Chapter 2

Day one of married life, and things only got weirder.

He actually waited for me to have dinner together.

That evening, I came home late from the lab, half expecting him to have already eaten.

But when I opened the door, he was sitting at the dining table, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, leaning back in his chair like he'd been waiting a while.

There were two takeout boxes neatly laid out on the table.

"You haven't eaten yet?" I asked, stunned.

His expression didn't change. His voice was calm as ever. "Let's eat together."

I froze.

Wait a second. Weren't we supposed to be in a contract marriage? Why was he waiting for me to eat?

He didn't seem to think anything was odd. His tone was so natural it felt like this was the most normal thing in the world.

I hesitated but decided not to question it. I quietly sat down.

Throughout dinner, I couldn't help stealing glances at him.

Even the way he ate was ridiculously precise—graceful, composed, and perfectly measured, like some kind of etiquette textbook come to life.

And then, out of nowhere, he picked up a piece of steak with his fork and placed it on my plate.

I froze.

My fork almost slipped from my hand.

He, on the other hand, didn't even blink. As if nothing had happened, he went back to eating, his tone calm and offhand. "Eat."

I just stared at him, completely speechless.

Wasn't this supposed to be a noninterference marriage?

Why did it suddenly feel like he was taking care of me?

After dinner, I started gathering my plate and fork, ready to clean up, when he suddenly said, "I'll do it."

I froze. "Huh?"

Without rushing, he stood up, took the plate from my hands, and repeated in a low voice. "Go rest. I'll take care of it."

I didn't know what to say.

I could only stand there, dumbfounded, watching him roll up his sleeves and turn on the faucet. His movements were calm and precise, every action neat and efficient.

To make it worse, he didn't just wash the dishes. He cleaned the entire kitchen.

By the time he came out, the cuffs of his shirt were slightly damp, and a few strands of his hair had fallen loose. He looked unexpectedly relaxed, almost casual in a way that made my heart skip.

I nearly stared in disbelief.

No, this was wrong.

I needed to figure out what was going on in that head of his.

When he sat back down on the couch, I took a deep breath, organized my thoughts, and asked carefully, "Our marriage was supposed to be a contract, right? No interference, no emotional involvement. But..."

I paused, meeting his eyes. "What you're doing doesn't really match what we agreed on."

Why did he wait for me to eat dinner?

Why was he suddenly taking care of me?

And why, when he could've stayed in his perfectly good house downtown, did he move in here instead?

For a long moment, he just looked at me quietly. Then his voice dropped slightly, low and calm. "You don't like it?"

I stopped breathing for a second.

That wasn't the answer I'd been expecting at all.

The next morning, I woke up later than usual.

After what happened last night, my mind wouldn't shut off. I tossed and turned for hours, so by the time my alarm went off the third time, I could barely open my eyes.

Still half-asleep, hair sticking up everywhere, I shuffled out of the bedroom and froze.

Adrian was in the kitchen, pouring milk into a glass.

What?

I instantly woke up.

Wait. What?

When did he even get up? And why was he in the kitchen?

The whole scene felt unreal.

He'd rolled up his sleeves neatly, his wrists exposed as he held the carton of milk, moving with that same calm, deliberate precision—as if he were conducting an experiment, not making breakfast.

On the table sat two glasses of milk, two pieces of toast, and a pair of perfectly fried eggs.

He'd made breakfast for both of us.

What was happening?

Last night was strange enough, and now this?

I stood there frozen, trying to decide if I should walk in or pretend I hadn't seen anything.

Then Adrian turned around and saw me.

His brows furrowed slightly. "Why are you just standing there?"

I opened my mouth but said nothing.

His gaze lingered for a second before he said quietly, "Go wash up."

I nodded. "Okay."

Wait, why did I just listen to him so obediently?

No, the real question here was—what on earth was Professor Sterling doing?

When I came back out, he was already sitting at the table, calmly eating.

I hesitated for a moment, then sat across from him and picked up my glass of milk, sneaking glances at his expression.

He kept his eyes down, one hand resting on the rim of his cup, fingers long and graceful, every movement composed and unhurried.

He acted like this was the most natural thing in the world.

But I couldn't shake how strange it all felt.

Last night he'd waited for me to eat dinner, washed the dishes, and cleaned the kitchen. Fine, maybe he just felt like helping out.

But now he was eating breakfast with me, too?

My curiosity finally got the better of me. "Professor Sterling, do you usually eat breakfast?"

He paused, glanced up at me, and said simply, "No."

I blinked.

Then why would he do something like that?

Before I could finish, he cut in smoothly, "You eat breakfast every day, don't you?"

I froze, completely thrown off. "How do you know that?"

He lowered his gaze, his tone calm and matter-of-fact. "Last time we met, you were carrying milk and a sandwich."

I went silent.

Wait. So he only ate breakfast because he'd noticed I usually do?

The hand holding my glass of milk froze midair, a strange feeling stirring in my chest before I could even name it.

Before I had the chance to say anything, Adrian was already standing up, slipping on his coat. "Come on," he said quietly. "I'll drive you."

I blinked. "Drive me?"

He buttoned his cuffs neatly, his voice steady as ever. "It's on my way."

I hesitated, but he didn't give me room to refuse. He simply picked up his car keys and said, "Let's go."

And just like that, on the second day of our marriage, I somehow ended up being chauffeured to work by my genius professor husband.