Married for his money

Unspoken things

Reel's point of view

There’s a different kind of silence when someone’s mad at you but won’t say it out loud. Not shouting. Not slamming doors. Just... quieter than usual. Colder. Even if nothing’s changed on the surface.

Jaxen had been doing that all day.

He hadn’t said anything wrong. He hadn’t even looked angry. But I knew. Something in the way he clicked his pen too many times or didn’t refill the coffee pot after taking the last cup. Those things spoke louder than words.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t push. I just watched.

The night before, he’d stayed out late. Said it was a meeting. No explanation. No details. I didn’t have the right to ask. But still—I’d waited.

And I hated myself for it.

---

Around three in the afternoon, I found myself organizing drawers in the kitchen. Not because they were messy. Because I needed to do something with my hands. Something other than wringing them.

He walked in halfway through me alphabetizing the tea bags.

“You’re quiet today,” he said.

I kept my eyes on the drawer. “So are you.”

A pause.

“I didn’t mean to come home that late yesterday.”

I didn’t look up. “You don’t owe me anything, remember?”

He leaned against the counter. “That’s not the point.”

I stopped moving.

Then turned to face him. “Then what is the point, Jaxen? Because we keep saying this is just business, but you’re acting like something else is going on and I’m too stupid to see it.”

He blinked. Looked like he was about to say something.

Then: “Do you want something to be going on?”

My heart stuttered.

“No,” I said. Too fast. “This is exactly what I signed up for.”

He nodded once. Left the room.

---

I didn’t cry.

I just went into my room, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours. My thoughts moved too slow and too loud at the same time.

---

Later, he knocked on my door. First time he’d ever done that.

“Can I come in?”

I hesitated. Then: “Yeah.”

He stepped in. Stood by the door like he didn’t want to get too close.

“I’m not good at this.”

“At what?”

“This. Talking. Relationships. People.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to be.”

Silence.

“Then why does it feel like I keep disappointing you?”

That one hit deep. Because I didn’t have an answer.

I sat up. “Maybe because I’m starting to forget this is fake. And maybe that scares me.”

He didn’t move.

“I’m not asking for anything from you,” I added. “But I can’t keep guessing what’s real and what’s not. I need something. Even if it’s just honesty.”

He stepped forward then. Sat on the edge of the bed. Looked down at his hands.

“I don’t know how to be anything but cold. I wasn’t taught anything else.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.”

Then we sat there. Not touching. Not talking.

Just existing in the same room without the weight of pretending.

And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.

---

He left after a while. Said nothing. Closed the door quietly.

I lay back down. And this time, I did cry.

Not because he left.

Because part of me wanted him to stay.

And part of me didn’t know what I’d do if he did.