The house had learned their rhythm.
Not loudly. Not intentionally.
But in the quiet way spaces adapt to people who stay.
Anaya realized it one morning when she woke to the sound of footsteps in the kitchen — not hurried, not heavy — just… normal.
She didn't rush out.
She stayed in bed for a few moments, listening.
There was the clink of a cup. The soft hum of the kettle. The scrape of a chair.
Aarav was awake.
Not at work.
Not running.
Just… here.
That realization made something shift inside her — not happiness, not fear — but awareness.
This was becoming real.
---
When she entered the kitchen, he was standing by the counter, sleeves rolled up, staring at a pan like it had personally betrayed him.
"Is it attacking you?" she asked softly.
He glanced up. "It refuses to cooperate."
"Because you're arguing with eggs," she said.
"They started it."
She smiled, then stepped beside him. "Move."
He did — instantly — watching as she cracked the eggs with practiced ease.
"Do you cook often?" he asked.
"When I want comfort," she replied. "Not when I want control."
That made him pause.
He hadn't realized how often his life was about control.
---
They ate together — again — not because it was planned, but because neither of them walked away.
The silence wasn't awkward.
It wasn't heavy.
It was… full.
Aarav noticed how easily she fit into the space beside him now. How her presence no longer felt like something he had to adjust to — it felt like something the room had been waiting for.
"Anaya," he said suddenly.
"Yes?"
"Do you ever regret this?" he asked.
She didn't need clarification.
She knew exactly what he meant.
The marriage. The contract. The life they had stepped into without love.
She thought carefully before answering.
"No," she said slowly. "I regret how afraid I was of it."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"That's not the same thing," he said.
"No," she agreed. "But it's close."
---
That evening, Aarav came home later than usual.
Not because of work.
Because he had walked.
Not aimlessly.
Not quickly.
Just… away.
And back.
He didn't understand why, but something inside him had felt restless. Like he had too many thoughts and nowhere to put them.
Anaya noticed immediately.
"You're quiet," she said.
He removed his jacket slowly. "I don't know what I'm thinking."
"That's dangerous," she replied.
"Why?"
"Because silence inside the mind is heavier than noise."
He looked at her then.
"You understand that," he said.
She nodded. "I live there sometimes."
---
They sat in the living room again — their place now — not chosen, but claimed.
He didn't pick up his phone.
She didn't open her book.
They just… sat.
"I don't like how comfortable this feels," Aarav said suddenly.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because comfort leads to expectation."
"And expectation leads to disappointment," she said quietly.
"Yes."
"But," she added, "it also leads to trust."
He looked at her sharply. "And trust leads to hurt."
"Sometimes," she said. "But it also leads to healing."
Silence settled again.
This time, heavier.
Not bad.
Just… honest.
---
Later that night, Anaya stood in the doorway of his room.
She hadn't planned to.
She hadn't even realized she had walked there.
"I don't know why I'm here," she said softly.
"Neither do I," he replied.
But he didn't ask her to leave.
That mattered.
"I just…" She hesitated. "Do you ever feel like this is all temporary?"
"Yes," he admitted immediately.
"Does that make you pull away?" she asked.
He looked down. "It makes me prepare for loss."
She stepped closer. "I prepare too."
He met her eyes. "How?"
"By pretending I don't care," she said quietly.
That hit something in him.
"I don't want to pretend anymore," he said.
Her breath caught.
"That's dangerous," she whispered.
"I know."
"And you still want to?"
"Yes."
Because pretending didn't protect them anymore.
It just made the truth heavier.
---
They stood there — close, but not touching.
Not crossing.
Not retreating.
Just… suspended.
"I'm afraid," Anaya said softly.
"Of me?" he asked.
"No," she replied. "Of hoping."
His voice was low when he answered. "I'm afraid of losing something I haven't fully had yet."
Her chest tightened.
"That's worse," she whispered.
"Yes," he agreed. "Because it means I already care."
That was the line.
Not a physical one.
An emotional one.
And both of them felt it blur.
---
That night, neither of them slept easily.
Not because of desire.
Not because of conflict.
But because something had shifted — not forward, not backward — but deeper.
And depth was harder to escape than distance.
---
The next morning, Anaya found a cup of tea on the counter.
Already made.
No note.
No explanation.
Just… there.
She stared at it for a long moment.
Then she picked it up.
And for the first time, she didn't think of the contract.
She thought of him.
---
Because silence between them was no longer empty.
It was full of things they were too afraid to say.
And too afraid to lose.
---