Under One Roof
Morning light streamed through the tall windows of Ethan's penthouse, spilling over white marble floors and glass walls that seemed to touch the sky. The silence was almost reverent — cold, spotless, and breathtakingly lonely.
Lila stood by the window, wrapped in a robe, watching London wake up below. The streets were alive with honking taxis and people rushing to work. From here, they all looked so small — so free.
She touched the wedding ring on her finger, still strange and foreign on her hand.
This was her new life.
Mrs. Ethan Blackwood.
A name that sounded more like a role than a person.
Ethan emerged from his study dressed for work, every line of his suit crisp and deliberate. His presence filled the space, composed and intimidating, yet there was something quietly restless in the way he adjusted his cufflinks — as though even he was trying to get used to sharing his world.
"Good morning," she said softly.
He paused, looked up, and gave a polite nod. "Morning."
His tone was distant but not unkind. The sort of tone that belonged to boardrooms and deals — not breakfast tables.
"I made coffee," she offered, gesturing to the kitchen island. "I wasn't sure how you take it, so—"
"Black," he interrupted gently. "Thank you."
She poured it for him, her hands steady despite her racing heart. He accepted the mug, their fingers brushing for the first time — a brief, electric contact.
He pulled back quickly. "I appreciate it."
Silence filled the space again, awkward but soft.
"You don't have to wait on me, Lila," he said after a moment. "There's staff for that."
"I know," she said, meeting his eyes. "But I'd rather do something. This place feels…" She hesitated, searching for the word. "...quiet."
His gaze lingered on her for a second longer than necessary, then shifted. "You'll get used to it."
But she wasn't sure she wanted to.
When Ethan left for work, Lila wandered through the vast apartment — a gallery of glass and grey. Everything gleamed but felt lifeless. There were no photos, no personal touches, not even a book out of place.
It was beautiful — and empty.
By afternoon, she decided to change that.
She placed a small vase of white lilies on the dining table. Arranged soft paintings — her own — along the hallway walls. In the corner near the window, she set up an easel she'd brought from her old home, a quiet rebellion against the cold perfection.
When Ethan returned that evening, the difference hit him instantly.
The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and flowers. A soft melody played in the background. The house — his house — finally felt alive.
He stood in the doorway, watching her quietly as she adjusted a painting.
"You changed things," he said, not quite disapproving, not quite approving.
She turned, startled. "I… hope you don't mind. I wanted it to feel warmer."
He looked around again. The flowers. The art. The light. Then back at her.
"No," he said finally, his voice quieter. "I don't mind."
Her lips curved into a small, shy smile.
Dinner was quiet but less strained. They ate in near silence, but this time it wasn't uncomfortable. She asked him about his work — cautiously — and he answered briefly but sincerely.
When she laughed softly at one of his understated jokes, he looked up, almost surprised. It was the first time he'd seen her laugh — really laugh — since the wedding.
Something inside him stirred, a warmth he hadn't expected.
Later that night, Lila stood by the window again, looking at the lights of London glittering below. Ethan joined her, his voice breaking the quiet.
"You've made this place… different," he said.
She looked at him. "Is that a good thing?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. It feels less like a museum."
She smiled faintly. "That's good. I never liked empty rooms."
Their eyes met, and for the first time, there was no coldness in his. Just curiosity — and a trace of something gentler.
"Good night, Lila," he said, softer than before.
"Good night, Ethan."
As she turned away, her heart fluttered with something she hadn't felt in weeks — hope. Small, fragile, but real.
And though neither of them said it, both sensed the quiet shift between them.
For the first time since their vows, they weren't just husband and wife by name.
They were two lonely souls, standing under the same roof — slowly learning what it meant to belong.