We ended up sitting close together on the couch, the bag of chocolate between us, the atmosphere softer now, calmer, the earlier tension replaced by something quieter and warmer as I finally tasted the chocolate properly this time without alcohol hiding the flavor.
"This is actually really good," I murmured, leaning slightly against him while unwrapping another piece.
Chak glanced at me briefly.
"That's because you can taste it now."
I narrowed my eyes at him slightly.
"I could taste it before too."
"No," he said calmly. "You were just happily intoxicated."
I let out a quiet, offended sound under my breath while he reached for another piece himself, far too composed for someone teasing me so casually.
For a few moments, we stayed like that.
Quiet.
Comfortable.
Then Chak spoke again, his tone shifting just slightly.
"After the event," he said, looking at me now instead of the chocolate in his hand, "I originally wanted to take you somewhere."
That immediately caught my attention.
I turned toward him more fully.
"Where?"
A small pause.
Then, instead of answering, he stood up.
I blinked once in confusion as he held his hand out toward me.
"Come."
Curiosity instantly replaced everything else.
I took his hand without hesitation and let him pull me up from the couch, my heart already starting to beat a little faster as he guided me through the house.
Then—
I realized where we were going.
My steps slowed slightly.
The hallway.
That door.
The one I had noticed the very first time I came here.
Chak stopped in front of it and turned just enough to look at me.
"Do you remember," he asked quietly, "the first time you came to me and touched this door?"
I nodded immediately.
Of course I remembered.
"You told me I wasn't allowed in there," I said softly, my eyes fixed on the door now. "That it was a secret room."
A faint smile appeared on his lips then, small but real.
"And now," he said, his voice lower this time, quieter, "you're going to find out what's inside."
Something excited twisted in my chest instantly.
Not fear.
Anticipation.
The kind that made my pulse quicken before anything had even happened.
Chak reached for the handle while still holding my hand with the other, and the second the door slowly opened—
I stopped breathing for a moment.
Completely still.
The room was nothing like I expected.
Nothing.
I stood there silently, my hand still loosely holding Chak's, while my eyes slowly moved across the space, trying to understand what I was looking at, because it didn't feel like the rest of the house at all.
It felt… softer.
Warmer.
The walls weren't black.
Or gray.
They were beige, light and calm, making the entire room feel brighter, more alive, like this place had been built separately from everything else, untouched by the colder atmosphere of the rest of the house.
The lighting was warm too, gentle instead of sharp, and for a moment, I forgot to speak entirely as I took in the shelves lined with thick company folders and organized documents, the kind I already knew Chak kept hidden from almost everyone.
But that wasn't what caught me.
Not really.
It was everything else.
On one side of the room stood a small cabinet with four drawers, simple and neat, while on the other side—
my eyes widened slightly—
was an entire space dedicated to pottery.
Clay tools.
Materials.
Shelves filled with finished pieces.
Some polished.
Some imperfect.
Some clearly older than others.
I stared at them in complete silence.
And then—
my gaze caught on something hanging on the wall.
I froze.
It was my drawing.
The tattoo design I had made for Chak.
Framed carefully against the beige wall like it belonged there more than anything else in the room.
My chest tightened instantly.
I slowly looked further.
Photos.
Small memories.
Little things carefully placed on top of the cabinet that didn't look important to anyone else—but clearly were to him.
And all I could do was stand there.
Completely still.
Taking it in.
"Niran," Chak said quietly behind me, watching my expression carefully. "Is this what you expected?"
I slowly shook my head.
Honestly.
"No," I admitted softly, my eyes still moving around the room. "I expected… money. Diamonds. Something hidden and expensive."
A quiet breath left me.
"Not this."
Something softened in his expression at that.
He stepped further into the room beside me, calm and steady like always.
"The company documents," he said, gesturing slightly toward the shelves, "you already knew I kept those."
Then his gaze shifted toward the small cabinet.
"In those drawers," he continued more quietly, "I keep memories."
Memories.
The word alone made my chest feel strangely tight.
Chak opened one of the drawers slowly and reached inside before pulling out a notebook.
Simple.
Dark-colored.
Worn slightly at the edges.
He held it out toward me.
I looked at him once before taking it carefully into my hands, suddenly nervous for reasons I couldn't explain.
Then I opened it.
And stopped breathing again.
Every page—
was about me.
Things I liked.
Foods I preferred.
The things I did when I was nervous.
What kind of tea I drank.
What music I listened to when I worked.
Small details.
Tiny things I barely even noticed about myself.
But he had.
Every single one.
I looked up at him slowly, completely speechless now.
And for the first time since entering the room—
I didn't know what to say.
I lowered my eyes back to the notebook slowly, turning another page with careful fingers, almost afraid that if I moved too quickly, the moment would somehow disappear, and the deeper I looked, the more impossible it became to understand how long he had been paying attention to me this closely.
There were dates. When we first met, when we hug each other for the first time. First kiss, first date, first intimate night...
Moments I barely remembered myself.
Notes written in short, precise sentences in his handwriting.
Niran smiles more when he's tired than when he's rested.
He pretends not to like praise, but he becomes quieter when he's happy.
When he's anxious, he touches his sleeves without realizing it.
He doesn't like eggplants.
He's calm when he's in his art room.
