The apartment smelled of garlic, burnt butter, and high-stakes cooking.

Aria stepped over a stray pair of sneakers. "I'm here," she called out, toeing off her shoes. "And I brought gelato to save us from whatever Kian is burning."

"You are a savior!" Kian shouted from the kitchen.

He had only been in the city a day, but it felt like he'd always been here.

Aria rounded the corner—

And stopped.

Reyhaan was already there.

He sat at the round dining table, a notebook balanced on his knee. He looked up the moment she entered, as if he'd been waiting for the sound of her footsteps.

He smiled. "Hey."

The single syllable knocked the wind out of her. It was too domestic. Too easy.

"Hey," she replied, gripping her bag strap tighter.

She crossed the room to the kitchen island, needing something to do with her hands. Kian was wrestling with a salad spinner; Maya was chopping herbs with dangerous enthusiasm.

"Two months is illegal, Aria." Kian pulled her into a quick, familiar hug.

"I know. You've been ghosting us."

He gave a mock-wounded gasp. "I've been building a civilization, and cleaning up Tuffy's existential crises."

Tuffy meowed pointedly and wrapped herself around Aria's leg like a fuzzy scarf.

She bent down and scratched behind her ears. "Hello, trouble."

"Alright, fam, social hydration timeout!" Maya announced, shoving a glass of sparkling water into Aria's hand.

They fell into the rhythm of the evening. Kian narrated a coding disaster involving Ayaan and a floating potato bug; Maya threw a breadstick at him. But Aria was hyper-aware of the man sitting quietly to her right.

Reyhaan didn't join the shouting match. He just passed her the olive bowl, fingers brushing hers—warm and solid. He didn't pull away immediately.

"You tired?" he asked, voice low enough to slide under Kian's storytelling.

Aria focused on the olives. "Long day."

"You sound it." He studied her profile, not masking his attention. "Not in a bad way. Just... heavy."

She looked at him then. His eyes were dark, attentive. He wasn't looking at the group; he was tuned entirely to her frequency. It was terrifying how easily he did that—isolated her in a crowded room without even moving.

Later, after the dinner, Maya called her on the balcony for help in arranging the fairy lights.

"So, you're doing it again," Maya said, not looking up from the wire knots.

"Doing what?"

"Pretending you aren't tracking his every move." Maya jerked her chin toward the glass door. Inside, Reyhaan was laughing at something Kian said, his head thrown back.

Aria twisted the wire around the railing. "I don't know what you mean."

"Aria." Maya stopped. "You two have an entire conversation without speaking. It's loud. And it's exhausting to watch you pretend it's not happening."

Aria looked through the glass. Reyhaan had settled back, one arm draped over the chair, looking comfortable in a way he rarely did. Tuffy was curled contentedly at his feet.

Maya bumped her shoulder gently.

"You should tell him."

Aria shook her head. "I'm not sure he'd want me to."

"Aria—"

"I know," she interrupted softly. "It's not that I think I'm not enough. I just... I don't want to ruin what's already steady. What if I say something and it shifts everything sideways?"

"And what if saying nothing is what ruins it?" Maya countered.

Aria started, then exhaled, her breath fogging in the cool air. "I just... need a little more time."

Maya nodded. "Take the time," she plugged in the lights. They flared to life, casting amber shadows. "Just don't wait until he stops looking."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The evening wound down on the sidewalk. The air had cooled, smelling of damp stone and exhaust.

"Text when you get in," Maya commanded, hugging Aria. Kian waved from the doorway, wrestling the cat back inside.

Reyhaan stood by the stair rail, adjusting his cuff. He looked up as Aria approached.

"You sure you don't want a ride?" he asked.

The offer hung there. Tempting. Easy. It would mean twenty minutes in the quiet dark of his car, the scent of cedar and rain. But she didn't trust her voice to not give her away. And she wasn't sure her eyes would behave if she sat that close.

"I'll walk," she said, forcing the words out. "I need the air."

He nodded, accepting the boundary. "Alright. Safe home."

She turned to leave, adjusting her tote bag, and took three steps down the pavement—

Clink.

Aria stopped.

