voice smooth, almost too calm. "Time to begin."
Kohinur blinked. "Begin… what?"
"Training." He said it as if it were perfectly ordinary. "To… adapt. To survive… my presence."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Adapt? You mean… I have to do something?"
"Exactly." Rahan's brown eyes sparkled with that maddening mix of mischief and obsession. "I cannot have my… wife… stumbling through life like a confused fawn. You must… adjust. Learn. Become worthy of my attention."
Kohinur groaned, sitting up, wrapping the blanket around her like a shield. "You're ridiculous. I am already here, already married to you. That's enough adaptation for one lifetime."
He tilted his head, smirk widening. "Enough? Hmm… I think not. Perfection requires practice. And chaos… demands it."
For the next several hours, Rahan introduced what he called "The Rules of Cohabitation with Me," which involved:
Avoiding eye contact during his breakfast theatrics, which included juggling eggs and cups in a display he insisted was "artistic." Learning to anticipate his moods like a courtier predicting the whims of a king—except the king was ridiculously dramatic and prone to breaking into spontaneous song. Sitting beside him for mandatory walks in the small courtyard, during which he would recite his personal poetry. (Kohinur suspected it was mostly about her.)
Kohinur, for her part, tried to survive without tripping over his theatrics or fainting from awkward tension. She was often forced to nod, smile, or interject politely, though internally she was screaming.
At one point, Rahan decided they needed "bonding exercises." Kohinur braced herself.
"First exercise," he announced, standing in front of her like a general inspecting troops, "is Mirror Mimicry."
"What?" Kohinur asked.
"You copy my movements exactly," he explained. "Every gesture, every tilt, every blink. Precision is key. Consider it… preparation for life with me."
She stared. "You want me to mimic you? Like a… a parrot?"
"Exactly." His grin widened. "Precision, elegance, attentiveness. If you fail, consequences will… follow."
Kohinur groaned dramatically but obeyed, arms flailing and blinking at ridiculous angles, much to Rahan's twisted delight. By the end of five minutes, her limbs ached and her face was red, while Rahan clapped slowly, mock-serious.
"Remarkable," he said, though the smirk betrayed amusement. "You almost resembled… me. Almost."
The day continued in a blur of awkward exercises, chaotic attempts at "domestic harmony," and Rahan's relentless insistence that Kohinur understand his moods before they occurred.
At one point, she caught him practicing his "threatening but charming stare" in the mirror, muttering poetry under his breath.
"You do realize," she said carefully, "that this is… weirdly terrifying?"
"Terrifying? Good." He looked at her with a grin so sharp it could cut glass. "Fear and respect are important elements of… connection."
Kohinur rolled her eyes but secretly, despite herself, felt a small flutter of something. Something dangerous, thrilling, and undeniably magnetic.
By evening, they were both exhausted. Kohinur collapsed onto the couch, muttering complaints about Rahan's obsession, his rules, and the absurdity of it all.
Rahan, however, wasn't done. He leaned over her with a mischievous glint. "One final exercise for today," he said. "The Silent Proximity Test. Sit beside me. Do nothing. Respond only to my prompts."
Kohinur blinked. "You want me… to sit… and do nothing?"
"Yes. A challenge of restraint and attention. Can you endure my presence without chaos?"
Kohinur sighed but obeyed, sitting rigidly, hands in her lap, eyes forward.
For what felt like hours—though in reality, was probably only twenty minutes—Rahan whispered random poetry, hummed tunes under his breath, and occasionally shifted dangerously close, forcing her to stiffen or recoil just slightly.
And yet, somehow, in the silent tension, a strange rhythm began to emerge. Kohinur's heart raced with a mix of fear, frustration, and something oddly… exhilarating. She couldn't admit it aloud, but the day had left her oddly aware of his presence in ways she didn't fully understand.
Finally, Rahan leaned back, smirking, clearly satisfied. "Congratulations," he said. "You survived. For now."
Kohinur groaned, collapsing onto the couch completely, muttering under her breath about how this was only the beginning.
"Yes," Rahan murmured, voice low and dangerous, "only the beginning."