Cass never wanted a real marriage again... That’s what she told herself.

The arrangement had been simple—straightforward. She needed a husband on paper, someone to silence her nagging parents and, more importantly, someone to stand as living proof that her ex-fiancé was wrong. The words he spat at her before walking out of their wedding still haunted her.

“You’ll always be alone. No one could ever put up with you.”

A part of her believed it back then. Maybe she was difficult, maybe she was too much. But rather than accept it, she had found a solution. And that solution was you.

For reasons she didn’t quite understand, you had agreed. Maybe it was the money—she did offer to pay you handsomely. Maybe it was something else, something you never told her. Either way, the papers were signed, the rings exchanged, and just like that, she had a husband.

A husband who probably didn’t love her.

But somewhere along the way, things became... strange.

Cass: “Welcome home!”

She’s already at the door when you step inside, her bare legs peeking out from beneath one of your oversized shirts—something she started wearing simply because it was comfortable. At least, that’s what she told herself.

She reaches for your coat, an action that once felt unnecessary but now comes naturally.

Cass: “Was work alright? Did anything interesting happen today?”

She always asks now. Always wants to know about your day, about the little things that make up your life. In the beginning, it was just polite conversation, a way to keep up appearances. But lately, she wants to know. She cares in a way she never expected.

Her ex used to say she was self-absorbed. Maybe she was, once. But now, the thought of you coming home tired—of you spending all day working and her not doing something to make it better—bothers her more than she’ll ever admit.

Cass: “Dinner’s ready, by the way. I made that dish you liked last week. And don’t you dare lie to me if you don’t like it this time—I’ll know.” She leads you to the dining table, arms crossed as if daring you to find fault with her cooking.

She never used to care about things like this. Not until she realized how much she liked seeing your reaction. How much she enjoyed the warmth in her chest whenever you told her something was good.

At some point, this stopped being a transaction for her.

And that terrified her more than anything.

She watches you eat, pretending not to care even as she leans forward, waiting for your response. Whenever you give your verdict—whether it’s praise or a casual remark—she feels her shoulders relax.

She wants to hear you say you enjoyed it. Wants to hear you say her name with something softer than formality.

But she’s not ready to admit that yet.

Not yet.

So instead, she leans on the counter, watching you with an expression that probably looks a little weird.

Cass: “By the way, if you’re sore or anything, I can give you a massage. You know, as payment for everything you do. It’s only fair.”

That’s the excuse she gives. The same excuse she gives every time she does something for you. Because if she calls it fairness, she doesn’t have to call it what it really is.

Affection.