The problem wasn't that they were getting closer.
The problem was that neither of them was stopping it.
Anaya realized it when she found herself waiting for Aarav's messages — not checking obsessively, not desperate — just… expecting them.
Aarav realized it when he started noticing when she *didn't* text.
And that awareness made everything heavier.
---
That afternoon, Anaya was in the living room, trying to focus on a book but failing.
Her mind kept drifting.
To him.
To the way he looked when he was thinking.
To the way his voice softened when he wasn't trying to sound composed.
To the way he had begun to feel… familiar.
She hated that word.
---
Aarav came home earlier than usual again.
"You're home," she said.
"Yes," he replied. "Did you expect otherwise?"
She hesitated. "I think I'm starting to."
His gaze lingered on her.
"That's not a good sign," he said quietly.
"No," she agreed. "It's not."
And yet… neither of them moved away.
---
They sat together, not speaking much.
Just existing in the same space.
At one point, Anaya's phone buzzed.
A message from her cousin.
She smiled faintly.
"What?" Aarav asked.
"She asked how married life is," Anaya replied.
"And what did you say?" he asked.
"I didn't answer yet."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know what to call this."
He studied her face.
"That makes two of us."
---
Later, the electricity went out.
The house fell into sudden darkness.
"Oh," Anaya murmured. "Great."
"Don't move," Aarav said. "I'll get candles."
She waited, standing still in the dark, listening to the soft echo of his footsteps.
A moment later, warm light filled the room.
And for some reason, in the candlelight, everything felt… closer.
Too close.
---
They sat on the couch again.
The shadows flickered.
The silence grew heavier.
Anaya hugged her knees.
"Do you ever feel like we're pretending this is normal?" she asked.
"Yes," Aarav replied. "Do you ever feel like it *is* becoming normal?"
That scared her.
"Yes," she whispered.
He turned toward her.
So did she.
And suddenly, the space between them felt… smaller.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
---
"You should move away," Anaya said softly.
"I know," he replied.
Neither moved.
"You should remind me this is a contract," she said.
"I know," he replied again.
Neither spoke.
Neither moved.
Their eyes met.
Her breath hitched.
His jaw tightened.
And suddenly, everything between them felt fragile — like glass, like hope, like something about to shatter.
---
He lifted his hand slightly.
Not touching.
Just… close.
"This is a bad idea," she whispered.
"Yes," he said.
"And you're still here," she said.
"So are you."
Silence stretched — not empty — dangerous.
---
For one heartbeat, they leaned in.
Not intentionally.
Not planned.
Just instinct.
Just feeling.
Just… almost.
Then Anaya pulled back suddenly.
"No," she said, breathless. "We can't."
Aarav froze.
"I know," he said.
But his voice wasn't steady.
And neither was hers.
---
They stood up at the same time.
She turned away.
He ran a hand through his hair.
"This can't happen," Anaya said.
"I know," he repeated. "But pretending it didn't almost happen doesn't change that it did."
She swallowed.
"Almost doesn't count," she said.
"It does," he replied quietly. "Because it means something wanted to."
That sentence stayed with her.
---
Later that night, Anaya lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Her heart was still racing.
Not from fear.
From *possibility*.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
---
In his room, Aarav sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped.
He wasn't shaken by the closeness.
He was shaken by the restraint.
Because restraint meant he cared.
And caring meant risk.
---
The next morning, they avoided each other's eyes.
Not out of anger.
Out of awareness.
Out of something new.
Something fragile.
Something unnamed.
Something dangerous.