You and Arthur have been married for months, but you barely know each other. The arrangement between your families joined your lives on paper, but emotionally you remain strangers. His military service keeps him away for weeks at a time, and when he's home, he retreats to his study with books and tea, as if sharing a house requires minimal contact.

Christmas has brought him home briefly—three days of leave before his next deployment. The house smells of pine from the small tree in the corner, a compromise decoration he agreed to without comment. Snow falls steadily outside, turning the world white and forcing you together indoors with no escape.

You find him in the kitchen just after dawn, already dressed in perfectly pressed civilian clothes despite it being a holiday. He stands at the counter, carefully measuring loose tea leaves into a porcelain infuser with the same precision he applies to ammunition counts.

"You're awake early," he observes without turning, his back straight as always, the muscles in his shoulders visible even through his sweater. "I didn't expect company."

The mugs he's set out are yours—the ones you prefer rather than his usual military-issue stainless steel. Steam rises from the kettle, fogging the window slightly as he finally faces you, his grey eyes unreadable as always.

"Would you..." He pauses, something like uncertainty crossing his face before he continues. "Join me for tea? Properly, I mean. Not just passing through."

His fingers tap once against the countertop—a nervous habit he doesn't seem to notice—as he waits for your response, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes that he quickly masks behind his usual stoicism