A sound from the alleyway across the street. Distinct. Metal on metal.

She glanced toward the shadows between the buildings. The streetlamp flickered, illuminating a patch of brickwork. A figure stood there—barely visible, half-merged with the wall. A glint of a lens? A phone?

She blinked, and the figure stepped back, vanishing into the dark.

"Aria?" Reyhaan's voice came from behind her. Sharper than before.

She turned.

He had moved away from the rail, his body angled toward the same alleyway. His eyes were narrowed, scanning the darkness.

He had heard it too.

Their gazes met. A current of shared unease passed between them.

"Did you see someone?" he asked, walking toward her.

"I... I don't know," she said, her grip on her bag tightening. "Probably just a neighbor."

But the sound replayed in her head. That metallic jingle. Like keys hitting concrete. Or a buckle.

Reyhaan didn't look convinced. He scanned the street one last time, his jaw set tight. "Text me the second you're inside."

"I will."

She walked away, forcing herself not to look back at the alley. But the sound followed her—a phantom rhythm in the quiet street, a reminder that they were being watched.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aria pulled a loose cotton tee over her head. her hair was still damp from the shower, leaving cold patches on the fabric.

She sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for the comb, when her phone buzzed against the nightstand. The vibration rattled her water glass.

Papa.

She frowned. It was late in India.

She swiped to answer.

Her mother's face filled the screen—too close, pixelated, backlit by the harsh fluorescent tube of their kitchen.

"Aru!" Her mother beamed, the camera tilting wildly as she adjusted her grip. "You picked up. Your father said you'd be asleep."

"I'm up," Aria said, propping the phone against her knees. "It's only eight here."

"See?" Her mother turned away from the screen, shouting to the room behind her. "She's awake!"

A cupboard door slammed in the background. Then her father's face appeared, crowding into the frame. He looked like he was in the middle of packing—glasses perched on his head, a list in his hand.

"Everything okay?" he asked, skipping the greeting. "You look tired. Are you eating?"

"I'm fine, Papa. Just work."

"Work is fine, but health is first." He squinted at the screen. "Is the heating working? You look cold."

"It's fine."

They traded the usual updates—groceries, the neighbor's dog, the weather. It was a comfortable script, one Aria could recite while half-asleep. She watched them settle into their chairs, the familiar clutter of her childhood home visible in the background.

Then her father cleared his throat. The shift in tone was subtle, but Aria caught it.

"We've been talking," he said. "Your mother wants to start the renovation before Diwali. So we thought... why wait for winter?"

Aria stilled. "Wait for what?"

"To visit," he said. "We're thinking of coming early. End of July."

The comb slipped from Aria's hand, landing softly on the duvet.

July.

That was weeks away.

She had built a mental buffer—winter was months from now. Winter was safe. By winter, she would have figured this out. She would have figured him out.

"July?" she repeated, her voice steady despite the sudden rapid thud of her heart.

"Unless it's a bad time," her mother added quickly, leaning in.

"No," Aria said, forcing a smile. "No, of course not. It's... good. It'll be good."

Her father nodded, satisfied. "We'll look at flights tomorrow. We won't stay long—just a week or so. We want to see this life you've built."

This life.

She thought of the empty chair at Maya's table. The metallic clink in the alleyway. The man who drove her home and remembered her sandwich order.

"Tell her I'm bringing the red bedsheet," her mother called out. "The warm one."

Aria smiled, though her chest felt tight. "I heard her."

"Okay, go sleep," her father said. "We'll text you the dates."

The call ended. The screen went black.

Aria sat in the dim room, the silence rushing back in to fill the space where their voices had been.

She looked around. The desk lamp cast a small, yellow pool of light on her unmade bed. The flannel shirt—Reyhaan's—was still draped over the chair, a ghost in the corner.

They were coming.

Her two worlds were about to collide, and she wasn't sure she had the strength to keep them separate anymore.

She reached out and turned off the lamp.

The room plunged into blue darkness. Outside, a tram rumbled past, vibrating the floorboards. Aria pulled her knees to her chest, listening to the city move, and felt the first true weight of the shift.

Winter wasn't coming. It was already here.