Rias woke to warmth.
It was comfortable.
Too comfortable.
Her eyebrows twitched.
Something heavy lay across her waist—a strong arm.
She opened her eyes and froze.
Beside her, Rafsan slept, one arm draped over her, his face half-buried in her crimson hair.
Somehow, she’d ended up in his arms.
She stared at the ceiling, trying to remember what had happened last night: their conversation, his teasing, her insistence on dignity, his stubborn refusal to cooperate.
She remembered falling asleep; she didn’t remember this.
Heat crept into her cheeks.
She carefully tried to move away.
The instant she lifted his arm a fraction, Rafsan tightened his hold.
“Five more minutes,” he mumbled.
Rias went stiff.
“Excuse me?” He pulled her closer.
“Too early…” “RAFSAAAN!” she snapped.
One emerald eye opened, then the other.
His green eyes met hers.
Neither of them spoke for a second, then he blinked and smiled sleepily.
“Oh.
Good morning, wife.” Rias froze.
“D-Don’t say that first thing in the morning!” “Why not?” he asked, unbothered.
“Because—!” She floundered for a reason and found none worth saying.
He yawned and stretched, completely relaxed while she struggled to stay calm.
“You’re loud in the morning.
Try being quieter,” she grumbled.
“I can’t.” He tightened his arm possessively.
“You’re hugging me.” “So what?
I’m hugging my wife.” He grinned.
“Excellent observation skills.” Rias redoubled her struggle.
Rafsan sighed with mock drama.
“You know, most people would appreciate being hugged by someone this handsome.” “I would appreciate breathing,” she retorted.
He finally let go.
Rias scrambled to the other side of the bed; the gap felt far too small.
They ended up sitting opposite each other.
“I didn’t know you slept—” he began.
She cut him off with a glare.
“I really got lucky marrying you,” he said, unabashed, his eyes drifting over her.
“So long legs.
Such—” He clucked his tongue.
“Curvy.” Her face burned as she drew the blanket up.
“You’re ridiculous.” “You’re cute when flustered,” he said, softer.
A pillow arced through the air and struck him.
Three precise knocks sounded at the door.
“Rafsan-sama,” Angela announced, her voice calm and measured.
Rias’s eyes widened.
“That’s Angela.” “So?” Rafsan looked puzzled.
“She will misunderstand everything,” Rias hissed.
Angela opened the door, composed as always.
Her blonde hair was tied in a neat bun, and her posture was impeccably straight; her emerald eyes were steady and observant.
She inclined her head once, her expression neutral.
“Breakfast is prepared.
I will wait in the dining room.” There was no teasing in her tone—only efficient clarity.
“Of course,” Rafsan said lightly.
“Do not be absurd,” Rias began, but Angela’s face did not change.
Angela’s gaze flicked between them for the briefest moment; then she turned and closed the door with quiet precision.
Her restraint left no room for dramatics, and that calm completion of duty somehow eased Rias’s panic.
Rafsan watched Rias with that lazy half-grin he reserved for her.
He preferred quiet mornings and predictable routines, but teasing Rias had become one of his favorite small rebellions.
He would likely continue.
“Rafsan-sama,” Angela had said without emphasis, and left.
The fact of her presence felt like a gentle boundary: orderly, unyielding, dependable.
Rias drew a breath.
“Rafsan-sama,” Rias muttered, mimicking the formal tone in a poor attempt at dignity.
“I have done nothing,” he said.
“You are smiling.” “That’s not a crime.” “It should be.” She flung a pillow that bounced off him and landed on the bed.
He didn’t dodge.
“…Worth it,” he mumbled.
“Do not test me,” she warned.
“You threaten me every day.” “Because you deserve it every day.” “Fair,” he conceded, sitting up as sunlight warmed the room and softened the angles of his face.
The teasing faded.
Her embarrassment softened into something warmer.
The sudden tenderness caught her by surprise.
He moved closer and tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.
The warmth lingered.
“…You still haven’t answered,” she said, steadier than she felt.
“What do you want from this marriage?” He didn’t blink.
“Someone who’ll look after me and laugh at my terrible jokes.
Someone who’ll fuss over me sometimes.
And someone who won’t let others bully people under my care.” He gave a small, wry smile.
“I want to be spoiled rotten.” Rias stared, incredulous.
“You sound like a spoiled child.” “Don’t act like that’s a bad thing,” he said.
“And you—you stand up for people.
You protect those who can’t protect themselves.
I noticed that.” She let out a soft, surprised laugh and leaned against him a little more.
“You’re relaxing,” he observed.
“I am not,” she protested, then heard herself betray the truth.
“You are literally relaxing.” “Fine.
Step one.” “You are annoying.” “Correct.” His warmth settled against her.
“This isn’t what I expected,” she admitted.
“Neither did I,” he said.
“But it’s not bad.” She didn’t answer.
The bed looked ridiculous, but the room felt different somehow.
His words from earlier—You haven’t lost your right to choose—kept returning.
In a political marriage, offering that freedom wasn’t common.
Most people looked for advantage in every conversation.
Rafsan hadn’t.
For some reason, that stayed with her.
Her fingers tightened on the fabric in her lap.
Which version of him was real—the strategist who could dismantle a team without raising his voice, or the quiet boy who wanted to be fussed over and teased in private?
She almost laughed at the idea of sorting people into neat boxes.
She caught herself watching him again; he smiled a little.
“Do you miss anything?” she asked.
He blinked.
“Miss?
Like home?” “Whatever you left behind to sit at this ridiculous table of alliances.” He shrugged.
“Occasionally.
Quiet mornings, a pastry my mother made.
Things you don’t miss until they’re gone.” The image of a man who remembered pastries made him oddly ordinary.
“A pastry sounds inadequate,” she said.
“For all your drama, you’re grounded in small things.” “Don’t flatter me.” He looked away, then back.
“It keeps you from thinking I’m entirely frivolous.” “Not entirely.” They stayed like that for a while.
Outside, a carriage rolled past.
Inside, neither of them rushed to break the silence; their fingertips brushed before pulling apart.
The room went quiet, and the quiet felt comfortable.
What did being a wife even mean in a political marriage?
She’d spent years looking for hidden motives in every conversation.
Rafsan made that impossible.
“Husband,” she murmured, tasting the word.
The word felt unfamiliar, but not for long.
She leaned against him a little more, without thinking.
She should be careful; political marriages demanded it.
It wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped.
A smile escaped her.
“He really does want a wife who’ll spoil him rotten,” she said.
She couldn’t help wondering what would happen if she took him at his word—if she allowed indulgence instead of looking for manipulation.
For a heartbeat, she pictured him smug while she draped an extravagant blanket over his shoulders.
The thought nearly made her laugh.
Rafsan watched her, openly amused.
“You’d indulge me?” “You’re the one asking to be spoiled.” She lifted a brow.
“You’re hardly helpless.” “There’s a difference between helpless and harmless.” He leaned in.
A faint scar near his temple caught her eye.
“Besides, I can be very persuasive.” Morning light softened across the room.
Rias rested quietly beside him; it felt natural.
“Don’t get used to it,” she said.
Rafsan smiled without opening his eyes.
“I’ll do my best.” She wasn’t sure she believed him.
Oddly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
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