I wanted to scream.

 

 

 

 

No, correction—I wanted to scream, throw something heavy at Atlas’s infuriatingly pretty head, and then stomp out of this house just to prove I still had legs.

 

“I want to go out,” I said, trying to sound reasonable.

 

Atlas, lounging in that maddeningly calm way, didn’t even look up from the logs he was tending. His silvery hair caught the firelight, his profile sculpted and serene like he’d stepped out of some fae ballad. And then he opened his mouth.

 

“This can’t do,” he said.

 

That was it. Three words. No explanation, no compromise. Just a smooth wall of no.

 

‘Ugh, you annoying man!’

 

I threw myself onto the couch with the most dramatic sigh I could muster. My body sank into the cushions. For three days—at least, I think it had been three days, time blurred when all you did was count raindrops—I’d been trapped here, coddled and suffocated, my freedom stripped away under the excuse of “recovery.”

 

Recovery from what? Supposedly from some “sickness” that had devoured my memory whole, leaving me blank as a fresh sheet of parchment. That was the story. But somehow, conveniently, this sickness had left me just healthy enough to pace the room like a restless ghost and pick fights with Atlas.

 

He’d been annoyingly steadfast since the moment I opened my eyes in that dark room. Always calm, always considerate. The perfect caretaker, if you asked anyone else. But if you asked me? He was a tyrant armed with a soft smile.

 

“Atlas,” I began, dragging out his name like a complaint, “at least let me—”

 

“No.”

 

I sat up straight. “You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

 

He finally looked at me, those silver eyes maddeningly patient. “I know.”

 

My jaw dropped. “What am I, a child? You’re acting like I’ll fall over and break my neck just by breathing wrong.”

 

“You might.”

 

I groaned, dragging a pillow over my face. “Ughhh—just let me do something! I’m dying of boredom!” My voice came out muffled against the fabric, but he probably understood. He always did.

 

When I peeked out, he had the audacity to smile faintly, like my tantrum was the most amusing thing in the world. “Rest,” he said gently, as though the word solved everything.

 

I threw the pillow at him. He caught it one-handed. Of course.

 

Let’s review the list of crimes committed against me by Atlas, self-proclaimed husband, caretaker, and jailer:

 

1. I was not allowed to cook. Why? Because, apparently, knives are too dangerous. His words, not mine. As though I’d mistake my hand for a carrot and chop it clean off.

 

 

2. I was not allowed to clean. The reasoning? You can’t dirty your hands. Which was absurd, because my hands were already dirty the moment i heard his voice —dirty with grease and oil, as i picked the bones, potatoes and meat from the plate I had in front of me that day and trew it on his face.

 

 

3. I was not allowed to step outside. Not even for a single breath of fresh air. His excuse? “It’s raining.” It was always raining. If I waited for the skies to clear, I’d be bones by the door.

 

 

 

So yes, I was frustrated. No—infuriated.

 

I stood, planting my hands on my hips. “All right, mister protector. Answer me this—what did I even do before losing my memory? Did I just lie in bed all day like a fainting maiden waiting for you to spoon-feed me soup?”

 

For once, he hesitated. His lips pressed together, his gaze flickering toward the fire. Just as I thought I had him cornered, he answered with infuriating calm: “You were sick all the time. Too weak to move much.”

 

I blinked. “Sick. All the time.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Too weak to move around.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So you’re telling me that my entire life was basically… bed, soup, sleep?”

 

“Yes.”

 

I squinted at him. He didn’t even flinch. No twitch, no guilty tell. If he was lying, he’d mastered the art.

 

“Well, that explains so much,” I said with exaggerated cheer. “Like why I don’t know how to wield a broom. Or a pot. Or even a spoon, apparently.”

 

His mouth quirked—was that amusement? “I never said you didn’t know how. Only that you didn’t need to.”

 

“Oh, forgive me, my mistake,” I shot back. “I forgot that lifting a spoon would’ve sent me to an early grave.”

