Winter slaps the city with freezing wind the night you arrive at Adrian Vale’s penthouse. The place looks like someone stuffed a museum inside a skyscraper: marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, everything so spotless you’re afraid to breathe wrong.

Adrian stands there waiting, tall and immaculate in that stupid tailored coat of his. Gloves on, posture perfect, expression dead neutral like he’s attending a board meeting instead of greeting his brand-new spouse.

He doesn’t move at first. Typical.

Then his eyes flick over you. Slow. Assessing. And the bastard actually softens a fraction, like he didn’t expect you to look that cold and exhausted.

“Welcome,” he says, voice smooth enough to make you feel underdressed. “I prepared a room for you. If you need anything, inform me. You don’t have to... adjust immediately.”

Translation: he has no idea what to do with you and he’s terrified of screwing it up.

He steps aside so you can walk in, the city lights casting silver against his face. He clears his throat like he’s forcing himself to speak more.

“This marriage may be... unconventional,” he mutters. “But I intend to treat you with respect. You won’t go without.”

That’s his version of emotional vulnerability. Pathetic, adorable, whatever.

He leads you through the penthouse, his steps crisp against the floor. He notices how you quietly shiver, then pauses, shrugs off his cashmere scarf, and hands it over without looking directly at you.

“You’re freezing,” he says softly. “I don’t want you getting sick.”

You can tell by the way his jaw tightens that offering warmth physically pains him.

He finally turns toward you fully.

“Since we’re... married now,” he says carefully, “we’ll navigate this arrangement at your pace. No demands. No pressure.”

His eyes meet yours for the first real time. Grey, sharp, and just barely unsure.

“Just... don’t assume you’re alone here.”

He looks away immediately, pretending the city view is more important than the fact he just exposed his entire emotional underbelly.

The air between you shifts. Not warm. But maybe on its way.

The penthouse goes stupidly quiet after dinner, the kind of silence that feels like it’s judging both of you. Adrian stands by the window again, because apparently that’s his natural habitat. Arms crossed, back straight, looking like a decorative gargoyle in a luxury building.

You hover by the hallway, not sure if you’re supposed to say goodnight, salute, or power-walk to the guest room before reality catches up and chokes you.

He clears his throat. Always a good sign he’s about to be socially incompetent.

“So.” He says that one word like it physically hurts.

You nod, because what the hell else do you do?

He shifts his weight. Adrian Vale, the ice prince, the man who terrifies executives, actually looks... nervous. It's almost cute. Almost.

“I assume,” he starts, choosing every word like he’s diffusing a bomb, “you’ll be more comfortable with your own room tonight.”

He gestures stiffly toward the hallway, like he’s handing you a map to a dungeon.

You mutter something like “yeah, uh, that’s fine,” which makes his shoulders drop a millimeter in relief.

Then comes the real kicker. He walks closer. Not too close. Just close enough to be awkward.

“If anything feels unfamiliar or... overwhelming,” he says quietly, “tell me. I’m not here to make this harder for you.”

His eyes flick to yours. And damn, he actually means it.

Then the awkward happens.

You both try to step aside in the hallway. You go left. He goes left. You go right. He goes right.

And now you’re inches apart, staring at each other like two NPCs with broken pathfinding.

Adrian mutters a very soft, very frustrated “fuck,” under his breath. Probably the most relatable thing he’s said all day.

He steps back sharply, clears his throat for the twentieth time that night, and gestures again. “Please. After you.”

You walk past him, and he stands there like a statue trying desperately not to look flustered.

When you reach the guest room, he calls out, voice low but steady:

“Goodnight... spouse.”

He instantly regrets saying “spouse.” You can hear it in the silence that follows. He might actually combust.

You close the door and lean against it, mentally screaming. He stays frozen in the hallway, probably doing the same thing.

Two idiots. One arranged marriage. One painfully awkward first night.

Perfect.

Snow hits the city like it has a personal vendetta, piling against the windows of Adrian’s penthouse while the heater hums like it’s doing you a favor.

You’re sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket you stole from the guest room, and Adrian is across from you pretending to read something on his tablet. He’s not reading shit. He keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to figure out how to “husband” without breaking anything.

He clears his throat. Again. The man is basically a walking cough at this point.

“It’s your first winter here,” he says stiffly. “If you need... warmer clothing or better boots, I can arrange it.”

Arrange it. Like he’s booking a conference room instead of taking care of his spouse.

When you don’t immediately answer, he stands and goes to the massive glass window, staring out at the snow like a tragic Victorian ghost.

“This season can be harsh,” he adds, quieter. “I’d rather you stay inside. Safe.”

Translation: the cold scares him less than the idea of you freezing outside because he’d actually give a damn.

At some point, the heater decides to suck and the temperature dips. You shiver. He notices instantly and practically snaps upright.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, marching to the hall cabinet. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He comes back with one of his expensive coats, the kind that probably costs more than half your life’s savings. He drapes it around your shoulders. Carefully. Like you’re going to break or he will.

“You’re warm now,” he says stiffly, but the tips of his ears are definitely pink. “Good.”

A few minutes later, a gust of icy wind hits the windows hard enough that even he jumps a little. He glances at you again... and then sits down next to you.

Not across from you. Next to you.

Close enough your knees bump.

He pretends it’s nothing. You pretend you don’t notice him relaxing just a fraction because you’re near.

Eventually he says, in that low, too-controlled voice:

“This is new for me. All of it. But... I want this winter to be easier for you than the last ones. I want you to feel... secure here.”

There it is. The emotional equivalent of him handing you a whole beating heart wrapped in velvet and acting like it’s a tax document.

Then, after several seconds of silence:

“If you want,” he mutters, staring forward like the window is suddenly fascinating, “we can decorate the place. Something seasonal. I assume normal couples do that.”

His tone is dead serious. The man is out here offering you a Christmas tree like it’s a peace treaty.

And yet, for the first time since the marriage contract was signed, the penthouse feels less like a museum and more like the start of something that could maybe, possibly, eventually become a home.