The next few days passed differently.
Not dramatically. Not obviously.
Just… softer.
Anaya noticed it in the way Aarav started coming home earlier — not every day, but often enough that it no longer felt accidental.
She noticed it when he began asking before making decisions that affected both of them.
She noticed it in the silences — no longer cold, no longer heavy — just quiet, shared space.
And that was the most dangerous part.
---
One afternoon, Anaya sat by the window with a book when Aarav walked in.
"You're home early again," she said without looking up.
He paused. "You say that like it's a problem."
"It's just… new," she replied.
He set his keys down. "I thought I'd take a break."
"From work?" she asked.
"From running," he said honestly.
She closed her book slowly and looked at him.
"That's brave," she said.
He tilted his head. "Is it?"
"Yes," she replied. "Facing things usually is."
He didn't respond, but he sat beside her — not too close, not too far.
Comfortable distance.
Or so he thought.
---
That evening, Anaya cooked.
Not because she had to.
But because she wanted to.
"You didn't order dinner?" Aarav asked when he entered the kitchen.
"No," she replied. "I felt like cooking."
"What are you making?"
"Simple food. Comfort food."
He watched her for a moment. "Can I help?"
She paused mid-stir. "You already tried washing dishes."
"And I survived," he said dryly.
She smiled. "Fine. Chop the vegetables."
He picked up the knife, studying it like he was about to negotiate with it.
"You don't trust me," he said.
"I trust you," she replied. "I don't trust your chopping skills."
That earned her a quiet laugh from him.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
But real.
And once again, she felt something tighten in her chest.
---
They ate together — not across the table, but beside each other, sharing dishes, sharing silence, sharing space.
"This tastes good," Aarav said.
"Thank you," she replied.
"You didn't make it for me, did you?"
"No," she said honestly. "I made it for myself."
He nodded. "That's… better."
"Why?"
"Because you're not trying to impress me," he said. "You're just being you."
She looked at him, surprised.
"I don't know when that started," she admitted.
"Neither do I," he said. "But I'm glad it did."
---
Later, they sat in the living room — she reading, he scrolling through his phone.
Then he spoke.
"Do you ever forget this is a contract?"
Anaya froze for half a second before answering.
"No," she said carefully. "Do you?"
"Sometimes," he admitted.
Her heart skipped — once — then steadied.
"That's dangerous," she said quietly.
"I know."
She turned to face him. "Then why let it happen?"
"Because pretending it doesn't feel real doesn't make it less real," he replied.
Her breath caught.
"That's not how contracts work," she said.
"I know," he said softly. "But that's how people work."
Silence stretched between them — not awkward, not tense — just full.
"You're crossing lines," Anaya said.
"So are you," he replied gently.
"I'm trying to protect myself."
"So am I."
She laughed softly. "By walking toward danger?"
"Yes," he said. "Because avoiding it didn't make me safer. It just made me empty."
That wasn't arrogance.
That was honesty.
And honesty was the most dangerous thing between them.
---
Later that night, Anaya stood in her room, staring at her reflection.
She didn't recognize the woman looking back.
Not because she looked different.
But because she felt different.
Lighter.
Warmer.
More… seen.
She hated that.
Because she knew what followed hope.
Disappointment.
Loss.
Pain.
And she had survived too much to invite that again.
---
In his room, Aarav stood by the window, phone forgotten in his hand.
He had built his life on control.
On distance.
On structure.
And now… he was losing all three.
Not because someone took them.
But because he was giving them away.
Willingly.
To her.
And that terrified him.
---
The next morning, they met in the kitchen at the same time.
"Good morning," she said.
"Good morning," he replied.
There was no awkwardness.
No hesitation.
Just familiarity.
And that was the scariest thing of all.
Because familiarity didn't belong in a contract marriage.
It belonged in something real.
---
And neither of them was ready to admit that what scared them most… wasn't losing each other.
It was wanting not to.
---