Accidentally Bound
Chapter 2
Temporary Terms
The first morning of married life began with Elena nearly setting the kitchen on fire.
She had woken to the unfamiliar sound of another person breathing in her apartment, sat up too fast, and decided the only rational response was coffee strong enough to restart her brain. The problem was that Adrian Kane was already awake, already dressed in a clean black T-shirt that somehow made the small space feel smaller, and already standing in front of the stove with a pan of scrambled eggs.
“Morning,” he said, as if this were normal.
Elena blinked. “You’re cooking.”
“I eat breakfast. Shocking, I know.” He glanced over his shoulder. “There’s enough for two if you want.”
She wanted to say no on principle. Instead she muttered something that might have been thanks and retreated to the bathroom to brush her teeth and try to look like a functional adult who had not accidentally acquired a husband.
When she emerged, two plates sat on the fold-out table. Eggs, toast, and coffee already poured the way she liked it.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, sitting opposite him because the alternative was standing and looking awkward.
“I know.” He took a bite of toast. “But the alternative was watching you burn water, and I value the security deposit on this place.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
They ate in a silence that was not entirely uncomfortable. Outside, Capitol Hill was already awake—buses, someone yelling about parking, the distant grind of a coffee grinder from the café on the corner.
“I have a freelance deadline at noon,” Elena said eventually. “I’ll be at the desk most of the morning.”
“I’ll stay out of your way. I have a remote shift until three.”
Remote. Of course. That explained why a man who looked like he belonged in a boardroom was currently living out of a duffel bag on her futon.
After breakfast she claimed the desk by the window. Adrian claimed the futon with a laptop that looked newer and sleeker than anything an IT support salary should afford. She told herself not to notice.
She lasted forty minutes before the quiet got to her.
“Do you always work in silence?” she asked without turning around.
“Usually. Why?”
“No reason.” She opened a new design file and stared at the blank canvas. “Most people put on music or a podcast or something.”
A pause. Then the soft click of his laptop closing. “What do you usually put on?”
“Terrible pop playlists. The kind that make you question your life choices.”
Another pause. Then, dry: “I can survive terrible pop playlists.”
She queued one up. The first song was aggressively cheerful. Adrian did not comment. He simply reopened his laptop and kept working.
It should have felt strange. It felt strangely easy.
At eleven she realized she was out of milk. The refrigerator contained half a carton of eggs, a sad lemon, and Adrian’s suspiciously nice-looking oat milk that she refused to touch on principle.
“I’m going to the store,” she announced.
Adrian looked up. “I’ll come. I need a few things.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” He closed the laptop. “But the last time I let someone else buy groceries for me, I ended up with three kinds of kale and no coffee. Trauma.”
She snorted despite herself. “Fine. But we’re splitting the bill.”
“Obviously.”
The walk to the neighborhood market took eight minutes. The walk through the aisles took longer because Elena kept catching herself watching the way Adrian moved—efficient, unhurried, completely at ease selecting produce like a man who had never worried about price tags.
He paused in the wine section and studied a bottle of red with more attention than it deserved.
“You drink wine?” she asked.
“Occasionally.” He set the bottle back without taking it. “This one’s overpriced for what it is.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You can tell that from the label?”
“I can tell that from the vintage and the region.” He said it casually, then seemed to realize he had revealed too much. “I read a lot of articles.”
Right. Articles.
At the register she insisted on paying for her half in cash. Adrian didn’t argue. He simply watched her with that same careful expression he had worn the night before, as if he were memorizing the way she refused to let him cover anything.
Back at the apartment they unpacked in companionable silence. Elena put away her groceries. Adrian put away his. When their hands reached for the same shelf at the same time, they both froze.
The air did that tightening thing again.
Elena pulled back first. “Sorry.”
“My fault.”
Neither of them moved for a second longer than necessary.
That evening Maya texted: You alive? You’ve been weirdly quiet.
Elena stared at the message, then at the man currently washing dishes in her sink like he belonged there.
Alive, she typed back. Just… adjusting to a temporary roommate situation.
Maya’s reply was immediate: Temporary roommate or temporary husband? Because the clerk’s office called me as your emergency contact and I am DYING.
Elena nearly dropped the phone.
Across the room, Adrian glanced over. “Everything okay?”
“My best friend knows.” She held up the phone. “Apparently the clerk listed her as my emergency contact from an old form and felt the need to ‘check in.’”
Adrian winced. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.” She typed a rapid reply to Maya promising full details later and silence for now. “She’s going to murder me with questions the next time she sees me.”
“I’ll make myself scarce if you need space.”
“It’s fine.” Elena set the phone down. “She’s going to find out eventually. Thirty days is a long time to hide a six-foot-two secret.”
He almost smiled at that. Almost.
Later, after she had finished her deadline and he had closed his laptop, they ended up on opposite ends of the futon because the only other seating was the bed and that felt like crossing a line neither of them was ready to name.
Elena scrolled through design inspiration on her tablet. Adrian read something on his phone with the screen carefully angled away.
At one point his phone lit up with an incoming call. The name on the screen flashed too quickly for her to read, but the way his jaw tightened was unmistakable.
He stood. “I need to take this.”
He stepped out onto the narrow balcony and closed the sliding door behind him. Through the glass she could see him speaking in low, clipped tones, one hand braced on the railing. Whatever the conversation was, it was not casual.
When he came back inside, his expression was carefully neutral again.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Family.” He said the word like it explained everything and nothing. “My sister. She has opinions about my life choices.”
Elena waited, but he didn’t elaborate.
She didn’t push. Secrets were allowed. They were temporary roommates, not real spouses. Temporary roommates did not get to demand explanations.
Still, when she went to bed that night, she lay awake listening to the quiet sounds of him settling on the futon and wondered how many other expensive watches and private phone calls he was carrying around.
And why a man who could identify overpriced wine by vintage was pretending to be ordinary in a four-hundred-and-fifty-square-foot apartment with a sagging futon and a woman he had married by mistake.
The question followed her into sleep.
In the morning she would almost ask it.
Almost.