CHAPTER 16: INTIMACY.

"What was all that about?" I toss my keys onto the kitchen counter, the metallic clatter echoing sharper than intended.

Arya says nothing. Her silence presses against me heavier than any words.

Clara pads into the parlor, shyly asking if she could switch on the TV. Arya gives her a small nod before her gaze flicks back to me.

"You almost killed that woman in there," I murmur, stepping closer, crowding her space until her back rests against the counter. "Care to explain?"

Her eyes darken—stormy, dangerous, unreadable. "I do not know," she whispers, voice rougher than usual.

I lift her and set her on the counter, the cool marble a sharp contrast to the heat sparking between us. Her legs part instinctively, bracketing me in. My mouth hovers by her ear as I breathe, "I’d call that jealousy."

Her chest rises and falls, betraying her calm mask. "That is just you being conceited," she murmurs with her eyes closed.

I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. I press my face into the curve of her neck, lingering there, inhaling her warmth, letting my lips graze her skin. She arches slightly, betraying herself further.

Her arms snake around my neck, holding me tight. Her breath comes faster, and though she refuses to look at me, her silence is louder than any confession.

This is the only time Arya ever loses her control. At the hospital earlier, I’d caught a glimpse of it—her raw, unguarded self. And now, here in the kitchen, she lets it bleed through again. For a woman who prides herself on keeping every emotion sealed away, jealousy feels like a first.

And disturbingly enough... it excites me.

The thought that she would look at another woman and see her as competition—dangerous competition, at that—sets something wild loose inside my chest. I never imagined I’d feel this lucky over a woman willing to burn down worlds for me with just a stare.

I lean forward and kiss her, slow but unrelenting. She lets me in, her lips pliant under mine, her arms locking tighter. Every exhale shivers with emotion she won’t admit aloud.

When I pull back, her eyes flutter open, hazy but fierce. I can see the war she fights within herself: the part of her that longs to remain cold, untouchable, and the part that, despite her resistance, burns for me.

Before I can push her further, a soft sound breaks through—the shuffle of small feet.

Arya stiffens instantly, and I turn my head. A tiny frame stands at the kitchen door, eyes wide, lips parted. Clara.

I step back at once, guilt flooding me even though we hadn’t crossed a line that couldn’t be mended. Arya slides down from the counter, smoothing her crimson gown, her face already composed into that unreadable mask again.

She strides toward Clara with calm grace, crouching so they’re at eye level. "Is there any problem?" Arya asks gently.

Clara nods, though her words are lost to me. Arya listens intently, then places a steadying hand on the girl’s shoulder before following her out. Just as she reaches the door, Arya turns back and mouths, Wait for me in our bedroom.

And then she’s gone.

I stand rooted to the spot, frustration burning in me like fire left untended. The moment had been building to something—something raw, something that promised release, connection, understanding—and then it had been ripped from me.

Privacy. That’s what I’m missing. Privacy with my wife feels like a luxury these days.

I drag myself upstairs, every step heavier with pent-up anticipation. I strip and lie on the bed, waiting. Minutes stretch into an hour. Still, Arya doesn’t come.

When she finally does, it’s only to grab something quickly before disappearing again. My disappointment curdles into irritation.

By the time she returns for real, my patience has nearly evaporated. I stand at the edge of the bed, towel slung low on my hips, preparing to give up and shower away the heat still coursing through me.

"What did she want?" I ask, sharper than I mean to.

Arya doesn’t flinch. "Things you do not need to worry yourself about," she answers, voice low but steady.

She steps closer, reaching for me, placing her palm against my chest.

I pull her hand away. "I’m no longer in the mood."

She doesn’t react, not in the way most would. Instead, she lets a sly calmness settle over her features. Then, without a word, she unfastens my towel. It falls to the floor, leaving me exposed.

Heat rises again, unbidden, even as I try to resist. She knows me too well—knows the buttons to press, the quiet ways to unravel me.

Before I can speak, she whispers, "You are too predictable."

I huff out something between a laugh and a growl, tugging her toward the bed. She resists just enough to make me aware of her power, of her control in this dance we always play.

Her crimson gown slides against my skin as we fall into the mattress. There’s a tension in the air—not the physical kind anymore, but something deeper. Something unresolved.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. "I don’t think we’ve had a single moment of peace in this house lately," I mutter.

Arya settles beside me, head on my shoulder. "Peace is overrated," she replies softly, almost teasing.

I turn to look at her, but her gaze is elsewhere. Always elsewhere. "You’re deflecting," I say.

She doesn’t deny it.

We fall into silence, but it’s not empty. It’s loaded—with her unspoken jealousy, with my unanswered questions, with Clara’s shadow lingering at the edge of every thought.

Finally, I break it. "Do you remember the trip I mentioned last night?"

Arya lifts her head, her hair falling over her shoulder. She nods once.

"I was serious about it," I say, watching her reaction carefully.

Her eyes flicker, searching mine. "You want to leave?"

"I want to breathe," I answer. "I want us to breathe. Away from this house. Away from interruptions. Just... us."

Her lips press into a thin line. She doesn’t answer right away, but her hand drifts over mine, fingers lacing slowly, deliberately.

It isn’t agreement, not yet. But it isn’t refusal either.

I squeeze her hand, holding her there, grounding her. "You don’t always have to fight me, Arya."

Her gaze finally locks with mine, unflinching. "And you don’t always have to win," she counters.

I laugh quietly, tension breaking for the first time all night. "Fair enough."

For the first time since we entered this house tonight, I feel a sliver of calm slide between us. Fragile, but real. And though I know storms will come again, for now, I’ll take it.