The zipper snagged on the red file. Aria tugged it free, shoving the folder into her tote with a little more force than necessary.

Diary. Laptop. The stubborn pen that leaked if she looked at it wrong.

She ticked the mental checklist, her mind already halfway to the tram stop. Beside her, a shadow fell across her hands, blocking the morning glow.

Aria looked up. Her mother stood there, holding a lunchbox with the gentle, unyielding expression of a woman who had raised a stubborn daughter.

"Veg wraps," her mother said, pressing the box into Aria's hands. "Two. Finish both. I don't want to hear about 'busy schedules.'"

Aria smiled, sliding the box into her bag. The plastic was warm. "I would have remembered to eat."

"You would have remembered coffee," her mother corrected, turning back to the stove. "That's not food."

"Strict," Aria muttered, though the warmth in her chest had nothing to do with the temperature of the wraps.

"Caring," her mother shot back.

From the living room, her father's voice drifted in, mellow and expectant. "Tea?"

"In a minute!" her mother called, then rolled her eyes at Aria. "He thinks the kettle boils by magic."

It had been twenty-four hours since they arrived, and already the apartment had undergone a change. Her solitary, quiet space now smelled of turmeric, coriander, and her mother's floral lotion. Suitcases claimed the guest room; a jar of homemade pickles sat on the counter, as if it owned the place.

The silence she usually woke up to had been replaced by the soft shuffle of slippers and the hum of familiar voices. It made the apartment feel smaller, but fuller. Alive.

They sat for breakfast—poha, bright yellow and jeweled with peanuts. Aria took a bite, the taste dragging her instantly back to mornings in India.

"I was thinking," she said, chasing a peanut with her spoon. "Markthal tomorrow? You'd like the stalls. And maybe the Erasmus Bridge after dinner."

Her mother's eyes lit up. "And that cube house you sent pictures of."

"Done," Aria nodded. "I'll ask Maya and Kian to come by later this week, too. They'll want to see you."

She paused, the next name sitting heavy on her tongue. "And Reyhaan. He... he'll want to say hello."

Her father chuckled, reaching for the sugar. "If he's as polite as you say, we'll feed him until he can't move."

Aria grinned, looking down at her plate.

Then the doorbell rang.

Sharp. Sudden.

Aria froze, spoon halfway to her mouth. Her eyes darted to the clock on the microwave.

7:21 A.M.

"Who...?" her father asked, frowning.

Neighbors didn't visit this early. Couriers didn't knock this gently.

"I'll get it," she said, pushing her chair back.

Her pulse kicked up a notch. She knew that rhythm. She knew who showed up when the city was still waking up.

She opened the door.

Reyhaan stood there, framed by the corridor's pale light. He wasn't wearing his usual hoodie; today it was a sage-green shirt, sleeves rolled, looking effortlessly put together in a way that made Aria suddenly aware of her own frantic morning energy.

He blinked when he saw her, his hand lowering from the frame.

"You weren't downstairs," he said, his voice low, pitched for her alone. "It's past your usual time. Thought I'd check."

"I got... delayed," she said, breathless. "Breakfast."

He smiled, a slow, knowing thing that softened the lines of his face. "Mom's cooking?"

"Dangerous levels of comfort."

He nodded. "Makes sense."

Aria hesitated. He was standing on the threshold—not just of the apartment, but of her two worlds. The life she had built here, and the life she had come from.

She stepped back. "Come in for a minute."

Reyhaan stepped inside.

At the table, two heads turned. Her mother twisted in her chair; her father lowered his newspaper.

The air in the room seemed to thin.

Reyhaan stopped. He didn't fidget, didn't look for an exit. He just stood there, respectful, waiting for her lead.

"Ma, Papa," Aria said, the words feeling huge in her mouth. "This is Reyhaan."

Her mother's eyes widened, then narrowed slightly—perceptive, assessing. Her father stood, adjusting his glasses, his expression shifting from surprise to a welcoming curiosity.

"Nice to meet you, sir, ma'am," Reyhaan said. His voice was warm, stripped of any celebrity polish. Just a guy standing in a kitchen.

"We've heard about you," her mother said, standing up to offer a hand.

Aria shot her a warning look. Be cool.

Reyhaan took her hand gently. "Only good things, I hope."

"Mostly."

"You're the singer," her father said. It wasn't a question. It was recognition.

"Yes, sir."

"Well," her mother said, gaze lingering on him for a beat longer than necessary. "Any friend of Aria's is welcome. Have you eaten?"

Aria exhaled, the tension in her shoulders unlocking.

They moved to the living area. The conversation flowed—awkward at first, then easier. They talked about Rotterdam, the weather, and the tour.

Then her mother started on the childhood stories.

" —and then," she said, eyes twinkling, "she threw her school bag in the corner and declared she was retiring from education. At age six."

"Ma!" Aria groaned, covering her face. "Why do you remember that?"

"Because it was dramatic," her father said.

