The house felt warmer.
Not because the temperature had changed.
But because something between them had.
---
Anaya noticed it in the way Aarav lingered longer in shared spaces.
In how he asked about her day — not out of politeness, but interest.
In how he waited for her before eating, even when he was tired.
Small things.
Quiet things.
Dangerous things.
---
One afternoon, Anaya returned from tuition earlier than usual.
Aarav was in the living room, sleeves rolled up, sorting through documents.
"You're home early," he said.
"So are you," she replied.
"I had a break," he said. "Did you eat?"
"Yes," she said. "Did you?"
"No," he replied.
She frowned. "Why not?"
"I was waiting," he said.
"For what?" she asked.
"For you."
Her heart skipped.
"Don't do that," she said softly.
"Do what?" he asked.
"Make me feel like I matter," she said. "It makes this harder."
He looked at her. "You do matter."
"That's not safe," she whispered.
"Neither is pretending you don't," he replied.
---
That evening, they cooked together.
Not side by side.
Not facing each other.
But moving around the kitchen in quiet harmony.
"Pass the salt," she said.
He handed it to her — their fingers brushed.
It was nothing.
And it was everything.
Neither of them spoke.
Neither of them moved.
Just a second too long.
Then she pulled her hand away.
---
After dinner, the rain started.
Heavy.
Relentless.
Anaya stood by the window, watching the raindrops race down the glass.
"I like the rain," she said.
"Why?" Aarav asked.
"It makes the world feel quieter," she replied. "Like everything slows down."
He stood beside her. "Do you ever wish we could slow things down?"
"Yes," she said. "Especially this."
He looked at her. "Why?"
"Because I'm afraid of where it's going," she admitted.
"And where do you think it's going?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
---
Later that night, the power went out again.
Anaya sighed. "This house and its timing."
Aarav chuckled softly. "It's consistent."
She reached for a candle.
He lit it.
The flickering light filled the room with warmth and shadow.
"You look different like this," he said.
"Different how?" she asked.
"Soft," he replied.
She smiled faintly. "You always say things like that."
"Only when they're true," he said.
---
They sat on the couch, closer than usual.
Not touching.
But close enough to feel each other's warmth.
"I don't know what I'm doing," