The week dissolved into fragments—uneven, held together by gestures he convinced himself mattered, even as he feared they passed her by untouched.

The lobby stood empty. No cameras. No reporters. The city had moved on, but inside the apartment, the air remained pressurized. Not peace, but a stalemate.

He left coffee on the counter. No note. When he returned, the cup was rinsed and drying in the rack. A single bead of moisture clung to the rim—evidence she had taken it, or perhaps just evidence of habit. He tried not to read the tea leaves of her routine, and failed.

The next evening, he waited outside Vireo House. Hood low, hands buried in pockets, trying to blend into the brickwork. Waiting felt too much like a plea, but he couldn't stop. Traffic swallowed the stares of passersby. When Aria spotted him, her step coupled. She climbed in beside him, her shoulder brushing his sleeve. She didn't pull away. He treated that lack of retreat as mercy, though he knew it was likely just exhaustion.

If she doesn't pull away, she can't hate my nearness as much as I fear.

By midweek, he came home late to find dinner waiting—rice and curry under a dome, a slip of paper beneath. Eat before midnight. The handwriting was careful, the loops precise. Kindness? Obligation? He couldn't tell. He ate alone in the dim kitchen, telling himself the neatness meant she had thought of him.

She remembered me, even when I wasn't here.

But there were moments he couldn't bend into hope.

Whenever the digital lock clicked at his arrival, her door would shut a beat later. On other nights, he heard the floorboards creak long after the apartment went dark—her pacing, a muffled shuffle thick with words she never spoke. She kept her world sealed inside that room. Whether to protect herself from him—or him from her—he couldn't decide.

Outside, the noise continued. His manager texted regarding diet plans and the hunt for the anonymous reporter. A headline speculated on the validity of their marriage. Inside, he clung to small exchanges as if they could rebuild a collapsing structure.

His parents called on Thursday. Their voices were warm but probing, laced with the intuition of people who knew what he wasn't saying. He answered in fragments. Just enough to sound steady. The truth remained lodged in his throat.

And still—every time her door shut, he felt the impact. The click wasn't loud, but it thudded in his chest. A refusal.

By week's end, he tried to convince himself the distance was thinning. Late that night, passing the hall, he stopped. A sound from behind her door. Not pacing this time. A sharp, muffled intake of breath. A sob? Or just the echo of his own wish to be needed?

He froze, hand hovering over the translucent glass.

Then silence.

He swallowed it down, told himself he'd imagined it. But when sleep finally came, it carried that sound with it—a question he didn't dare ask, answered by a door that remained closed.

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Sunday stretched beneath the mid-afternoon light, heavy and unmoving.

Aria sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop balancing precariously on her knees. She had been editing the same script for an hour, but the dialogue wouldn't stick. A sharp cramp seized her abdomen, doubling her over. She pressed a hand to her stomach, checking the calendar on her phone.

Of course. Body betraying her just as her mind had.

With a sigh that scraped her throat, she shoved the laptop aside. She checked the bathroom supplies. Empty packet.

Listing the necessities in her head—pads, tea, sugar—she gathered a tote bag. Maybe chocolate, if she could justify it. She slung the strap over her shoulder and stepped into the hall.

Reyhaan emerged from the living area at the exact same moment, a canvas bag hanging from his shoulder.

They both stalled.

"You're going somewhere?" His voice was easy, but the surprise was evident.

"Supermarket," she replied, keeping her tone neutral.

He shifted the bag. "Me too." A pause. "We can go together."

Aria wavered. It was just groceries. It seemed petty to refuse. Yet a flicker of warning went off in her gut: I don't want to navigate the domestic aisle with him. I don't want to play house.

"Okay," she said.

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The glass doors of the supermarket slid open, exhaling a gust of chilled air that smelled of citrus cleaner and overripe fruit.

Reyhaan took a trolley. Aria walked beside him, eyes fixed on the shelves. He didn't follow her down the personal care aisle, but she felt the weight of his attention when she returned. It wasn't invasive, just... present.

They moved in an unspoken coordination. At the stationery section, she paused, eyeing a sketchbook on the top shelf. Before she could stretch, Reyhaan moved.

"Here."

His arm brushed hers as he reached up. He didn't hand it over immediately—just held it, his eyes steady on hers. When she finally reached for it, their fingers grazed.

