Flash Marriage To The Ruthless Surgeon

After the bathroom door had clicked shut, Jaimie had sat back down at her vanity, her fingers still clumsy on the eyeliner. She heard the bathroom door open, then the front door open and close. For a long, hollow moment, she thought he had walked out for good—that the marriage was over before it began. Then, the front door opened again, and the sound of wheels on hardwood pulled Jaimie out of her thoughts. She walked out of her bedroom to find Graham standing in the living room, flanked by two sleek, silver Rimowa suitcases and a large cardboard box. He looked slightly better than he had an hour ago-the fever had broken, and he had changed into a plain white t-shirt and jeans-but his face was still set in that hard, unreadable mask. "What is this?" she asked, pointing at the luggage. "I live here now," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Until I find a suitable place, I'm staying here. It's part of the deal. We are married, Jaimie. We need to cohabitate." She wanted to argue, to tell him that her tiny apartment wasn't built for a giant of a man with expensive luggage, but the look in his eyes shut her down. He wasn't asking. He picked up the suitcases and walked past her into the small guest room. She heard him unzip the bags and start pulling things out. Curiosity getting the better of her, she followed him and leaned against the doorframe. She watched as he pulled out stacks of clothes. Basic, boring items. Grey t-shirts, black t-shirts, dark wash jeans. Nothing with a label, nothing with a hint of personality. He carried the entire armful over to her washing machine, which was tucked into a closet in the hallway. He opened the lid, dumped every single piece of clothing inside without sorting it, and then reached for the detergent. Jaimie's eye twitched. She had severe mysophobia. She hated germs, she hated dirt, and she absolutely hated it when people mixed colors and whites. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice tight. "Washing my clothes," he replied, pouring a capful of detergent directly onto the pile. "You can't just throw everything in together! The colors will bleed. And those are wool sweaters!" She pointed at a dark grey lump. "They'll shrink!" Graham didn't even look at her. He turned the dial on the machine until it clicked onto "Heavy Duty/Whites." Then he pulled out the temperature knob and jammed it all the way to "Hot/Sanitize." "Are you insane?" Jaimie lunged for the dial, but he stepped between her and the machine. "That's the industrial cycle! It's for disinfecting hospital linens! You'll destroy everything in there!" "Clean is clean," he said flatly. He slammed the lid shut and pressed the start button. The machine roared to life, the water rushing in with a violent hiss. Jaimie stared at the vibrating machine in horror. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion. "You're a barbarian," she muttered, retreating to the kitchen. "An absolute barbarian." She slumped into a kitchen chair, burying her face in her hands. How was she supposed to live with a man who treated a washing machine like a torture device? A few minutes later, a rich, earthy aroma drifted into the room. She looked up. Graham was standing at the counter, holding her French press. He was scooping ground coffee into the carafe with a precision that surprised her. He checked the temperature of the water from the kettle, poured it slowly, and set a timer on his phone. When the timer went off, he pressed the plunger down with deliberate, even pressure and poured a single cup. He walked over and set it down in front of her. She looked at the cup, then up at him. "You know how to use a French press?" "Survival skill," he said, pouring a second cup for himself. He took a sip, his eyes closing for a brief second. "You like it strong. Bitter." It was exactly how she liked it. She took a hesitant sip, the warmth spreading through her chest. It was perfect. Frustratingly perfect. An hour later, the washing machine beeped. Graham pulled out the clothes. Jaimie watched from a distance, expecting to see a pile of ruined, felted fabric. Instead, the clothes were slightly wrinkled, but intact. The hot water hadn't destroyed the cotton, and the dark colors hadn't bled into the whites. They were just... exceptionally clean. They smelled like bleach and detergent, a sterile, clinical scent that, she had to admit, didn't offend her mysophobia. He hung them on the drying rack, his movements efficient and precise. He wasn't careless. He just didn't care about the things normal people cared about. He cared about efficiency. About sanitation. About the end result. "You're strange," she blurted out. He looked at her, one eyebrow slightly raised. "You wash clothes like you're scrubbing in for surgery, but you make coffee like a barista," she said. "You say you have no time for a life, but you obviously know how to live." "Survival isn't living, Jaimie," he said quietly. "It's just not dying." He unzipped the second suitcase and pulled out a crisp, white dress shirt. It was the only item in the bag that was on a hanger, encased in a dry-cleaning bag. He carried it to the bathroom, and a moment later, he emerged, transformed. The white shirt was perfectly pressed, tucked into his jeans. He looked polished, professional, and completely unapproachable. The soft, feverish man from this morning was gone, replaced by Dr. Lawson, the untouchable surgeon. Jaimie looked down at her own clothes. She was wearing a simple, sleeveless blue dress. It felt inadequate, like she was attending a board meeting in a swimsuit. "We should go," he said, checking his watch. "City Hall waits for no one." She stood up, her stomach clenching into a tight knot. The coffee turned to acid in her throat. She followed him to the door, her hands clammy. This was it. She was really doing this. She was marrying a stranger who washed his clothes on the sanitize cycle and looked at her like she was a puzzle he had already solved.