One in a million

Arranged | 3 |

H/n's pov

Work was worse today than all week, exhaustion fills my body as I finally get home.

I expect to see Y/n waiting for me like she does every day, but she's nowhere In sight,

I look into the kitchen, and it looks as if it hasn't been touched today,

I've formed an almost attachment to seeing her every day after work,

We don't speak beyond her telling me dinner is ready, and asking me how work was.

I can tell she's beyond nervous around me, so I don't force conversation, I attempt to respond in one or two words answers so she can leave as faster,

Her car is in the driveway, so I know she's home...

Maybe she got tired of your annoying ass always ignoring her.

Guilt fills me, and I find myself walking toward her room before my mind can comprehend what's going on.

It's cracked open, and I knock but don't hear an answer, so I carefully push it open,

To find her on her bed, in yesterday's clothes—she looks pale and clammy,

I take quick steps until I'm sat on the edge of the bed, putting my hand on her forehead,

She's burning up

She's sick...and all alone,

Dammit, I'm a horrible husband.

I quickly make my way downstairs, grabbing a thermometer, along with some other things...

When I sit down on her bed, she shifts, moaning in pain.

I take her temperature

101.4

Shit...she has a fever

"Sweetheart, I need you to sit up for me so you can drink some water" My words are gentle,

And I have no clue where the nickname comes from.

"I'm sorry I didn't make dinner" she manages to say

My heart stops, and guilt consumes me fully "I don't expect you to do anything y/n...you're not obligated to cook, or clean"

"But I'm your wife" she whispers

Dear God, the poor girl...

I put a cool towel on her forehead, hoping it helps,

"Yes...you are my wife. Not my mother, or caretaker, not a maid. My wife"

"But...I'm useless to a man if I don't cook" she mumbles

"Who in the world put that in your head?" I ask gently

She scrunches her brows, I can tell she's tired, and maybe it's her exhaustion that had her confessing

"My parents"

Anger like no other fills my chest.

How could her parents make her think those things?

"You're not useless if you don't cook, sure it's nice to have a home-cooked meal after work waiting for me...but if you didn't do that, I'd be okay too," I say gently moving hair out of her face.

"Sleep y/n, get rest, I'll go make you some soup so you have something to eat"

Her eyes fill with tears, and her mouth fights to speak, but her eyes slowly shut, fighting for rest.