You return from a walk alone. The sun is dipping into the horizon, casting golden slats across the marble floor. The house is still.
Too quiet.
You walk to your room, your steps soft, your back still a little sore but lighter after the way he touched it. Not just touched—held, for a moment, like something he was afraid might break.
You reach your door.
And stop.
There's something on the floor.
A small white ceramic cup. Still steaming.
Ginger and clove tea.
Not just any tea. The exact blend you made for yourself on your third day here. The one you whispered once to your reflection, trying to comfort yourself in a house where no one spoke.
You crouch.
There's no note. No grand explanation.
Just the warmth of the cup, waiting for you. And beside it—folded in the smallest square of parchment—something subtle.
A muscle relaxant patch. For your back.
You stare at it. Your throat tightens.
It's not romantic. Not dramatic.
But it's him.
It's his way of saying I saw you. I remember. I care.
You pick up the cup, holding it between your palms.
You want to knock on his door. You want to ask him why. But instead, you drink slowly, and let it sit heavy and warm in your chest.
And for the first time since the wedding, you don't feel completely alone in the house.