The first time Liana Ramirez stepped into Nathaniel Reyes' penthouse, it didn't feel like a home.
It was breathtaking, of course—floor-to-ceiling windows, polished black marble floors, silver-framed paintings, and lighting so sleek it looked like it belonged in an art museum. But it was also... cold. Not a pillow out of place. Not a single photo frame on the shelves. It smelled like leather, money, and nothing else.
Just like the man she married.
Nathaniel stood beside her, still dressed in the navy suit he wore to their civil wedding an hour ago. No smile. No warm touch. Just a polite nod as he said, "This is your home now."
Your, not our.The distance in that single word stung a little.
But Liana, ever the quiet one, said nothing. She simply smiled, as she always did, and stepped forward into her new life.
That night, dinner was quiet.
A chef had prepared a luxurious meal—filet mignon, truffle risotto, and imported wine—but Nathaniel barely touched his food. He was already on his tablet, skimming reports from his company.
Liana, still in her simple white dress, folded her hands neatly on her lap. "You work late?" she asked gently.
He glanced up. "Often."
She nodded. "I'll eat without you next time, then."
He looked at her for a moment—studying her calm voice, her soft presence—and something unreadable flickered in his eyes. "You don't have to," he said quietly.
But he didn't stop working.
Liana was used to silence. As a literature teacher, she had spent many nights alone in her small apartment, reading poetry and baking banana bread for herself. But this was a different kind of silence.
This silence echoed.
Still, she wasn't afraid of loneliness. She had made a promise to this man, and she would honor it—no matter how cold the start.
That night, while Nathaniel stayed in his home office, Liana wandered into the guest bedroom she was told she could use. It was bigger than her entire apartment. She sat by the window with a cup of tea, pulled out her journal, and wrote:
"Day 1:Married.His eyes are tired. Maybe I'll cook breakfast tomorrow."
The next morning, she was up early.
The sun was still rising behind the city skyline as she moved quietly into the spotless kitchen. The chef was off today—it was Sunday. So Liana tied her hair back, found flour and eggs, and made something simple: pancakes and hot chocolate.
She didn't expect him to come.
But just as she was plating the food, footsteps echoed in the hall. Nathaniel stood in the doorway, hair slightly tousled, still in his black robe.
He looked at the table, then at her. "You cooked."
"I hope you like pancakes," she said softly, placing a warm plate in front of him. "With chocolate syrup. It's the only sweet thing I know how to make."
He didn't speak right away.
Then, to her surprise, he sat. Picked up the fork. And took a bite.
"…It's good," he said quietly.
Liana smiled. "I'm glad."
They didn't talk much after that. But he finished his plate. And when he left for his study, she noticed he took the mug of hot chocolate with him.
And that was how it began.Not with fireworks.Not with passion.But with pancakes, a quiet cup of cocoa, and a silent man who—perhaps, deep down—wanted to be loved.