Across the room, Reyhaan's lips twitched. He wasn't laughing at her—he was enjoying her. His eyes flicked to hers, bright with a tease she knew would come later.

Don't you dare, she mouthed.

He just grinned.

It was strange, seeing him here.

He sat on her sofa, nodding at her father's comments, looking entirely at home in the middle of her family. The two halves of her life weren't colliding; they were folding together.

When he stood to leave, her mother touched his arm. "Come for dinner properly. When you have time."

"I'd like that," Reyhaan said. And he sounded like he meant it.

They walked to the door. Aria caught her parents exchanging a look—quick, weighted, satisfied.

She ignored it, walking him to the elevator. But as the doors closed, separating them, the feeling stayed. The way he fitted into the space. The way he hadn't run.

It terrified her. And it thrilled her.

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The week didn't blur; it sharpened.

Mornings were loud with her parents' planning—museums, walks, the hunt for specific spices. Evenings were quieter, bookended by Reyhaan.

He drove her home. Sometimes they walked. She found herself learning the cadence of his silence, distinguishing the tired quiet from the thoughtful one.

One evening, she finished work early. The script edit was done, her inbox empty. She could have gone home.

Instead, she took the tram to the VYER studio.

She didn't text him. She just stood outside the parking exit, leaning against the low brick wall, a bag of pastries warming her hand.

When his black SUV rolled up the ramp, she saw him before he saw her. He looked focused, brows drawn together, lost in whatever track was playing inside.

Then he turned his head.

The car slowed. Stopped.

The window rolled down. His expression shifted—surprise breaking into a smile that hit her straight in the chest.

"You're not usually part of the scenery here," he said.

"Finished early," she said, lifting the bag. "Brought bribes."

He laughed, unlocking the doors. "Get in. Before they get cold."

That moment stayed with her. Not the drive, not the food. But the look on his face when he realized she had come to him.

It became a habit. A new rhythm.

Midweek, a new script landed in her inbox. A series commission. Big platform. Real budget.

She read the email three times. Her hands shook as she typed the reply. Accepted.

Pride swelled, sharp and bright. But beneath it, the old imposter syndrome whispered. Can you hold this?

She thought of the way Reyhaan had looked at her parents—steady, assured. The way he looked at her.

Yes, she thought. I can.

At dinner on Wednesday, she dropped the bomb.

"Don't book the return tickets yet," she said, staring at her fork. "Stay a little longer."

Her father paused. "Any reason?"

"It's nice having you here," she said, voice small. "That's all."

Her father softened. "We'd like that."

Later, walking to her room, she stopped by the mirror. She looked different. Less braced against the wind.

Her parents were staying. The script was hers. And Reyhaan... Reyhaan was woven into the fabric of it all, a steady thread she wasn't ready to cut.

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Sunday light was different—lazier, heavy with dust motes.

The living room was a landscape of laundry. Her mother folded shirts with military precision; her father was reorganizing the high shelves in the kitchen, humming an old tune.

Aria sat on the rug, the script spread out before her. She was annotating a scene, but her mind kept drifting to the domestic hum around her.

Her mother picked up a towel. "You still do that."

Aria looked up. "Do what?"

"Stir your coffee long after the sugar's gone." Her mother smiled, folding the towel in thirds. "Like you're waiting for it to settle."

"And you never let anyone carry your bag," her father added from the ladder. "Always, 'I can manage.'"

Aria flushed. "I can manage."

"We know," her mother said gently. "But you don't always have to."

Aria looked down at the paper. Reyhaan's name flashed on her phone screen—just a check-in. Morning.

She smiled, sliding the phone under a cushion.

"So," her mother asked, shaking out a pillowcase. "Editing or daydreaming?"

"Both," Aria admitted. "It's like cooking. You think you're done, then you taste it and realize it needs salt."

Her father chuckled. "Or hours."

"I wanted to show Maya," Aria said, "but she's vanished into production hell. And Kian is basically married to his code."

"They're busy," her mother said. "That's good. It means they're building things."

"Yeah."

"And you?" her father asked, stepping down. "You're building things too. We see the papers. The late nights."

Aria traced the edge of the script. "It's slow."

"That's the right pace," her father said. "Fast things break."

"We're not worried anymore," her mother added, placing the basket of clothes by the door. "You've grown into yourself, Aru."

The words landed softly, settling deep.

For years, she had felt like she was running to catch up—to an idea of who she should be, to a version of herself that wasn't afraid.

Now, sitting on the rug in her own apartment, surrounded by the people who knew her best, she realized she had stopped running.

"We'll always be here," her mother said, pausing in the doorway. "Fast or slow."

Aria nodded.

Outside, a bicycle bell chimed.

She breathed in the scent of clean laundry and coffee. The apartment held them all—her parents, her work, the ghost of Reyhaan's presence from the morning before.

It wasn't a perfect balance. It was messy. It was fragile.

But for the first time, it felt like enough.