The first month of marriage taught Ama many things.
She learned that Yuna, the housekeeper, left food in the fridge every morning and never stayed to talk. She learned that the view from the penthouse was beautiful at sunrise and lonely at midnight. She learned that rich people had way too many types of spoons.
But most importantly, she learned to notice small things.
Because small things were all Ethan Blackwell gave her.
---
Day 12
She was in the kitchen at 7 AM. Not because she wanted to be awake. Because the bed was too big and too quiet and sleep had given up on her.
Ethan walked in for his morning coffee.
This was new. Normally he was gone before she woke up. But today he was here, in casual clothes, hair slightly messy, looking like a normal person instead of a CEO robot.
He saw her. Stopped.
"You're awake," he said.
"You're still here," she said back.
Silence. Number... she'd lost count.
He made his coffee. Black. One ice cube. She'd noticed.
She pretended to read on her phone.
At the door, he paused.
"Did you sleep well?"
She looked up.
"What?"
"Sleep. Did you sleep well?"
It was such a normal question. Such a human question. From him, it felt huge.
"Fine," she said. "You?"
"Fine."
He left.
She stared at the door for three minutes.
That night, she opened her notebook for the first time.
Day 12: He asked if I slept well. First time.
---
Day 18
Rain.
The kind of rain that made the whole city disappear behind gray curtains. Ama loved rain. Always had.
She was on the balcony.
Not outside. Just at the door, watching. The balcony was his space, probably. She didn't want to overstep.
Ethan came home early. 6 PM. Another first.
He saw her at the balcony door. Said nothing. Went to his office.
Twenty minutes later, she noticed the balcony door was open.
Just a crack. Just enough for the sound of rain to come in. For the smell of wet concrete and clean air.
She looked toward his office.
No sign of him.
But she knew.
Day 18: He left the balcony door open because I said I liked fresh air. Didn't tell me. Just did it.
---
Day 23
Midnight.
Ama couldn't sleep. Again.
She went to the kitchen for water. Found Ethan at the counter, staring at nothing.
"Hi," she said.
He looked up. Tired. Softer at midnight.
"Hi."
"Can't sleep?"
"No."
"Me neither."
She got her water. Sat at the counter. Didn't know if she should stay or go.
He made tea.
Two cups.
Slid one to her.
"No caffeine at midnight," she said.
"It's herbal. You won't die."
She took it. Warm. Perfect.
"Thanks."
He nodded.
They sat in silence for ten minutes. Not awkward. Just... quiet. Together.
Then he stood. Rinsed his cup. Walked toward his room.
At the doorway, he stopped.
"Goodnight, Ama."
"Goodnight, Ethan."
She froze.
She'd said his first name.
First time.
He didn't react. Just walked away.
But her heart was pounding like she'd run a marathon.
Day 23: He came home at midnight. I was reading in the kitchen. He made tea. For me. Then left. Also—I said his name. He didn't tell me not to.
---
Day 30
One month.
Thirty days of marriage. Thirty days of small things.
She made a list in her notebook:
Small things I've noticed about Ethan Blackwell:
1. He drinks coffee black with exactly one ice cube. Always. Even in winter.
2. He reads books I leave on his nightstand. I can tell because the bookmark moves.
3. He comes home early on rainy days. Not every time. But more than usual.
4. He told Yuna my favorite snacks. Now they appear in the kitchen every Tuesday.
5. He looks at me sometimes. When he thinks I'm not watching. I'm always watching.
6. He said my name 47 times this month. I counted.
7. He hasn't smiled once. But he's almost-smiled four times. I count those too.
8. He leaves the balcony door open when it rains.
9. He makes tea at midnight. For both of us.
10. He's not as cold as he wants me to think.
She closed the notebook.
Laid back.
Stared at the ceiling.
One month down, she thought. Twenty-three to go.
I'm in so much trouble.
---
Day 34
Ethan was sick.
Ama didn't know this until she found him asleep on the couch at 3 PM. In his suit. Tie loose. Forehead sweaty.
She stood there. Debated what to do.
Leave him. Not your business. Contract says no interference.
She got a blanket.
Draped it over him carefully. Didn't wake him.
Went to the kitchen. Found medicine in a cabinet. Left it on the table next to him with a glass of water.
Wrote a note: For the fever. You're welcome.
She was in her room when she heard him wake up.
Heard him move. Heard him see the blanket. The medicine. The note.
Silence.
Then: "Ama?"
She held her breath.
"Ama. Thank you."
She didn't answer.
But she smiled for an hour.
Day 34: He was sick. I helped. He said thank you. That's 48 times he's said my name now.
---
Day 41
Naomi texted.
Not Ama. Ethan. But Ama saw his phone on the counter when it buzzed.
Naomi: Miss you. When are we having dinner? It's been months.
Ama looked away.
Not her business. Not her marriage. Not her place.
But her chest hurt anyway.
That night, Ethan was late.
Really late.
2 AM late.
Ama pretended to be asleep when he came in. Heard his footsteps pause outside her door. Then move away.
She didn't sleep.
Day 41: Naomi texted. He was late. I'm not allowed to ask. I'm not allowed to care. I care anyway.
---
Day 45
Saturday.
No events. No meetings. Ethan was home all day.
Ama didn't know what to do with herself. They'd never been in the apartment together for this long.
She hid in her room. Read. Pretended to nap.
At 3 PM, a knock.
She opened the door.
Ethan stood there. Casual clothes. Weird.
"Come watch a movie," he said.
"What?"
"Movie. You watch them. I have a theater room. We should use it."
"A theater room?"
"Downstairs. It's not fancy. Just seats and a screen."
She blinked. "You want to watch a movie with me?"
"I want to use the theater room. You can come or not."
He walked away.
She followed.
The theater room was not "just seats and a screen." It was twelve leather chairs and a screen the size of her parents' house.
Ethan was already sitting. Holding the remote.
"What do you watch?" he asked.
"I don't know. What do you watch?"
"I asked first."
She sat a few chairs away. Not too close. Not too far.
"Something funny," she said. "I need to laugh."
He scrolled. Selected something.
The movie started. A comedy. Old one. She'd seen it before.
They watched in silence.
But at the funny parts, she laughed. And once, just once, she heard him breathe out sharply.
Not a laugh. But close.
Close enough.
Day 45: We watched a movie. He almost-laughed. I almost-cried. This is fine. Everything is fine.
---
Day 60
Two months.
She looked back at her notebook. So many small things.
Too many small things.
She wrote a new entry:
Day 60: I think I love him.
I think I've loved him since Day 12. Since he asked if I slept well. Since he left the balcony open. Since he made tea at midnight.
I think I'm an idiot.
Twenty-eight months left.
I'm going to die.
---
She closed the notebook.
Put it in her drawer.
Went to the kitchen.
Ethan was there. Reading something on his phone.
"Hey," she said.
He looked up.
"Hey."
Normal. Casual. Like they did this every day.
"You want tea?" she asked.
"You're offering me tea?"
"I know how to boil water. It's not hard."
He almost-smiled. Number seven.
"Yeah," he said. "Tea sounds good."
She made it.
They drank it.
Neither spoke.
But it was the best ten minutes of her entire month.