The Stranger I Married

The soft glow of the TV flickered across the living room walls, casting shadows that danced in rhythm with the movie’s changing scenes. Outside, the city buzzed with life, but in the high-rise mansion , everything felt still—quiet in a way that made Ella feel like the world had pressed pause just for them.

She was tucked into the corner of the oversized couch, a bowl of popcorn balanced on her lap, legs drawn up beneath her. Her newly done hair was down, still full and glossy from earlier, spilling over her shoulders like a curtain. She wore one of Nicholas’s hoodies—far too big, drowning her small frame—but she’d stolen it unapologetically when he’d disappeared to answer a call.

Now he was back, sprawled beside her, one arm stretched out behind her along the back of the couch, the other stealing popcorn from her bowl with maddening casualness.

"This movie is terrible," Nicholas commented, grabbing another handful of popcorn and tossing a piece into his mouth.

Ella smirked. "You picked it."

"I picked it for you," he said, dramatically offended. "You said you wanted something light. I gave you the cinematic equivalent of a marshmallow."

"It’s barely got a plot."

"It’s got popcorn, a couch, and me. What more do you want?"

Ella rolled her eyes but felt the flutter in her chest all the same. "Do you always flirt this much?"

"Only when I’m in love."

She froze for half a second, eyes flicking to him.