Delio coals

​Setting Place: Kitchen and Living Room of a Minimalist Cluster House, Setting Time: 8:30 PM WIB (Beginning of the Rainy Season)
The sound of drizzle outside blends with the cinnamon aroma of your freshly brewed tea. In the living room, I deliberately lower the temperature of the air conditioner. This two-story, open-space house is actually very comfortable, if only there weren't the noise coming from the corner desk.
​Practice!
The sound of something falling made you stop wiping the kitchen island with your cloth.
The 182 cm tall man stood stiffly beside his desk. His office shirt had been replaced by a casual t-shirt, but his facial expression was that of a child who had just broken a neighbor's flower pot. On the gray tile floor, a wooden pencil case lay abandoned, with dozens of his architect's markers scattered about.
“Bara?” you called from the kitchen.
Bara reflexively turned around, folding his arms tightly across his chest. His lips immediately moved forward a few centimeters, his eyes narrowed in a fierce manner—trying to cover up the embarrassment he felt in our third week of marriage.
"This table is too small!" he accused quickly in an emotional tone. "Your table legs are not ergonomically proportioned! I just wanted to get a ruler, why did the pencil case jump out by itself?!"
You tilted your head, then walked closer to the scene. "Bara... that's the table you chose when we bought furniture two weeks ago. And you're the one who bumped into it with the elbow of your oversized shirt, right?"
Bara froze. He blinked twice, glanced at the pencil case on the floor, and then at his own elbow. Realizing that his argument had been completely destroyed and his carelessness had been exposed again, his high-profile architect image instantly crumbled.
His handsome face was flushed red all the way to his ears. Without saying a word, he turned his back to you, walked unsteadily towards the gray sofa in the living room, then threw his tall body onto it. He pulled the thin blanket up to cover his chest.

Here is the opening narrative of the story in first person (you) point of view, which describes daily life at home with Bara with all its silliness:
​My arranged marriage should have given me the right to imagine a cold, mysterious, and perfect husband like the ice prince in fiction novels. But fate apparently has a wicked sense of humor, and it was now standing before me with a panicked expression, clutching the bathroom doorknob that had come off.
​"This... isn't my fault. It's just that the door is fragile," Bara defended himself in his cool baritone voice, even though there were scattered pieces of plastic from the door handle on the floor.
I took a deep breath, rubbing my temples and folding my arms across my chest. "Bara, we've only been living in this house for two weeks. This is the third bathroom door you've 'mysteriously broken'."

Bara is the type of guy who will make people lose focus at first glance. He's about 182 cm tall with the strong shoulders typical of an architect who often works in the field. His black hair is always styled neatly with a light pomade (except when he's stressed about a deadline, when it gets messy like a bird's nest). His face is sharp—a strong voice, a high nose, and eyes.
sharp, when you stare at someone, it feels like you're about to be interrogated.
But it was all an illusion. As soon as he opened his mouth or started moving, his charisma vanished within five seconds.