Rain drizzled lightly outside the tall windows of the penthouse as Hana poured herself a cup of tea. The coldness in the air reflected the mood that had been lingering between her and Adrian. They had been living under the same roof for weeks now, strangers tied by a contract and an invisible thread of tension.
Leon sat on the edge of the sofa in his study, flipping through papers with a detached expression. His eyes, always sharp and calculating, didn't waver even when Hana entered quietly.
"Dinner's ready," she said softly.
He didn't look up. "Not hungry."
She swallowed her pride and nodded, turning to leave. But before she reached the door, his voice stopped her.
"Why do you keep trying, Hana? This marriage is not real. Don't you get tired pretending it is?"
She turned slowly, her heart thudding. "Because we made a promise. You promised to save my mother, and I promised to be your wife. Isn't that what we both wanted?"
He laughed dryly, finally meeting her eyes. "What I wanted was peace. I don't believe in love, Hana. Don't try to make this anything more than it is."
His words stung. But more than that, they intrigued her.
"Why don't you believe in love, Leon?"
He stood, towering over her. "Because love is weakness. It blinds you, makes you vulnerable. I've seen what it does to people. I won't let it happen to me."
She met his gaze with quiet strength. "Maybe love isn't the problem. Maybe the people around you were."
He flinched, just slightly. Then the mask returned.
Later that night, Hana sat alone on the balcony, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. The city lights below were beautiful, but her thoughts were miles away.
She thought about Leon's words. The pain behind them. No one spoke like that unless they had been hurt deeply.
The door behind her creaked. She didn't turn, but she knew it was him.
He stood in silence beside her, holding two mugs of hot chocolate. He handed one to her without a word.
She blinked in surprise. "You made this?"
"Don't make a big deal out of it," he muttered. "It's just... it's cold."
They sat together in silence, sipping the warm drink.
After a while, Hana asked, "Was it someone you loved? The one who hurt you?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"It was my mother. She left us when I was twelve. Said she couldn't handle the pressure. My father buried himself in work. I raised myself, pretty much. Love didn't protect me then."
Hana's heart softened. "I'm sorry, Leon. That must've been hard."
"It made me who I am."
"A man who hates love? Or a man afraid to be hurt again?"
His jaw tightened. "Don't analyze me, Hana. I'm not one of your charity cases."
"I never said you were. But maybe... just maybe, you deserve someone who stays."
He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time in days. And in that gaze, something shifted.
The next morning, Leon was already gone when Hana woke up. But on the table was a small note in his handwriting:
Breakfast is in the kitchen. Don't skip meals.
It was simple. But to Hana, it meant everything.
Later at the office, Leon was his usual cold, commanding self. But his mind wasn't entirely on work. Hana's words kept echoing.
You deserve someone who stays.
Why did that sentence feel like a whisper in his chest?
He remembered her smile, her gentle patience, her quiet strength. She hadn't tried to fix him just listened. Just stayed.
That night, he came home early. Hana was in the kitchen, cooking.
"You're home," she said in surprise.
"I had a headache," he lied.
She smiled. "Well, dinner might cure that."
They sat together at the table, eating in silence at first. Then, Leon cleared his throat.
"I was thinking... maybe we should make some rules. About the marriage."
Hana looked up. "Rules?"
"Yes. Things like... eating dinner together when possible. No skipping meals. No lying. Just simple things. To make it easier to live under the same roof."
Her eyes sparkled with cautious hope. "Okay. That sounds fair."
He nodded. "And maybe... maybe we can stop pretending we hate each other. It's exhausting."
She laughed softly. "Agreed."
Something new hung between them now. Not love,
not yet. But a crack in the wall he'd built so high.
And cracks, she knew, were where light could get in.