Michael didn't speak to Hazel for two days after the Coffee Incident.
He didn't yell. Didn't scold. Just… nothing.
Which, somehow, was worse.
Hazel tried to play it cool. She hummed while brushing her teeth, watered a plant she wasn't sure was real, and even alphabetized her side of the bookshelf to feel productive. But the silence? It felt like it was crawling up the walls.
On the third evening, she knocked gently on his office door. No answer. She pushed it open anyway.
Michael was sitting at his desk, typing furiously, jaw tight, sleeves rolled up. He didn't look up.
"I made dinner," she offered. "It's not fancy, but edible. No coffee involved, I promise."
"Not hungry."
She lingered in the doorway. "You know, it's not healthy to skip meals just to prove a point."
He finally looked up. "What point do you think I'm proving?"
"That you're mad. And that you're determined to be cold about it."
He stood. "I'm not cold."
Hazel blinked. "You're literally freezing people out like it's your full-time job."
Michael sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You spilled scalding coffee on my custom-tailored suit. And then tried to mop me like I was kitchen tile."
She cracked a grin. "It was either mop or run. I chose bravery."
A pause. And then—barely, but definitely there—a twitch of his lips.
A maybe-smile.
Hazel stepped inside. "I get it. I'm not exactly your idea of the perfect wife. I don't wear pencil skirts or whisper in boardrooms. But I'm trying, okay?"
Michael studied her, eyes unreadable. "Why?"
She hesitated. "Because… whether you believe it or not, this matters. My brother's tuition. My mom's mortgage. Your father's legacy. It's all tied to this circus."
He looked down, then away. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."
"What? Messy?" She smirked. "Hate to break it to you, but life's a walking, talking mess. I just happen to dance in it."
Michael exhaled slowly, eyes softening. "You cooked?"
She nodded. "Pasta. And I didn't even burn the sauce this time. Minor victory."
He gestured toward the hallway. "Lead the way."
Hazel blinked. "Wait… seriously?"
"You said it's edible, right?"
"I mean—yes. But I didn't think you'd—"
"Hazel."
She smiled. "Okay, okay. Don't get excited."
They sat at the dining table, side by side instead of miles apart like usual. The pasta wasn't restaurant-level, but it was warm and real. Michael took a bite. Paused. Then another.
"This is good," he said.
Hazel lit up. "Told you. Secret ingredient's a dash of chaos."
He shook his head, that almost-smile threatening to appear again.
For the first time since they'd signed their names onto a life neither of them chose, something shifted. Subtle. Warm.
Not forgiveness. Not affection.
But a crack.
In the ice.
And maybe… just maybe… something waiting to bloom through it....