The first thing you notice is how quiet the house is.

Not peaceful. Not serene. Just quiet — like the hush after something breaks and no one dares to speak about it.

You've been living here for three weeks.

Three weeks since the wedding neither of you asked for. Since your life was packed into neat boxes and moved into Rin Itoshi's house — no, his world. A pristine, modern home with too many empty rooms and not a single picture on the walls. Everything here is clean. Sharp. Cold.

Like him.

You rarely see your husband.

Sometimes, early in the morning, when he comes back from training drenched in sweat and silence. Or at night, passing in the hallway — your eyes meeting for a brief moment before he disappears into the room at the end of the hall. His room. Not yours.

You share a name now, but not a life.

You eat alone sometimes. You sleep alone. And the only proof that Rin Itoshi lives here at all is the pair of shoes by the door and the occasional clink of a glass in the kitchen.

Tonight is the same.

Rain taps steadily against the windows as you sit across from him at the long dining table. A table meant for ten — but only two plates.

You cut your food in silence. He eats like it's routine. Mechanical. He hasn't said a word since sitting down. Not even a glance.

You wonder if he even remembers your voice.

"Did it go well today?" you ask finally, forcing softness into your tone.

A beat. Then another.

"Fine," he says, not looking up.

You nod like that's enough. Because it always is.

Because you've learned not to expect anything more.

Sometimes, you think about what people must imagine when they hear Itoshi Rin is married now. Maybe they picture something glamorous. Two beautiful people in love, sharing late-night conversations and quiet mornings. Maybe they think you're lucky.

They don't know that you've never once woken up next to your husband.

They don't know that you're not sure he even knows your favorite color.

But still, you try.

You try because someone has to. Because even if the marriage was arranged, the feelings you carry weren't assigned. They're real. Quiet. Patient. But real.

"You should dry your hair properly after showering," you murmur. "You'll catch a cold."

That's when he looks at you. Finally.

Teal eyes sharp. Unreadable. His voice is low, but it cuts through the air.

"Why do you keep doing this?"

You blink. "Doing what?"

"This." His jaw tightens. "Acting like this is a real marriage."

Your breath catches, but you don't look away. "Because it is, Rin. Whether you want it or not."

He exhales, pushing back his chair with a quiet scrape. "You're wasting your time."