The week settled into a rhythm neither of them had expected to feel so natural.
Mornings were quiet and warm, filled with soft exchanges and habitual touches. Aarav had developed a pattern of lingering by the door for a second longer than necessary before leaving for work, as though waiting for something.
And Anaya had noticed.
So now, every morning before he stepped out, she would walk up to him without a word, straighten his collar even when it didn't need straightening, and press a small kiss to his lips — unhurried, intentional.
It had become theirs.
That Friday evening, however, the rhythm shifted.
Aarav walked in looking thoughtful, not exhausted, not tense — just measured.
"You're thinking," Anaya observed from the kitchen.
He loosened his watch slowly. "I always think."
"No," she said, stepping closer. "This is specific thinking."
He gave her a faint smile.
"Dinner tomorrow," he said.
"With?" she asked, though she already sensed the answer.
"My parents."
The air didn't freeze.
But it cooled slightly.
"Oh," she replied softly.
"It's not formal," he added quickly. "Just dinner at home."
"Home here or—?"
"Their house."
Of course.
She nodded slowly, processing it.
This wasn't unexpected.
After the conversation they'd had weeks ago, after choosing each other openly, after sharing rooms and mornings and quiet domestic comfort — it made sense that the next step would be interaction.
Still.
There was something different about going back.
Not as a contract.
But as a wife.
"Are you okay with that?" he asked carefully, watching her face.
"Yes," she said honestly. "Are you?"
He paused.
"I don't want it to feel like a test."
"And if it is?" she asked.
"Then we don't treat it like one."
She appreciated that answer.
The next evening arrived faster than expected.
Anaya stood in front of the mirror adjusting her outfit for the third time, not because it wasn't right, but because nerves made her overthink small things.
Aarav appeared behind her reflection, adjusting his cufflinks.
"You look perfect," he said simply.
"That's not helpful," she replied lightly.
"It's true."
She turned to face him.
"I don't want them to think I changed you," she admitted quietly.
His brows drew together slightly. "You didn't."
"I know that," she said. "But sometimes families need someone to blame."
He stepped closer, his hands resting lightly at her waist — grounding, steady.
"If they ever think that," he said calmly, "I'll correct them."
The firmness in his voice eased something inside her.
At his parents' house, the atmosphere felt polite.
Measured.
His mother greeted them with a small smile — not overly warm, but not cold either.
His father nodded in acknowledgment.
Dinner was served without tension, but also without ease.
Conversation stayed on safe topics at first — business updates, distant relatives, current events.
Anaya participated when spoken to, her tone calm, respectful.
She wasn't trying to impress.
She was trying to be herself.
Midway through dinner, his mother placed her fork down gently.
"You seem comfortable," she observed.
Anaya blinked slightly. "I'm sorry?"
"In this house," she clarified.
It wasn't an accusation.
It was an assessment.
"Yes," Anaya replied softly. "I am."
A pause followed.
"And our son?" his mother continued.
Aarav looked up.
"I'm more than comfortable," he said evenly.
His father studied them quietly.
Later, while Aarav stepped away briefly to take a call, Anaya found herself alone with his mother in the dining room.
"You understand," his mother said calmly, "that marriage requires adjustment."
"I do," Anaya replied.
"And sacrifice."
"Yes."
"Have you sacrificed anything yet?"
The question wasn't cruel.
It was direct.
Anaya considered it carefully.
"I've sacrificed certainty," she answered honestly. "But I've gained something steadier."
His mother watched her closely.
"And what is that?"
"Partnership."
There was a long silence after that.
Not uncomfortable.
Just thoughtful.
When Aarav returned, the conversation shifted again, but something subtle had changed.
His mother's tone softened slightly.
His father asked Anaya a direct question about her interests — something he had never done before.
Small things.
But noticeable.
On the drive home, Anaya stared out the window, replaying the evening.
"That wasn't terrible," she said cautiously.
"No," Aarav agreed.
"They were observing."
"They always do."
She turned toward him.
"Your mother asked me if I've sacrificed anything."
He glanced at her briefly.
"And what did you say?"
"I told her I sacrificed certainty."
He was quiet for a moment.
"That's honest."
"Yes," she said. "But I think she wanted to know if I sacrificed you."
He didn't respond immediately.
Then quietly:
"I would never allow that to be the narrative."
Her heart softened.
That night, as they settled into bed, the air felt steady again.
Not heavy.
Not dramatic.
Just aware.
"They're not against us," she murmured.
"No," he agreed. "They're just not fully convinced yet."
"And are you?"
He turned toward her in the dim light.
"I stopped needing convincing a long time ago."
She smiled softly.
And this time, when he kissed her goodnight, it carried reassurance.
Not intensity.
Just quiet promise.
Somewhere, slowly…
The resistance was thinning.