The zipper rasped as Aria hunched over her tote, sliding the last file inside – the red one on top, always the red one, because she’d need it first. Each motion was deliberate. As if order itself could keep the edges of her thoughts from fraying.

Her diary, her laptop – and the stubborn pen that had dodged three near-deaths last week – all slotted neatly in place. She ticked through her mental checklist – USB drive, charger, pen; next double-checked her notes for the morning meeting. Then the light above her dimmed, something casting a sudden shadow across her hands.

A lunchbox appeared in front of her nose, blocking her view, faintly warm and fragrant.

She blinked, looked up, and saw her mother holding it with that same expression of gentle command that had trailed her from school mornings into adulthood.

The smile betrayed her before she could stop it.

“I would’ve remembered,” Aria murmured, taking it.

“You would have forgotten,” her mother corrected, tapping the lid. “Veg wraps. Two. And you’re to finish both of them. No excuses. I know you’ll say you’re too busy.”

“Strict,” Aria said, though warmth tugged at her chest as she slipped the box into her bag. “And I’m not too busy, I just –”

Her mother crossed her arms, smirking. “Don’t tell me you’re ‘just not hungry.’ That line’s retired.”

Aria huffed a laugh, but didn’t reply.

“And, not strict. Caring,” her mother added firmly. “Also, don’t think I didn’t notice you barely had dinner last night.”

“I was full,” Aria protested weakly, though even she didn’t believe it.

“You were distracted,” her mother cut in, with the same precision she used to slice vegetables.

Before Aria could respond, her father’s voice floated in from the living room – “Tea?” – mellow and expectant, the same way he’d always called out on slow mornings back home.

“In a minute!” her mother called back, before turning to Aria with a little sigh. “Honestly, he’s like a child sometimes.”

Aria stifled another laugh. “And you’ve been feeding both of us since yesterday.”

It had been just over twenty-four hours since they’d arrived. Their bags and neatly folded clothes had already claimed the guest room just beyond hers. A jar of homemade pickle on the kitchen counter, a stack of towels bore her mother’s neat folds. The faint smell of turmeric and coriander seemed to hang in the air.

Even the silence felt altered – softer now, threaded with her parents’ familiar voices drifting through the rooms. The apartment felt warmer. Occupied. Alive.

On the breakfast table waited poha – bright with turmeric, jeweled with peanuts, fresh coriander scattered like confetti. A lemon wedge perched at the edge, the final flourish. The kind of breakfast she hadn’t had in a month. The kind that made the apartment smell like home.

The warmth of the tea seeped into her hands as she took her first sip. They ate together, trading light conversation. Her parents remarked how pleasantly cool Rotterdam mornings were this time of year.

“I was thinking,” Aria said carefully between bites, “maybe I could take you both to the Markthal tomorrow. You’ll love the stalls. And maybe the Erasmus Bridge after dinner – it’s beautiful at night.”

Her mother’s eyes lit up. “I also want to see that cube house you keep sending me pictures of.”

“Done,” Aria nodded. “And I’ll invite my friends sometime this week so you can meet them. Maya, Kian, and Reyhaan. They’ll probably fight over who gets to try your food first.”

She said it too quickly. Like sliding past Reyhaan’s name among others could stop her from overthinking it.

Her father chuckled. “She’ll cook like we’re feeding the entire building.”

“No one will complain,” Aria replied, grinning.

She had barely set her cup down when the doorbell rang, sharp and unexpected. Her shoulders tightened, eyes flicking to the clock.

7:21 A.M.

“Who…?” her father asked, his spoon paused over the plate.

She frowned. It was too early for neighbors, too early for parcels. But not too early for –

“I’ll get it,” she said, pushing back her chair. “You two keep eating.”

Somewhere between her chest and stomach, Aria already knew. The sound had become familiar, threaded into her mornings as the opening note of a song she couldn’t stop humming.

Reyhaan had been picking her up almost every day now. What began as convenience had slipped, quietly, into the rhythm of her week. It became something unspoken and steady. At first, she’d been reluctant. Now, there was a certain comfort to it – starting her day with his quiet presence, ending it with him listening to her ramble about work.