 

Atlas only chuckled softly and went back to adjusting the firewood, as though my sarcasm slid off him like rain on a roof. The sound was low, warm, almost affectionate—and it drove me insane. He had no right to be that gentle when he was the reason I was trapped here like a bird in a gilded cage.

 

I threw my arms in the air. “I cannot believe this. I survived a sickness that supposedly devoured my memories, but now I’m going to perish from boredom because you won’t even let me sweep the floor.”

 

“You won’t perish,” he said without turning.

 

“I will! I can feel it happening right now. Any moment now—poof!—Aisa, struck down in her prime by sheer monotony.”

 

He glanced back, and that faint smile returned. “If you die of boredom, then I got no choice but to read a book for you.”

 

I gawked at him. “A book?! That’s your solution? You’re going to keep me alive with bedtime tales like I’m five?”

 

“If that’s what it takes.”

 

I threw another pillow. He ducked. The smug bastard.

 

“Atlas,” I said, dragging his name out once more. “You can’t keep me like this forever. At some point, I will escape.”

 

He tilted his head, pale hair catching the firelight, and answered so calmly it made me want to strangle him: “Then I’ll have to chase you.”

 

I froze. Something in the way he said it—playful, but with an undertone I couldn’t place—sent a shiver down my spine. He didn’t mean it as a threat. But it wasn’t exactly harmless either.

 

I turned away, clutching the blanket around me like armor. “You’re impossible.”

 

“And you’re restless,” he said quietly.

 

Restless didn’t begin to cover it. I felt like my skin was too tight, my thoughts too loud, my body too unused. And he—he sat there with infinite patience, watching over me like I was glass that might crack at the slightest touch.

 

Maybe once upon a time, before losing my memories, I would’ve found comfort in his care. But now? Now it felt like a cage made of silk threads.

 

I flopped back onto the couch, glaring at the ceiling. “Fine. Be overprotective.”

 

He didn’t answer. But when I glanced at him, I caught the faintest curve of his lips, the tiniest shadow in his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

“Still,” I said, fixing him with my most piercing glare, “can I ask you something?”

 

Atlas, crouched by the fireplace like some thoughtful statue, glanced back at me. The flames danced over his platinum hair, making him look otherworldly.

 

“Sure,” he said simply.

 

My eyes narrowed. “Don’t say it so casually. You always say sure and then refuse to give me anything useful.”

 

His mouth twitched—was that a smirk? I ignored it.

 

“All right, here it comes,” I continued, sitting straighter, determination sharpening my tone. “How did we end up marrying!? How did we meet!? For how long have we been married!? What about my family!? And yours?! Do they visit us!?”

 

There. A proper ambush. Questions launched in rapid succession, one after the other, faster than he could dodge-!

 

For a brief, shining moment, I thought I’d cornered him. That maybe, just maybe, he’d finally break and pour out some grand, sweeping tale of our tragic romance or forbidden love or whatever nonsense had led me here.

 

Instead, he blinked once. Slowly. Then answered in the vaguest way possible:

 

“We used to be close.”

 

I stared. “We used to be close. That’s your answer?!”

 

His shoulders lifted ever so slightly, as if that pitiful explanation was meant to suffice.

 

“I know that already!” I snapped, throwing my arms wide. “How can people marry if they aren’t close?? I want details. Real, tangible, juicy details. Where did we meet? A market? A tavern? Did you heroically save me from bandits? Or did I save you?”

 

His expression didn’t so much as flicker. “We meet in our hometown. Before marrying we left that place.”

 

I gawked. “That’s not—what does that even have to do with my question? I m asking you- how we did fall in love??”

 

He stood then, rising from his crouch by the flames, tall and composed. His silver gaze settled on me, patient, calm, unreadable.

 

“Alright- then, tell me at the very last, why did we move away? Was there some kind of a catastrophe that forced us to move away, or our families didn’t approve of our marriage or-” 

 

“Because it’s quieter here,” he said.

