The morning sun slipped through the sheer curtains of the bedroom, painting the floor with strips of gold. Arina stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the pleats of her blue saree. She had chosen this color carefully—it wasn't too loud, wasn't too dull, but carried the quiet elegance she wanted Reyansh to notice. The delicate silver border shimmered faintly as she moved. For once, she allowed herself a small smile at her own reflection.
On the bed lay Reyansh's clothes, already arranged. A crisp white shirt, neatly pressed, and dark trousers. She knew he preferred simplicity, nothing flamboyant or gaudy, and in a way, that suited him. He was a man who seemed carved from restraint, the kind who didn't demand attention yet always drew it silently.
She moved about the kitchen with practiced ease, preparing a light breakfast. Reyansh never liked heavy meals in the morning; a glass of warm milk, toast, and fruit were enough for him. She mirrored his habits now—not because she had to, but because she wanted the familiarity, the rhythm of their routines to overlap. It was, after all, in the small details where intimacy thrived.
After some time Reyansh came , they silently did their breakfast.
---
When Reyansh finally stepped into the living room, his driver was already waiting outside with the car . Arina followed him to the door. He glanced at her briefly, as if to acknowledge her presence, but his face remained the same calm mask. Just as he was about to leave, she moved forward, hesitating only for a second before wrapping her arms around him in a soft, sudden hug.
"Have a good day," she whispered, her voice careful, almost shy.
She wasn't expecting anything in return—not from him. He was not the type of man to indulge in gestures of affection. But to her surprise, Reyansh's hand rested lightly against her back, a fleeting acknowledgment before he let go.
The touch lingered in her mind even after she stepped back, detaching herself. She smiled at him, her lips curving with a softness that masked the storm of thoughts behind her eyes. He nodded, said nothing, and left.
Only after the sound of his car faded into the distance did she breathe out. Her fingers brushed against her saree where his hand had been, and a quiet certainty bloomed inside her. These slow steps, these subtle acts of closeness—they would weave him into her life. One day, she wouldn't just be part of his house; she would be part of his very habits, his comfort, his necessity.
He would crave her presence the way a man craved silence after noise, water after thirst.
She would be his addiction.
---
Reyansh's house wasn't extravagant , but it carried the understated grace of its owner. The rooms were clean, the furniture functional, nothing excessive or decorative. It wasn't too big to feel empty, nor too small to feel suffocating. It was simply… Reyansh. Practical. Reserved.
The quiet afternoons stretched out before her like an empty canvas. She had nothing pressing to do, no urgent work demanding her attention. In her other world—her original world—she had once dreamt of opening her own bakery. The thought of mixing flour and sugar, of watching cakes rise slowly in the oven, of the smell of butter and vanilla filling the air—it had always calmed her. Baking was patience turned into sweetness, a kind of art that demanded both discipline and care.
Now, she had the means. She had enough money to open that bakery, to turn her dream into something tangible. Tonight, she decided, she would talk to Reyansh about it. She wasn't nervous. She knew him well enough to believe he would support her. For all his reserve, he wasn't a man who crushed another's ambitions.
Arina parents had never stopped her either. They had Advika, after all. Advika, who was groomed to inherit the family business. Advika, who had the sharpness and hunger for power that Arina never cared to cultivate. With Advika taking over, Arina's path had always been her own. She had been free to choose.
---
By evening, she had decided on a simple dinner. She stood over the stove, the smell of cumin and onions wafting through the air, her hands moving with the rhythm of chopping and stirring. She heard the faint creak of the main door, the sound of footsteps on the floor. Turning her head, she saw him.
Reyansh looked more tired than usual. His shoulders seemed weighed down, his hair slightly disheveled, his eyes carrying the dull heaviness of a man who had seen too much in one day. He didn't greet her, just walked past into the living room and sank into the sofa.
Arina wiped her hands quickly on a towel and poured a glass of water. She carried it to him, her steps quiet. He took it without looking at her, drank, and set the glass on the table. She studied his face—the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension etched into his jaw.
Without asking, she moved behind him, her hands hesitating only for a second before resting on his shoulders. Gently, she began to massage. Her fingers pressed into the taut muscles, kneading the strain away bit by bit.
He didn't resist. He didn't speak. His eyes closed, as if surrendering to the simple comfort of her touch. For Arina, it was more than comfort; it was intimacy, the kind that seeped in silently, unnoticed, until it became indispensable.
Her heart beat steadily, not fast with nervousness but calm with purpose. This was how she would win him. Not through grand confessions or desperate attempts, but through presence. Through the silent ways she could ease his burdens, tend to his needs, become the quiet corner he returned to after a weary day.
After a long while, Reyansh opened his eyes. He reached up, gently stopping her hands. His voice was low, almost flat, but not unkind.
"Thank you."
And with that, he stood, leaving her where she was, and walked to his room.
Arina stayed behind, her hands falling slowly to her sides. She did not feel rejected. Not at all. A smile curved her lips again, softer this time, like the secret of someone who knew her path was unfolding exactly as it should.
Every small moment mattered. A hug at the door. A shared breakfast. The massage of tired shoulders. These threads, one by one, would weave a bond stronger than he realized.
She looked down at the simmering pot on the stove, the meal waiting to be finished. Her eyes lingered on the faint steam rising, and in that quiet kitchen, she whispered to herself:
"He will not even realize when I become the habit he cannot live without."
The night stretched on, but in Arina's heart, it felt like the beginning of something inevitable.
---
" A habit begins not with fire, but with the quiet persistence of touch."