ALEXANDER
I didn't know who the little shit thought he was.
By the time we left the courthouse, I already regretted not walking out before the ink dried. Instead, I had a ring on my finger like a tracking device and a tiny problem with warm hazel eyes sitting in my passenger seat.
He was pretty. Objectively.
High cheekbones, light brown waves and skin that looked like it had never seen a bad day. The kind of face that made people want to protect him.
Or ruin the perfection a little.
I drove without speaking while the city lights swept across the windshield. Dashiell fidgeted beside me, twisting his fingers together and worrying his lower lip between his teeth until the house appeared at the end of the private drive.
Two stories of glass, black steel and clean lines. No flowers, clutter or pointless decorations. Everything had a place, and nothing existed purely to make the rooms feel warmer.
I pulled into the garage and killed the engine. "Get out."
Dashiell followed me with two small suitcases, one catching on the threshold hard enough to make him stumble. I heard his startled yelp behind me and kept walking.
"Idiot."
Inside, I tossed my white coat over the couch and rolled up my sleeves while he remained near the entrance, staring around at the marble floors, black leather furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Rules," I said. "Listen carefully because I'm only saying this once."
He nodded.
"If we have sex, don't expect romance afterward. No cuddling, no spending the night in my bed, and no pretending it means anything beyond what it is. I don't do affection, and I don't do gentle because someone expects it from a husband."
Color immediately rose into his cheeks, but I continued before he could interrupt.
"This house stays the way it is. No throw pillows, plants, candles, framed family photographs or anything else you think might make the place feel homely. Don't rearrange my things, and don't touch me because you want comfort. If you're tired, don't lean on me. If you're upset, don't expect reassurance. I won't ask about your feelings, and you don't ask about mine."
His hands had gone rigid around the suitcase handles.
"And before you start imagining otherwise, this isn't love or some partnership we're going to grow into because we signed a certificate. We had a deal forced on both of us. That's all."
Dashiell stared up at me for a few seconds before swallowing. "I have rules too."
I raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"
"Yes."
He crouched beside one suitcase, unzipped it and pulled out a small spiral notebook.
I stared at it.
A fucking jotter.
"What is that?"
"My rules."
"You wrote them down?"
"It helps me organize things."
Of course it did.
I headed for the bar, poured myself two fingers of bourbon and took a drink while Dashiell followed me with the notebook held against his chest.
"You have to listen."
"I didn't say I wouldn't. I need alcohol if you're about to read me terms and conditions."
"They aren't terms and conditions."
I gestured with the glass. "Proceed."
He opened the notebook and cleared his throat. "Number one. No sudden loud noises or changes in routine without warning. It makes it difficult for me to process."
"Noted."
"Number two. I need clear communication before physical contact. I need to know what's happening."
"You want advance notice every time I touch you?"
His cheeks reddened again. "Not every time. Just don't suddenly grab me or do something when I don't know what's happening."
"Fine."
That seemed to surprise him, but he continued. "Number three. Don't touch my hair without asking. It's sensitive."
"Your hair?"
"It's a sensory thing. I don't like people touching or pulling it unless I say they can."
I took another drink and let him continue.
"Number four. After long days, I need at least thirty minutes alone to decompress. Preferably somewhere quiet."
"You realize you married me, not a roommate with a schedule."
"I know." He lifted his chin despite the nervousness still showing in his face. "I still need it."
The contradiction was becoming difficult to ignore. He could barely stop his hands from shaking, yet there he stood in my house reading demands from a spiral notebook as though marrying me had somehow entitled him to negotiate.
Maybe it had.
"Anything else?"
He glanced down at the page. "One more. If I say stop or wait during anything physical, you stop. No questions until I've had time to process."
I set my glass down. "That's not a household rule."
His brows drew together. "What?"
"That's consent. If you say stop, I stop."
Some of the tension left his shoulders.
I crossed the room until I stood directly in front of him and held out my hand. "Give me the notebook."
Dashiell hesitated before passing it over.
I flipped through the pages. He hadn't written five rules.
He'd written pages of them.
Preferred breakfast times. Workday routines. Foods he couldn't tolerate. Which household sounds bothered him. Where he wanted his belongings kept. A note about not moving objects without telling him.
I looked at him over the top of the notebook. "You came prepared."
"I didn't know what your house would be like."
"So you wrote an instruction manual for yourself?"
His mouth pressed into a line. "You have rules too."
Fair point.
I closed the notebook and handed it back. "Your thirty minutes are yours. Nobody touches your hair without permission. I'll warn you about major changes when it's practical, and stop means stop."
Dashiell blinked at me as though he'd expected a fight.
I leaned closer. "Don't mistake cooperation for softness, little boy. I'm still not going to become the husband you've constructed in your head, and that notebook isn't going to organize me into something easier for you to handle."
"I didn't say it would."
There it was again.
That tiny streak of defiance coming from a man who had been trembling ten minutes ago.
My attention dropped briefly to his mouth before returning to his eyes. "Good."
I stepped around him and headed for the stairs.
"Where am I sleeping?" he called after me.
"Second door on the left."
"And where are you sleeping?"
I glanced back from halfway up.
"Far away from your fucking notebook."
His offended expression followed me upstairs.
Maybe marriage wouldn't be entirely intolerable.