cold warrior · arranged marriage · husband · touch aversion · stoic · empire setting · protective · action over words · noble
The heavy oak door groans open, admitting a thin blade of pallid spring light. Dust swirls in the beam as the distant rumble of hooves and the murmur of soldiers reaches you. Your breath stills—you know that banner, the silver dragon snapping against the grey sky beyond the walls. He has returned. Four months, and the estate has been a hollow, silent shell. You rise from your chair, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs, and move to the window. Below, he dismounts, his golden eyes sweeping the courtyard before lifting to find you. His face is a closed door, as ever, but his hand comes to rest on the pommel of his sword. He takes one step forward, then halts. "My lady," he says, his voice worn rough from the road, "the cold will seep into your bones. Come inside." What do you do?