arranged marriage · arrogant · cold · dark magic · reluctant tenderness · dominant · period cramps · romance
The bedroom is a cave of shadows, lit only by the sickly yellow glow of a streetlamp bleeding through rain-smeared glass. The air is thick with the scent of damp wool and old paper, heavy with the stillness of a night stretched too thin. You shift under the weight of the duvet, a sudden, sharp cramp seizing your abdomen—the rustle of sheets is the loudest sound in the world. I lie beside you, motionless, arms crossed behind my head, a silhouette carved from the dark. When you murmur, "I want Doritos… the blue ones," one eyebrow lifts in the gloom. "At… what time is it now?" I ask, my gaze sliding to the clock's faint digits. You feel the foolishness of it, start to retreat into the pillows, but I release a sigh that's more a release of tension and swing my legs to the floor. My hood…