It was past nine when Roman finally arrived at Bauhinia Bay.

Violette had never been so relieved to see him. She lay slumped against the sofa, thinking that if he hadn't shown up, her parents would have worn her down to a nub with their relentless chatter. Fortunately, it seemed Roman had heard her silent pleas from afar.

But the moment he stepped into the room, her ears gained their freedom, while her composure began to fray.

Once they were in the car, the silence was heavy. Violette spent the drive turning over how to bring up the day’s events. The radio played softly, leaving the cabin filled with nothing but ambient noise. She realized then that when she wasn’t talking, Roman was just as quiet as she was. When the two of them were trapped in such a tight space, the air felt suffocating.

Had it always been this way?

As they neared their apartment, Roman pulled into the parking lot of a local convenience store. He said he needed to pick up a few things. Violette, still debating whether to open the conversation, didn’t pay much mind to his errand. But when he returned and tossed the plastic bag onto the console, she caught a glimpse of what he’d bought. Her cheeks flushed an instant, burning crimson.

"…Did we run out at home?" she finally managed to blurt out, finding her opening.

"There was only half a box left," Roman replied calmly.

Half a box. That hardly warranted a midnight run to the store.

Violette didn’t have the energy to parse his logic. She picked at the seatbelt strap across her midsection, her fingers restless. As the engine roared back to life, she let out a silent sigh. "Are you angry?"

"Angry?"

The engine cut out again. Roman turned, his expression unreadable as he looked at her. "Why would you think that?"

The interior ambient lights flickered on, tracing the sharp, cold lines of his jaw. A dozen seconds later, they dimmed, leaving the cabin bathed in the murky, burnt-orange glow of the streetlamps outside.

"I interviewed Blake Pierce today," Violette said, her voice low. "You know that, right?"

"I know."

"It was supposed to be Emma’s assignment—the girl you met the other night. She got nervous and started feeling ill right before it started, so I had to step in."

Roman reached over the center console, his hand coming to rest firmly on the back of hers, a gesture that was half-caress, half-restraint. "I’m not angry about that."

"Then why didn't you call me?"

Roman looked puzzled. "Call you?"

She couldn’t see his expression clearly in the shadows, but she could hear the tone of his voice. Her initial assessment had been right: Roman wasn't the type to hold petty grudges. He genuinely wasn't angry.

But having already started the argument, she felt compelled to see it through. "The call you made to my mother during dinner. Why didn't you just call me directly?"

Roman chuckled. "I had just finished my meetings and saw a missed call on my phone. I thought it would be more polite to call your mother back first." He paused, his gaze lingering on her. "Besides, your line was busy."

"..."

Busy. Of course it was.

Violette turned her head away in embarrassment. "Oh. Probably a spam call."

With just a few words, the atmosphere shifted, sliding back into the familiar rhythm of their marriage.

They reached home early enough. After Violette finished her shower, she emerged to find Roman had already used the guest bath. He was dressed in a silk robe, leaning against the headboard and scrolling through a tablet. When he heard her footsteps, he set the device aside. The dark, predatory focus in his eyes made the message clear.

Violette felt a sudden, sharp heat rising in her chest.

She paused by the bedside table, switching off the main lights and leaving only the soft glow of the toe-kick LEDs. As she sat at her vanity, smoothing lotion over her skin, she felt his footsteps approach. A moment later, she was pulled back into his embrace.

His hands slid around her waist, his palms pressing into the unabsorbed lotion on her skin. He began to rub it in, his touch deliberate as he moved from her ankles upward.

"Let me," Roman said.

Violette knew exactly what this was. This kind of mutual assistance was a staple of their domestic intimacy. She didn’t want to push him away on a day like today, so she tensed her calves and let him play the part of the devoted husband. Everywhere his hands touched, goosebumps bloomed. She bit her lip, her body feeling as raw and sensitive as the skin between her teeth.

"Do you use the same lotion for your back?"

"I suppose so," she murmured.

"You suppose?" Roman tilted his head back, looking at her reflection.

Violette reached back and caught his wrists, finished with the slow, teasing pace. "If you keep this up, I’m just going to have to shower all over again. You're wasting the lotion."

Roman didn't stop, his eyes fixed on her. "If you're uncomfortable, I'll stop."

He was asking for her consent, yet his hands were already claiming her. Violette shook her head.

She wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, in this space where both of them knew exactly what was happening, she felt a dangerous, skin-crawling pleasure. The rich scent of tropical fruit from the lotion filled the air, growing thicker and more intoxicating as their body heat rose.

Roman suddenly lifted one of her legs, pressing a firm kiss to her ankle like a man surrendering to his queen. "Does that feel good?"

It did.

Violette stayed silent, turning her face away to hide the flush.

…

The remaining half-box they had at home clearly hadn't been enough.

The sound of Roman tearing open a fresh package behind her sent a fresh jolt of electricity through her. Violette slumped into the mattress, her spine arching as he moved over her.

"We’re going to have to shower again," she whispered, her voice fragmented.

"I know," he murmured, his breath hot against her temple.

"You’re going on forever today," she complained softly. "I’m tired."

In their world, that usually meant the end. But tonight, Roman seemed not to grasp the subtext. He gripped her waist firmly, kissing the sweat-dampened hair at her temples. "Just one more time."

They must have showered eventually.

When Violette woke up the next morning, she was dressed in a fresh set of pajamas. The fabric felt cool against her skin, but as the hem shifted, she could see the faint, indelible marks of the night before, scattered like petals across her legs. She tugged at her collar, finding that her chest hadn't been spared either.

Violette frowned at the mirror.

Why had he become so obsessed with leaving marks lately? Then again, she had no room to talk. She hadn't said 'no' once, had she?

She climbed out of bed, the apartment silent. The trash bin was empty—he’d already cleared it out. She pulled open her drawer and saw, with a flick of annoyance, that there were only two left.

Liar.

He had said it was the last time.

Since she was off today, the thought of spending the day at home slowly recovering softened her resentment. When she walked out and saw breakfast warming in the oven, and spotted a sticky note on the fridge that read, "The housekeeper is coming at noon, let her know what you want for lunch," any lingering irritation over Roman’s behavior vanished.

She wandered through the house, catching the low, rhythmic hum of the dryer on the balcony. She leaned over to peek inside, catching the silhouette of her undergarments tumbling within.

She couldn't help but smile.

Aside from the occasional bouts of unbridled, exhausting energy, Roman was, for all intents and purposes, a truly gentle husband.

She sank onto the sofa and pulled out her phone to text her "hubby."

Violette: I'm up.

Roman: Breakfast is in the oven.

Violette: I already ate.

Roman: The cleaner will be there around noon to handle things. Don't worry about it.

Violette: Saw the note.

Roman: And?

Violette: Nothing. Just wanted to talk to you.