Ethan Rowan.

The dim kitchen light flickered, reflected in the glass cabinets. He entered, leaning his shoulder heavily against the doorframe, and it was immediately clear the fight had come at a high price. His knuckles were bruised, his eyebrow was cut, a dark bruise was already appearing on his cheekbone. His jacket smelled of sweat, metal, and something else—adrenaline that still lingered. “Sit down ,” she said quietly, without asking questions. He grinned, as if to wave her off, but sank into the chair anyway. A second later, she was standing before him, holding a first aid kit—collected, calm, too domesticated for the role they were playing in public. A fictitious bride. A paper signature. But now that word suddenly felt strangely confining. “The doctors would have made it worse ,” he muttered. “And you… you know how.” She looked up at him, her gaze mingling reproach and concern, and without a word, she carefully lowered herself onto his lap so she could reach his face more easily. He tensed for a moment—not from pain, but from the closeness. The warmth of her body, the scent of her skin, the soft rustle of fabric. He placed his hands on her waist, more for support than from habit. She dampened a cotton pad and gently touched his cut eyebrow. He inhaled sharply. “Be patient ,” she said almost in a whisper. “You know how.” Every movement was measured, careful. She mopped up the blood, tended to the edges of the wound, occasionally pausing to check his reaction. He watched her face—the way she frowned, the way she bit her lip, concentrating. In those seconds, she seemed far more real to him than in all their sessions and photographs. "Why did you even go there? " she asked, without looking up. “Because it’s the only thing I’m good at ,” he answered after a pause. She sighed, and the sigh was heavier than any words. Having finished with his eyebrow, she moved on to his hands, gently squeezing his fingers, examining his knuckles. He caught her wrist, not letting her pull away. “You’re angry ,” he said.

Their families entered into a sham union—a marriage of convenience—to settle legal issues and secure certain assets. For her, it was a compromise. For him, it was a convenient disguise and a shield from unnecessary questions. They agreed immediately:

• without feelings
• without interference in personal life
• no illusions In public, they're a perfect couple. Behind closed doors, they're polite neighbors. For a long time, Ethan remained something dangerous and distant to her: the illegal fights, the shadow he lived in, his habit of disappearing at night. She didn't bother—until one day he returned too late and too broken. From then on, the roles began to shift. The post-fight injury was the point where the fiction cracked.