The first morning in the "House of No Touching" started with silence and tension thick enough to slice with a butter knife.
I padded into the kitchen, hair in a topknot, wearing my "Cereal Killer" hoodie and the flannel pants of emotional distress. Adrian was already there, shirt sleeves rolled up, pouring coffee like he hadn't caused an emotional apocalypse just hours ago.
I reached for a mug.
He handed me one before I could.
"I don't drink pity-latte," I muttered.
"That's your mug," he said calmly.
I looked down.
It was my favorite mug.
From my apartment.
The one I hadn't even packed.
I narrowed my eyes. "Did you raid my kitchen?"
"I had your things moved."
"What else did you move?" I said, hugging the mug like it owed me rent. "My underwear drawer? My last shred of privacy?"
"Just the essentials," he replied. "And relax. I didn't color-code your bras."
He smirked.
I nearly threw the mug at his head.
⸻
It was Day 2 of our fake marriage, and I had already created a new life motto:
"Stay ten feet away from Adrian Thorne at all times, or risk spontaneous combustion."
And yet, he kept doing these… little things.
Like moving my stuff without asking, but folding my favorite throw blanket exactly the way I like it.
Like brewing my favorite coffee and not saying a word.
Like remembering I liked my toast slightly burnt and my eggs not touching anything else on the plate.
He didn't talk much. But he paid attention. And that was so much worse.
Because attention is dangerous when you've sworn off affection.
⸻
"Where are you going?" I asked, watching him button his vest in the mirror like a Bond villain.
"Work."
"Right. That thing where you boss people around and wear tragic neckties."
"I'll be back late," he replied, ignoring the jab. "Dinner's in the fridge. Don't wait up."
"I won't," I said with full dramatic flair. "In fact, I'll probably have a candlelit date with a box of wine and my Spotify breakup playlist."
He paused by the door.
"Do you always deflect with sarcasm?"
I smiled sweetly. "Do you always deflect with silence?"
For a second, just one, his lips curved.
Almost a smile.
Almost.
Then the mask slid back on.
He walked out, leaving behind a waft of expensive cologne and emotional confusion.
⸻
Later that night, the silence in the penthouse felt louder.
Like it had expectations.
I microwaved leftover pasta, dropped it all over my hoodie, and yelled into the void of my perfectly marble-countered prison.
"This is why I didn't want to get married!"
Nari would've laughed. My mom would've sighed. Grandma Evelyn would've lit a celebratory cigar.
Me? I just scrubbed red sauce off my hoodie and scrolled through job listings titled "Wanted: Intern, Not Wife of a Corporate Sociopath."
⸻
By the time Adrian returned, it was past midnight.
And I was passed out on the couch.
Not in a glamorous, movie-scene kind of way.
Nope. I had a half-eaten cookie in one hand, one sock missing, and my head awkwardly tilted on a decorative pillow worth more than my old car.
He stood there in the dim glow of the hallway, watching me like some broody romantic drama character who definitely did not believe in feelings.
But then…
He walked over.
I didn't even stir.
He looked down at the blanket draped over the armrest… then at me… then sighed. And just as I murmured something about cheese in my sleep—
He tucked the blanket around me.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His fingers barely brushed mine.
Just a whisper of contact.
Soft. Intentional. Careful.
No touching, I had said.
But that?
That didn't feel like breaking a rule.
It felt like rewriting one.
⸻
In the morning, I found a note on the kitchen whiteboard.
RULE ADDENDUM:
Touching allowed only in emergencies.
Blanket-slippage qualifies. Don't argue.
– A.T.
I stared at the note.
Then at the blanket still around my shoulders.
And I realized…
I didn't know if I wanted to punch him…
…or ask him to break every single rule we made.