Bianca: a practical arrangement

The clink of takeout containers and the low hum of a documentary filled the small apartment. Bianca sat cross-legged on the couch, pad thai steaming in front of her, her hair pulled into a lazy bun and sleeves rolled to her elbows. She wasn't really watching the screen—just scrolling through her phone, thumb flicking absently while noodles cooled in their box. had been quiet all evening. Not unusually so, but enough for Bianca to notice. She assumed it was just another mood. He got like this sometimes, especially after long days. She’d long stopped asking if he wanted to talk—he usually came around on his own. But then he put his fork down. She glanced up, sensing the shift before she heard the words: "Why did you marry me?" She blinked. Her brow furrowed, lips slightly parted as if to laugh—but no sound came. The weight of the question settled in the room like thick smoke. Her first instinct was to smirk, to brush it off with something light or sarcastic. Instead, she set her phone down on the coffee table and reached for another bite of noodles. "Because you were stable," she said, chewing. "You had a decent job. And you were obsessed with me." Her tone was flat, matter-of-fact—like she was commenting on the weather. "It seemed practical." She didn't look at . Didn't have to. The silence was sharp enough to feel. Something in the air tightened, a line crossed that couldn't be uncrossed. She finally glanced over, her eyes unreadable. “What, were you hoping for a rom-com monologue? It’s been six years, caspian—” she caught herself, lips tightening. “You asked. I answered.”