The week blurred, each day folding neatly over the next. Mornings threaded with her parents’ voices – her mother asking which part of the city they should see that day, her father bringing up café reviews he’d found online.

The apartment now smelled faintly of brewed coffee and her mother’s floral lotion, scents that clung to the morning air. It struck Aria how quickly they had made her small kitchen feel close to home again, though it wasn’t the one they had shared for years.

“Your mum’s bookmarked a place for pancakes,” her father said one morning. “They put something called stroop over it. What is that?”

“It’s syrup,” Aria replied, still half-asleep. “Thick, very sweet. Don’t order two servings unless you plan to hibernate after.”

Her mother laughed in the background. “Noted.”

Aria leaned her cheek into her palm, a small smile tugging at her lips. Their laughter filled the space in a way that reminded her of summers back home – except lighter, as though the miles between them had shed some of the weight she used to carry in silence.

Evenings had their own rhythm, a quieter blend of work and Reyhaan. Some nights he drove in calm silence, eyes glancing toward the road as he pointed out a street they’d both never noticed before, or a building he remembered from years back.

Other nights, they walked – cool air brushing against their cheeks, takeaway cups warming their hands. She found herself attuned to the smallest things: the sweep of wind against her sleeve, the way his footsteps fell a half-beat slower beside hers. Sometimes, when his shoulder brushed hers, it felt so natural she forgot to fear what might happen if the rhythm ever broke.

It was the kind of companionship that didn’t demand filling. Silences with him weren’t empty; they hummed with an ease she hadn’t known she’d been missing.

She had tried to arrange a visit from Maya and Kian while her parents were still in Rotterdam, but the week refused to cooperate. Maya was pulled into back-to-back production deadlines, and Kian was buried in the final stretch before the game launch.

The group chat was an ongoing loop: “next week?” “After Friday?” “When we’re not half-dead?”

She didn’t resent it – she knew the chaos of Maya’s shoots and Kian’s crunch weeks too well – but sometimes, watching the chat blink with apologies and reschedules, she wished the three of them could pause life the way they used to.

Her parents, however, had no such scheduling problem. After meeting Reyhaan earlier that week, and in the days that followed, they had invited him to visit without her even asking. Her father leaned in, debating the fastest way across the city; her mother was already listing bakeries he should try, and Aria caught herself watching more than listening.

There was no trace of the polite reserve from that first meeting – just an effortless warmth she noticed but didn’t comment on. Outwardly, at least. The ease unsettled her in a way she couldn’t quite name, like watching the edges of two worlds blur into one.

It struck her how naturally her parents had folded him into the rhythm of their days, as if he’d always belonged there. A part of her wanted to laugh at the thought; another part tucked the observation carefully away, as though acknowledging it out loud might tip something over she wasn’t ready to face.

One evening, she got off work earlier than expected and, on impulse, decided to take the tram to his side of the city, to VYER’s studio building.

She didn’t tell him.

Instead, she lingered outside with a paper bag of warm pastries, leaning against a low wall near the exit of the underground parking. She shifted the bag from one hand to the other, fingers tightening around the paper.

She was just considering whether to text him when a familiar dark SUV eased up the ramp from the lot.

Even through the windshield, she saw the exact moment he spotted her – surprise twinkling into something lighter. Her heart gave a sudden, betraying thud, like she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to, though she’d only been waiting.

By the time he slowed and rolled down the window, there was a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that steadied her pulse, even as warmth climbed into her cheeks.

But beneath that flicker of embarrassment was something sharper – the startling awareness that she wanted him to notice. That she wanted to be someone worth surprising.

“You’re not usually part of the scenery here,” Reyhaan’s voice carried a soft edge of amusement.

“Finished early,” she said, grinning. “Thought I’d see if the local celebrity was still working. Also, I came to bring these.” She held up the bag.

He glanced at it, then back at her – something between gratitude and faint hesitation passing through his expression. As if the surprise had caught him off guard in a good way. As though he was committing this unannounced arrival to memory.

“Get in. Before those get cold.”

The image had stayed with her since: the first time she realized he didn’t just look at her – he noticed her. It wasn’t just that he saw her; it was that he seemed glad she was there.

It became a quiet kind of habit after that – sometimes she was the one waiting, sometimes he was.

Midweek brought something else – her first full script, for a series commissioned by a major OTT platform. She read the synopsis twice, slower the second time, letting the weight sink in.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard longer than they needed to, pulse skipping as if the document itself might test her worth. Pride swelled sharp in her chest, chased almost immediately by the whisper of doubt: Can I hold this?

And yet, a thrill of excitement curled in her chest, tangled with the sharper edge of intimidation. It felt like the first credit she’d want to claim, the first one she’d gladly put her name beside.

Even with notes to make and scenes to flag, she didn’t cut out the small rituals with Reyhaan. The hours somehow stretched and compressed all at once. They had settled into a pattern that didn’t demand attention but still made the days feel anchored.

Later, when the apartment was quiet and her parents had turned in, Aria would sit cross-legged with her laptop, the cursor blinking over the script she was shaping.

Her hands still trembled whenever she saved the progress, the flutter refusing to settle into neat lines of thought. It was like her body hadn’t yet learned how to hold this much possibility.

She realized with a pang that the script didn’t just depend on her willpower. It depended on the steadiness she borrowed – her parents’ warmth, Reyhaan’s quiet presence – things she hadn’t let herself count on before.

Over dinner one night, a thought nudged at her until she finally said, “Don’t book the return tickets yet. Stay for a little longer.”

Her father glanced at her mother, the kind of look that carried a question.

“Any particular reason?” her mother asked, smiling faintly.

Aria shrugged, keeping her tone casual. “It’s nice having you here. That’s all.”

Her father’s expression softened. "We’d like that," he said, as if it had been waiting between them all along.

Something unknotted in her chest at his answer, a quiet loosening she hadn’t realized she’d been holding onto. She pretended to brush a strand of hair from her face, masking the sudden sting in her eyes.

Later, walking to her room, she thought of the weeks ahead – the script waiting on her desk, the half-made plans, and the steadying effect of Reyhaan’s presence threading through her days.

She paused in the doorway, her hand resting against the frame, like her body knew to linger even when her mind tried to move on.

The thought left her both grounded and unsettled – close to standing at the edge of a tide, aware it might sweep her further than she intended. The sense that, somehow, all these small moments were leading somewhere she hadn’t yet put into words.

For now, she let herself rest in that fragile sense of balance – unaware of how quickly a single moment could scatter it all.