The warmth startled her. A flicker of light in a dark room she had sworn not to enter. She snatched the book, sliding it into the trolley, pulse hammering. Don't get used to this.

At the chocolate display, she lingered. Reyhaan said nothing, just waited. For a dangerous second, it felt like companionship—like something earned. She dropped three bars into the cart. He pushed it forward.

A child in the checkout line pointed. A man paused, eyes narrowing in recognition. The world outside the apartment was still writing stories about them. Aria straightened, slipping into her armor of indifference.

For a moment, Reyhaan angled his body, blocking the line of sight of a curious stranger. The gesture was instinctual. Protective.

It terrified her. How easily they fit into roles she hadn't chosen.

By the time they reached the counter, the trolley was a mingled mess of his vegetables and her comfort food. The beep of the scanner was the only conversation they needed.

Walking back, the sun began to dip, brushing the pavement with gold. Their steps aligned too easily. If someone saw them now, Aria thought, they'd think we were real.

The thought struck her like a bruise—painful, tender, and impossible to ignore.

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Back in the apartment, Aria retreated to her room.

She unpacked quietly. Napkins in the bathroom. Tea on the counter. The sketchbook on her desk. She was still sorting through the receipt when a knock came.

She opened the door.

Reyhaan stood there holding a small plastic packet. "For you."

She took it. Inside were more chocolates—brands she hadn't picked up—and an electric hot water bag.

She looked up, startled.

"I saw you drifting in the aisles," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thought this might help. Ease the cramps, or at least the day."

Her throat tightened. She didn't know whether to thank him or shut the door in his face. He was making it impossible to maintain the walls she needed.

She accepted it with a stiff nod. "Thanks."

He offered a faint smile, then stepped back, leaving her with the physical weight of his attention.

She set the hot water bag on her desk. Didn't plug it in. The chocolates sat on the nightstand, untouched.

For a moment, she had almost let herself believe in his kindness. Almost. But kindness from him felt like a debt she couldn't repay, not when her heart was already overdrawn.

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Hours bled away. The space sank into a hush.

Aria sat on her bed, earphones tangled in her lap. She had been staring at the same scene transition for twenty minutes.

A knock. Soft. Deliberate.

"Come in," she said, her voice clipped. She knew he wouldn't come empty-handed.

Reyhaan stepped inside. He carried a bowl—oats, studded with vegetables, steam curling in the lamplight. It smelled savory, earthy. He set it on her nightstand without fanfare.

"Thought you might need this."

Aria looked at the bowl, then at him. It's too much. He sees too much.

"I don't," she said.

"You haven't eaten since we got back."

"Doesn't mean you have to feed me."

"Who said I have to?" His composure slipped, just a fraction. "I wanted to."

"You shouldn't keep doing this."

His brow furrowed. "Doing what?"

"Caring," she said, and the word broke heavy in the room. "Bringing me things. Watching out for me. You don't owe me any of it, Reyhaan. I can manage."

"I know you can manage." His jaw worked. "That's not why—"

"Then why?" She stood up, frustration tangling with fear. "Why keep showing up? With food, with... chocolate? You don't have to treat me like a responsibility."

"I'm not." His voice cracked, low and insistent. "This isn't about duty. Or the headlines. I'm here because I want to be." He hesitated. "Because I care."

The words stopped her. They hung in the air, vibrating. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.

Care.

She hardened herself against it. Softening was dangerous. "Don't. Not like this." Her voice shook. "I don't need it. And I won't take what belongs to someone else—someone you actually wanted. Someone you actually loved."

The silence that followed cut deeper than any argument.

Reyhaan froze. The hit landed with precision.

For a heartbeat, Aria wanted to take it back. To unsay the thing she knew would wound him most. But she couldn't.

"You don't know what you're saying," he murmured finally. His voice was taut, the hurt bleeding through the seams.

He didn't wait for a reply. He took the bowl, turned, his movements stiff, and walked out.

The quiet click of the door closing sounded like a final verdict.

Aria stood very still. The room felt colder without him. On her nightstand, the chocolates waited, a testament to a care she had just thrown back in his face. She reached for the hot water bag, fingers brushing the rubber—then drew back as if burned.

She couldn't accept the comfort. Not when she had just ensured she didn't deserve it.