It was the middle of the night, and I was mainlining a romance webcomic, the kind that gets your face hot and your heart racing. I was right at the good part when I saw the author’s note: on indefinite hiatus.

My world stopped.

In a fit of desperation, I slid into the author’s DMs. "Doodlebug, Doodlebug," I typed, "please, just a few more crumbs. A little chicken feed for your loyal flock."

The author, to my shock, replied. He sounded miserable. "I'm sorry. The comic is inspired by my wife."

"But she's been so cold to me lately," he continued. "She keeps bringing up another man's name, putting me in my place. I'm terrified she's going to leave me. I feel like dying. I can't even pick up my stylus."

To save my favorite fictional couple, I decided to become a real-life hero.

"That's where you're wrong," I wrote back, channeling every ounce of confidence I didn't have. "I'm actually a gold-medal relationship counselor. I specialize in this stuff. Give me your number, and I'll talk you off the ledge. I've got a few tricks that might save your marriage."

He was so grateful, he sent his number immediately. I typed it into my phone to add him as a contact.

And then I saw the profile picture. A fluffy white Samoyed.

Oh, God. This was the same number as the arrogant, distant man I'd made a pact with after our sham wedding: we would be husband and wife on paper only. No interference, no intimacy, complete and total distance.

Turns out, I was the cold, heartless wife.

The problem was, I was just honoring our agreement.

But for the sake of the story, for the love of the comic… I knocked on the door to his bedroom across the hall that night.

"It's suddenly so cold in here," I said, my voice a carefully crafted tremor. "Could you… could you come warm up my bed?"

The man, who was a master of composure, froze. Then, the tips of his ears bloomed into a fascinating shade of crimson.

1

I got home late from work. The apartment smelled incredible. As I shut the door, I saw Owen with his back to me, untying the strings of an apron.

Broad shoulders, narrow waist. He had a certain domestic charm.

I glanced away, clutching my purse tighter as I headed for my bedroom. The food might look delicious, but none of it was for me. That was the deal. Our pre-nup, scribbled on a cocktail napkin, was simple: we don't bother each other. We keep our distance. We live our own lives under the same roof.

I'd only taken a few steps when he cleared his throat.

"You've been getting back late," he said from the living room. "Have you eaten?"

I paused, turning my head to offer a polite smile. "Just deadlines, you know how it is. Haven't eaten yet, was just going to order something. Am I disturbing you coming in this late?"

"Not at all."

Between the endless overtime and the soul-crushing news about my favorite webcomic, I was running on fumes. The last thing I had energy for was small talk with my emotionally unavailable husband-in-name-only.

I flashed another fake smile and was about to make my escape when he spoke again.

"Well… since you're here… I made a little too much. If you want to eat together, so it doesn't go to waste."

I raised an eyebrow, surprised. He immediately became flustered.

"Don't get the wrong idea. It was a mistake. I just made too much."

"I know, I know," I said, softening. "We're not a real couple. My feelings won't get all tangled up in a free meal."

There were four or five dishes on the table, including my absolute favorite, pan-seared salmon with asparagus. Since he'd offered, I wasn't about to say no.

The moment I sat down, a pair of long, pale hands reached across the table. My eyes followed the arm up to a pair of stunning, almond-shaped eyes.

"Um, let me get you some soup," he murmured.

"Oh. Thanks. That's nice of you."

In three months of marriage, I think this was the first time we'd ever shared a table.

And damn, the man could cook.

I kept my head down, pushing rice around my bowl, my mind drifting back to the day I'd asked him to marry me. The memory still made me cringe. Six months ago, my family had tried to set me up with a guy from my hometown—short, round, and offering a twenty-thousand-dollar "bride price." They were relentlessly pressuring me to quit my job and move back.

I was terrified.

Then, one day, I overheard my boss consoling a friend on the phone about the exact same family pressure. I took a wild leap of faith and asked my boss for his friend's number.

When I first met Owen, my face went hot. I hadn't expected him to be so handsome. He was six-foot-one, with a ridiculously perfect nose, and his skin seemed to glow under the cafe lights. He gave me a cool, indifferent once-over that made me shrink in my seat.

Owen was the one who laid out the rules. We only had to pretend for our parents. He was a logical, busy software engineer who had zero interest in marriage, and under no circumstances was I to interfere in his personal life.

Later, when my lease was up, he even took pity on me and let me move into his spare bedroom, rent-free.

For the first month, I tried to show my gratitude. I'd find little ways to talk to him, to be helpful. But Owen misinterpreted my kindness as a pathetic attempt at seduction. He'd frown every time he saw me.

Finally, he confronted me. "Chloe," he'd said, his voice flat. "If you cross this boundary again, we'll have to terminate the agreement."

I was so mortified I could only stammer apologies. "Okay, Mr. Hayes. Got it. I'll never speak to you again."

2

So, I ate this meal with the utmost care, trying not to make a single sound.

Halfway through, my phone rang. I rushed to the balcony to take the call. It was my new boss, Rick, hounding me about a project deadline.

When I returned to the table, my mood had soured completely. The thought that my one escape, my beloved webcomic, was gone for good suddenly felt like the final straw. This life was pointless.

In an instant, my nose burned, and my throat felt like I'd swallowed battery acid. To my absolute horror, a choked sob escaped my lips, right there in front of Owen.

"Chloe? What's wrong?"