 

“…”

“…Quieter, you say??”

 

“Yes.”

 

 

His lips curved the tiniest bit. Infuriatingly.

 

“And I like it better this way,” he added, as though that closed the matter.

 

I dragged my hands down my face. “Did I like it here as well?”

 

He paused. “…Do you like it here?”

 

I flung the last pillow at him with unerring accuracy. “How should I know?! I’ve got no memory of the past!”

 

The pillow bounced harmlessly off his chest. He didn’t even flinch. Just stood there, staring at me with the patience of a saint—or a villain. Honestly, at this point, I couldn’t tell the difference. He brought all the pillows he collected from me and put them neatly on the couch, beside me – foolish move, as I am once again armed with the innitial arsenal of pillows.

 

“Again,” I muttered darkly, slumping against the couch, “useless information.”

 

The silence stretched, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the storm still raging outside. I glared at the ceiling, imagining carving “Atlas is stupid.” into the wood just to amuse myself.

 

“You know,” I said finally, “for someone who claims to be my husband, you’re awfully stingy with the backstory. What is this, a marriage or a mystery novel? Am I supposed to piece our romance together with vague hints and cryptic one-liners?”

 

His brow arched ever so slightly. “You’re imaginative. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

 

“Don’t you dare patronize me,” I shot back, pointing a finger at him. “I want answers. Real ones. With dates and locations and at least one embarrassing anecdote involving you tripping over something.”

 

That earned me another faint smile. Which, frankly, made me want to fling not just pillows but the entire couch at him.

 

“You’re impossible,” I declared.

 

“And you’re persistent,” he replied evenly.

 

Persistent? That was one way of putting it. Desperate for any scrap of truth was another.

 

I leaned forward, narrowing my eyes. “Tell me one thing, Atlas. Just one real thing about my family. Do they exist? Are they alive? Do they live nearby? Do they miss me? Or did I spring into being fully grown, like some goddess from myth?”

 

For a moment, I thought I’d caught him. His jaw tightened. His gaze flickered away from mine, toward the fire. My heart leapt. This was it—he was going to crack, finally, finally—

 

 

“They don’t visit,” he said.

 

I blinked. “They don’t visit.”

 

He nodded, as if that settled it.

 

“That’s not an answer!” I threw up my hands. “That’s—do they not visit because they’re far away? Because they’re dead? Because they hate you? Because you forgot to mail them a wedding invitation?”

 

His lips curved again in that frustratingly calm, almost affectionate way. “You’re clever enough to find out.”

 

I groaned, collapsing back into the cushions with all the grace of a dying swan. “You are the worst. The absolute worst. Do you know what it’s like being trapped in a house with someone who looks like an angel but talks like a riddle?”

 

Atlas chuckled softly. A warm, low sound that, infuriatingly, made my heart stutter even as I wanted to smother him with a blanket.

 

“Angel?” he murmured.

 

“Don’t let it go to your head,” I grumbled, covering my face with a pillow. “You’re more like a really annoying guardian spirit who refuses to let me sharpen knives or scrub floors.”

 

I peeked out from under the pillow just in time to catch his amused expression. He was smiling now, properly smiling, and it was infuriatingly beautiful.

 

“Sleep,” he said gently, as if that solved everything.

 

“No! Don’t you dare end this conversation with sleep!” I sat up, glaring. “You can’t just feed me breadcrumbs and then tuck me in like a child!”

 

His gaze softened. “Tomorrow.”

 

“Liar,” I muttered. “You’ve said tomorrow every day since I woke up.”

 

“Then maybe tomorrow will finally come.”

 

I nearly screamed. Instead, I jumped from the couch and left the room to enter mine. One day, I promised myself. One day I would corner him so thoroughly that he couldn’t wiggle out with vague smiles and evasive riddles. One day I’d pry the truth out of him like a splinter.

 

But for now?

 

 For now, I was stuck in this house with the world’s most overprotective, evasive liar.