The comfort arrived before either of them noticed it.
Not as a moment.
Not as a realization.
But as a habit.
Anaya realized it when she started waiting for the sound of Aarav's car in the evening — not consciously, not eagerly — just… automatically.
Aarav realized it when he found himself checking the time, not because of meetings, but because he knew she'd be home.
And neither of them liked what that said.
---
That evening, Anaya was sitting on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, reading.
Aarav entered quietly, stopping when he saw her.
"You didn't turn on the lights," he said.
"I like the quiet," she replied without looking up.
He walked in and sat on the other end of the couch.
Not close.
Not far.
But closer than before.
"How was your day?" he asked.
She paused.
It wasn't the question.
It was the tone.
Casual. Genuine. Familiar.
"Fine," she said. "Yours?"
"Busy," he replied. "But… manageable."
She nodded.
They returned to silence.
But this silence wasn't empty.
It was full.
And that was the problem.
---
Later, while making tea, Anaya noticed Aarav watching her.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said.
"You're staring."
"I'm thinking," he corrected.
"About?"
"About when this became… easy."
Her hands stilled on the kettle.
"That's not a good thing," she said carefully.
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
"And yet you don't look unhappy."
"Neither do you."
She turned to face him.
"That's the trap," she said softly.
He frowned. "What trap?"
"Comfort," she replied. "It makes you forget the reason you built walls in the first place."
"And what was your reason?" he asked.
She held his gaze. "Because every time I trusted comfort, it left."
He absorbed that.
"And yours?" she asked.
"Because every time I trusted people, they needed more than I could give," he said. "So I stopped giving anything at all."
Their truths hovered between them.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just heavy.
---
That night, they ate together again.
Not planned.
Not forced.
Just… natural.
"This feels wrong," Anaya said suddenly.
Aarav looked up. "The food?"
"No," she said. "Us."
He set his fork down. "Explain."
"This marriage was supposed to be structured. Controlled. Safe," she said. "And now…"
"And now?" he prompted.
"And now it feels like something else."
"Something dangerous?" he asked.
She nodded.
He studied her face — not cold, not guarded — just honest.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asked quietly.
The question startled her.
"Stop what?"
"Trying."
Her breath caught.
"That's not fair," she said.
"Why?"
"Because I don't know the answer," she admitted.
He nodded slowly. "Neither do I."
Silence settled again.
But this time, it was heavier.
---
Later, Anaya found herself standing outside his study door.
She didn't know why.
She didn't knock.
She just stood there.
Until he opened it.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
She hesitated. "I don't know."
He stepped aside. "Come in."
She did.
The room smelled like coffee and paper and something familiar.
"You seem restless," he said.
"So do you," she replied.
He leaned against the desk. "This is what happens when people stop pretending."
"Pretending what?" she asked.
"That they don't care," he said.
Her heart tightened.
"I care about peace," she said.
"So do I," he replied. "And for the first time in a long time, I feel it here."
She looked at him.
"Peace isn't the same as safety," she said.
"No," he agreed. "But it's closer than loneliness."
That hit harder than either of them expected.
---
That night, Anaya lay awake.
Not anxious.
Not sad.
Just… aware.
Aware of the way his presence had started to feel like relief instead of responsibility.
Aware of how dangerous that shift was.
Aware that she was slowly stepping into something she had promised herself she'd never enter again.
And still…
She didn't pull back.
---
In his room, Aarav stared at the ceiling.
He wasn't afraid of falling.
He was afraid of wanting to stay.
Because wanting meant vulnerability.
And vulnerability meant losing control.
And control had always been his safety.
Until her.
---
The next morning, they stood in the kitchen together again.
"You're early," Anaya said.
"So are you," he replied.
Neither smiled.
Neither looked away.
Neither moved.
They just stood there.
Two people standing on the edge of something unnamed.
Something unplanned.
Something dangerous.
And neither of them stepped back.
---