My breakdown startled him. He shot up from his chair, moved to the seat next to mine, and handed me a tissue.

I hiccuped, rubbing my red-rimmed eyes. "Can I… can I talk to you about it?" I asked in a small voice. "Or will I be annoying you?"

"Of course not. Tell me."

Owen seemed to remember his previous warning to me. He had the decency to look embarrassed, his gaze dropping to his hands as he fiddled with his fingers.

Given the green light, I took a deep breath. "It's that bastard at work, Rick Bowers!"

"Do you have any idea what a creep he is? He calls me into his office all day for no reason, and then he doesn't even leave me alone at night. I'm home, and he's still calling me."

"The first thing I do when I wake up is send him a status report."

"I swear, I told him he should spend more time with his wife and kids, that he's too obsessed with work. But he just said he's single."

The tears were flowing freely now, and I didn't notice the storm cloud gathering on Owen's face.

"Is he young?" he asked, a strangely random question.

I wiped my eyes, nodding vaguely. "Yeah, not even thirty."

"Younger than me?"

I froze, the sob caught in my throat.

I had no idea how to answer that. I didn't actually know how old Owen was. When we were signing the marriage license, I'd forgotten to look. But based on looks alone, Owen was definitely the younger, fresher model.

Seeing my hesitation, he prompted me.

"I'm twenty-six and a half."

"Oh, then Rick's older. He just turned twenty-nine," I blurted out. The gossip from yesterday's team lunch was still fresh in my mind.

Owen said nothing, just watched me. The silence in the room suddenly felt thick and awkward.

"No, I didn't mean you're old!" I backpedaled frantically. "I meant he's old. And a pain in the ass. My boss is a high-maintenance old man. You're young! Really young. Haha."

My attempt at damage control was a complete failure.

His eyes fell, and a familiar coolness returned to his voice, the same tone he'd used when we first met.

"I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

"Leave the dishes. I'll get them in the morning. Goodnight."

It was barely past eight o'clock.

It was obvious my clumsy words had offended him.

"Oh. Okay. Goodnight," I mumbled. My god, my social skills were atrocious. I'd killed the conversation completely.

3

Back in my room, I opened my chat with Owen. I hesitated for a long time, wanting to praise his cooking, to thank him again. But every sentence I typed felt awkward, so I deleted it all.

Whatever. We were business partners, not husband and wife. It was better to keep things simple, to keep our distance.

I thought I'd fall asleep instantly after such a draining day, but habit pulled me back to the webcomic app. It had been three days since the last update.

There were no new chapters, so I just started over from the beginning. Rereading it only made me love it more. The male lead in this comic was a master of subtle seduction, a sly, lovesick puppy who used every trick in the book to charm the heroine. But she was hopelessly oblivious, completely unaware of his feelings for her.

The last chapter had ended on a cliffhanger, right as he was about to coax a confession out of her.

At one in the morning, I was back in the comments section, wailing with the other heartbroken fans. The feed was a waterfall of "I can't die peacefully like this."

After spamming the comments, I clicked on the author's profile and went back to his DMs.

"Doodlebug, Doodlebug, please, just a few more crumbs. A little chicken feed for your loyal flock."

"Doodlebug, I'll give you half my salary, just come back! Can we ever meet again, Doodlebug?"

"Doodlebug, don't you leave me!"

In the middle of my digital meltdown, a new message popped up.

"I'm sorry. For personal reasons, I really can't write anymore."

I gasped. I couldn't believe the author was online at three in the morning.

"OMG, you're awake!"

"What's wrong? What's going on? Tell me everything. What's blocking your creative genius?"

Five minutes later, he poured his heart out.

"To be honest, the comic is inspired by my wife. But lately, she's become so cold. Not only that, she keeps talking about another man. It's agony. You probably can't understand."

"The pain makes it impossible for me to draw. Every time I look at this story, I feel like I'm kidding myself. My wife doesn't love me. Maybe… maybe she never even liked me at all."

Reading his message felt like stumbling upon the juiciest gossip of the century.

My God. Talk about a tortured artist.

The author of this incredibly sweet, romantic comic was a man? And apparently… a deeply devoted, lovesick puppy himself?

It was true what they said: art imitates life.

My brain kicked into high gear. This was no time for gossip. I had to figure out how to comfort this man, who sounded like he was about to be abandoned by his wife, and get him back to the drawing board.

My fingers trembled as I typed. Think, Chloe, think! You have to get him to keep drawing. Your spiritual nourishment depends on it!

And then it hit me.

I'd spent a year volunteering at a community dispute resolution center. I'd seen it all, but the most common cases were always marital spats. And I'd learned one thing: in most relationships, if one person is willing to be shamelessly persistent, it's hard to truly break the connection.

From the sound of it, this guy's level of devotion was way beyond the average simp.

That made it even easier.

"Relationship problems? That's my jam! I was the top mediator in my community," I typed. "This app censors a lot of words, so it's not the best place to talk. Add me on another app, and we can chat properly."

"I will do everything in my power to help you win back your wife. I will not let you become a man in despair."

After sending the message, my heart hammered against my ribs. Without a moment's hesitation, he sent back his account number.

"Really? Thank you so much! You're a lifesaver!"

4

But here was the weird thing. When I entered the number into the search bar, the app told me this person was already in my contacts.

I looked again.

Wait a second. Wasn't that Owen's account?

I searched five more times, and the same profile kept popping up. The smile on my face froze and then shattered.