When he draw he has a little smile in his face.
He loves hughs, little kisses and rest a head of my chest.
My throat tightened.
I swallowed softly and turned another page.
There were things even I had forgotten saying.
Small comments.
Preferences.
Habits.
Everyday details that shouldn't have mattered enough for someone like Chak to remember.
And yet—
he had written them down.
All of them.
I finally looked up at him again, my chest feeling unbearably full now, my voice quieter than before.
"How long…" I started, then stopped for a second before trying again. "How long have you been doing this?"
He leaned lightly against the edge of the cabinet, his gaze still fixed on me.
"A long time."
That answer only made my heart ache more.
I looked back at the notebook, my fingers brushing lightly over the pages.
"You noticed all of this?"
"Yes."
Simple.
Like it was obvious.
Like paying attention to me this deeply was the most natural thing in the world.
A quiet breath left me as I closed the notebook carefully, holding it against my chest for a second while I tried to steady myself emotionally, because suddenly everything in this room felt overwhelming in the gentlest way possible.
The pottery.
The drawings.
The memories.
This notebook.
This entire room felt less like a secret and more like a side of him no one else was allowed to see.
A side he had trusted me with.
"You kept all of this hidden?" I asked softly.
"From everyone," he answered.
Then, after a brief pause—
"Except you."
That almost broke me.
I walked toward him slowly, the notebook still in my hands, and stopped directly in front of him, close enough that I could see the smallest shift in his expression, the slight tension in his jaw, like even now he wasn't fully sure how I would react to this.
"You made a whole room," I whispered, my eyes moving around once more before returning to him, "where you could be yourself."
His gaze stayed on mine.
"This is the only place where no one expects anything from me."
Something in my chest tightened painfully at that.
Without thinking, I reached for him, my free hand resting gently against his cheek.
"You don't have to hide from me," I said quietly.
For the first time since entering the room, his expression shifted completely.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
Enough for me to see how much those words meant to him.
His hand came up slowly, covering mine where it rested against his face, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower than before.
"That's why you're here."
And suddenly—
I understood.
This wasn't just a secret room.
It was trust.
The deepest kind he knew how to give.
Chak was quiet for a while after that.
The kind of quiet that didn't feel empty, but careful, like he was deciding how much more of himself he was willing to place into my hands tonight.
Then he slowly stepped away from me and walked toward the pottery wheel.
I watched him sit down in front of it with movements that felt strangely familiar, practiced, comfortable in a way I had never seen from him anywhere else.
Not in meetings.
Not at work.
Not even at home.
Here—
he looked lighter.
My eyes stayed on him as his fingers brushed absently against the clay tools beside him, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter than before.
"When I was younger," he said slowly, "I ran away from school once."
That immediately caught my attention.
"You did?"
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Yes."
Not proud.
Just honest.
"I didn't want responsibility that day," he continued, looking down at his hands for a second. "I didn't want expectations. I just wanted to feel… free."
I stayed silent, listening carefully.
"So I kept walking," he said. "Until I found a small workshop."
His gaze shifted toward the shelves around him.
"There was an old man there. He worked with clay."
Something softened in his expression at the memory.
"He let me try."
I slowly stepped closer while he spoke.
"And for the first time in a long time," Chak continued quietly, "my mind became quiet."
That sentence alone hurt more than I expected.
"I forgot everything for a while," he admitted. "The pressure. The company. My future. Everything."
I watched him carefully, seeing how distant his eyes had become, like part of him was still standing inside that memory.
"Then my father found me."
His fingers rested loosely against the pottery wheel now.
"He was worried," Chak said softly. "More worried than I had ever seen him."
I could almost picture it.
Young Chak.
Covered in clay.
Trying to breathe for the first time.
"He promised me it would stay between us," he continued. "Our secret."
Something tightened in my chest again.
"So after that…" He let out a small breath. "Twice a week. Sometimes more when I was stressed. I went back to that man."
"To learn?" I asked quietly.
He nodded once.
"He taught me pottery."
The room fell silent again for a moment before he spoke once more, this time more carefully.
"Even now," he admitted, "every time I left the house and you asked me where I was going…"
His gaze finally lifted to mine again.
"I wanted to tell you."
There was something vulnerable in his expression now that almost never appeared.
"But I was afraid."
I blinked softly.
"Afraid of what?"
"That you would see me differently," he said honestly. "If you knew this was what calmed me."
Clay.
Pottery.
Silence.
Not power.
Not business.
Not money.
Just this.
I didn't even think before moving.
I crossed the distance between us and wrapped my arms around him tightly, holding him without hesitation, without restraint, and I felt the smallest shift in his body the moment I did, like tension he didn't even realize he carried finally loosened.
"You're not a machine without emotions, Chak," I whispered softly.
My hand moved gently through his hair.
"Your emotions are just more complicated than most people's."
He stayed still in my arms, listening.
"And that's exactly why I love you."
My throat tightened slightly, but I kept going anyway.
"I don't care if you're a CEO or if you're be poor," I murmured against him. "Even if you be a mafia boss, I would still choose and love you.
At that, he let out the quietest breath against my shoulder, almost like a laugh mixed with disbelief.
And when his arms finally wrapped around me in return—
they held on tightly.