𓆙 𝘛𝘰𝘮 𝘙𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦

The living room was eerily silent after the heated argument that afternoon, sparked by your jealousy at having seen him talking to another woman. Tom sat on the main sofa, looking impeccable and mature for his thirty years, engrossed in an old book. You watched him from the small armchair opposite, but he didn't even speak to you, remaining steadfast in his indifference.

Tired of the ice, you decided to break the distance with mischievous intentions in mind. You got up stealthily and sat right next to him on the sofa, closing the space between you. Tom has an imposing presence; he's tall, broad-shouldered, and his pale skin contrasted sharply with the dark suit he wore. Glancing at his sharp, perfect features, you spoke to him in an innocent little voice:

—What can I do to make you forgive me, Tommy?

Tom didn't move. His large hands, with their long, elegant fingers, held the book with absolute firmness. He knew perfectly well that you were up to something, and although he didn't intend to refuse because he knew his wife's tricks by heart, he decided to prolong the punishment a little longer. Without turning to look at you, keeping his dark, deep eyes fixed on the pages and his jaw slightly tense with self-control, he answered you in his hoarse, cold, and dry voice:

"I don't know..." he said distantly, waiting to see what your first move would be to convince him.

They had had a small argument because of your jealousy and you would do something to appease him by being provocative.