One day, she told herself, she’d tell him what she felt. But only when she could be sure he might feel the same.

She opened the door.

Reyhaan stood in the hallway, morning light skimming across his shoulders. He wore a muted sage-green shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows beneath a light oatmeal cardigan, dark-grey trousers tapering neatly above spotless white sneakers. His hair, tousled by the breeze, caught the light as if arranged on purpose. His eyes swept over her, steady, familiar, and it distracted her in the quietest way.

“You weren’t downstairs,” he said, tone mild but carrying a thread of concern. “And it was past your usual time, so I thought I’d come up and check.”

“I was just leaving,” she replied, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Got delayed by my mom’s cooking. It’s dangerously comforting.”

His gaze softened at the mention of her mother. He gave a small, knowing nod. “Understandable.”

“Come in for a minute,” she said, stepping aside.

As soon as they entered, her mother’s head twisted from the table, and her father looked up from his plate. Aria straightened a little, suddenly aware of how this might look. She noticed the careful way Reyhaan kept his eyes from wandering past her, as though conscious of the intimacy of being let in.

She cleared her throat lightly. “Ma, Papa – this is Reyhaan,” she said, tone casual but betraying a hint of awkwardness. “Reyhaan, my parents.”

Her mother smiled, perceptive in a way Aria had both dreaded and expected.

Her father’s eye skimmed over Reyhaan once, measuring, before his mouth eased into a smile. The handshake was firm, approving – but not before the brief pause that made Aria’s stomach twist.

Her parents exchanged a glance she’d seen a hundred times – silent, knowing, amused.

“Nice to meet you, sir, ma’am,” Reyhaan said, his voice tender but genuine.

“Same here,” her mother replied, offering a nod. “We’ve heard a little about you.”

Heat crept into Aria’s cheeks. She shot her a warning glance.

Reyhaan smiled faintly. “Only good things, I hope.”

“Mostly.”

“You’re the singer,” her father said – not quite a question. But a recognition, like he recalled something from the back of his mind.

“Yes, sir,” Reyhaan answered, respectful without stiffness.

Her mother’s gaze lingered just long enough for Aria to notice, then softened. “Well, any friend of Aria’s is welcome here.”

They moved into the living area, and conversation flowed easier than she expected. Work. The weather. About Rotterdam. How different the city must be compared to his tours.

Hearing her mother say his name out loud made something flutter earnestly in Aria’s stomach, as if private syllables had suddenly been made public.

Then her mother, ever the betrayer, started in on old stories. To Aria’s horror, a couple of her more ridiculous childhood tantrums that her parents clearly enjoyed recounting.

“—and then,” her mother was saying, “she threw her school bag in the corner and declared she was never going back.”

“Ma!” Aria groaned. “That was one time, why do you still remember that?”

Her father smiled. “Always dramatic.”

Reyhaan’s mouth twitched, betraying the smile he tried to swallow. His eyes flicked to hers, carrying that unspoken promise: later, he’d tease her about this. And she knew it. She gave him a look that clearly meant Don’t you dare, which only deepened the hint of a smile in his eyes.

It struck her as strange, almost delicate – hearing his name slip so naturally into her parents’ voices. As if two halves of her life, usually kept carefully apart, had overlapped for a brief, fragile moment.

She hadn’t pictured him like this – across her family’s table, laughing at the stories about her childhood. The image caught her off guard – dangerously close to something she hadn’t dared imagine.

When they finally stood to leave, her mother touched Reyhaan’s arm lightly. “When you have time, come for lunch or dinner. I’ll make something special.”

“I’d like that,” Reyhaan replied without hesitation. “Thank you.”

Her father gave a polite wave as they stepped into the hallway. Aria caught her mother’s expression through the gap – that small, knowing glance she’d shared with her father before the door clicked shut. She didn’t mention it, but she carried that glance with her all the way to the elevator – a weight and a lift at once, heavier than her tote, lighter than breath. It lingered, passing her something unspoken. She tried to brush it off, but it followed – quiet, insistent – long after the door closed.