"Welcome home," Callisto said, setting my suitcase down near the couch.
"Home?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Feels more like a luxury hospital."
He gave me a look. "I like things organized."
"Organized," I repeated.
"There's organized, and then there's emotionally repressed."
"I'm ignoring that."
"Obviously," I muttered, walking deeper into the living room.
The place was spotless. Too spotless. Everything was white, black, or gray.
It smelled like lemon floor polish and sounded like awkward silence.
No personality. No warmth.
Just money and minimalism.
The air smelled faintly of cedar and something expensive.
A massive window overlooked the city skyline.
The couch looked like it cost more than my car.
"Where do I stay?" I asked.
He pointed toward a hallway.
"Second room on the right. I had it cleaned and stocked."
"Stocked?"
"With the basics," he said. "Toothbrush, towels, some clothes in your size."
I stared at him.
"You bought me clothes?"
"You'll need them for appearances."
"Right," I said, crossing my arms.
"So efficient of you."
He gave the smallest hint of a smile. "You're learning."
I ignored him and went to explore.
The room was, of course, perfect.
Crisp sheets. Neutral colors.
A vase with a single white flower, like something out of a catalog.
It didn't feel like mine.
I tossed my bag on the bed, sat down, and let out a long breath.
Married. Legally.
Living under the same roof as a man whose idea of small talk was sign here.
This was going to be interesting.
A soft knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts.
"Come in."
Callisto stepped inside, holding a small black card. "This is your access key. For the elevator and building security."
"Thanks," I said, taking it.
He hesitated for a moment, which surprised me.
"Dinner's at seven. My assistant had groceries delivered."
"You cook?"
"Rarely."
"So… what's for dinner?"
He looked at me like I'd asked the meaning of life. "I hadn't planned that far."
I sighed. "Right. I'll handle it."
He nodded. "Fine."
When he left, I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
'Mrs. Maxim.'
The name still sounded foreign.
Like a role I hadn't rehearsed enough for.
By seven, I had dinner ready.
Simple pasta, a small salad, and wine I found on the counter.
Cooking was therapeutic.
At least the kitchen was big enough to move around.
Callisto appeared right on time, sleeves rolled up, phone in hand.
"You ordered food?" he asked.
"I cooked," I said.
He paused, processing the information. "You… cooked."
"Shocking, I know. Please, try not to faint."
He set his phone aside and looked at the table. "You didn't have to."
"I was hungry," I said, sitting down.
"And I wasn't about to wait for your 'efficient' takeout plan."
He gave a faint smirk. "I'll keep that in mind."
For a while, we ate in silence.
It wasn't uncomfortable, just… cautious.
Like two coworkers having dinner after a long meeting.
Then my phone buzzed.
Tessa. Again.
I quickly answered. "Hey."
"Alex, where are you? Luca said you've been MIA for days!"
"I've been… busy."
"With what?"
"Work stuff," I said, trying to sound casual.
Tessa scoffed. "You don't even like your job."
Callisto glanced up, amusement flickering in his eyes.
I mouthed, Don't you dare.
"What's that sound?" Tessa asked. "Plates? Are you eating with someone?"
I panicked. "Uh… no! That's the TV."
"Liar. I can hear a man's voice."
I glared at Callisto, who quietly took a sip of his wine and said, in the calmest tone, "Evening, Tessa."
My soul left my body.
"Wait," Tessa said sharply.
"Was that… Callisto? Why is he there?"
"He… uh… needed help with… uh…"
"Dinner," Callisto said smoothly, cutting in. "We had to discuss a joint project."
I mouthed, joint project?
He ignored me.
Tessa went quiet.
Then she said, suspiciously, "Since when do you two work together?"
"Since now," I said quickly.
"Anyway, gotta go, the… uh… pasta's burning!"
And I hung up.
Callisto raised a brow.
"Pasta's burning?"
"Shut up."
He chuckled, low and quiet.
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm a great liar. You're just… distracting."
That shut him up.
For a second, we just stared at each other.
His eyes darker under the soft kitchen light.
Steady and unreadable.
Then I blinked, grabbed my plate, and stood. "I'll wash the dishes."
"I'll help," he said.
"You don't have to."
"I insist."
So we stood there, side by side, in the ridiculously spotless kitchen.
Me scrubbing, him drying, both pretending not to notice how domestic it felt.
When the last plate was done, he said quietly, "We handled that well."
"The call?"
"The situation."
I looked up at him. "You mean the one where my best friend almost found out we're fake married?"
"Exactly."
"That's your definition of 'handled well?'"
"We didn't get caught," he said simply.
"Barely."
He handed me the last dish towel.
"Still counts."
I sighed. "You really think in bullet points, don't you?"
He smiled faintly. "It's efficient."
I shook my head, laughing.
"You need a new word."
"Find me one," he said.
I opened my mouth to reply, but the words caught when I realized how close he was.
Not romantically close, just close enough that I could smell the faint scent of soap and something crisp.
His eyes flicked down briefly, then back to mine, calm as always.
For a second, it felt like something wanted to change.
But it didn't. Not yet.
He stepped back, breaking the spell. "I'll be in my office," he said.
"You can use the TV if you want."
"Right. Good talk, husband."
He gave a soft laugh before disappearing down the hall.
When he was gone, I leaned against the counter and exhaled.
Marriage, I realized, wasn't about love.
It was about learning to live with someone whose silence said more than words ever could.
And right now, his silence was loud.
Too loud.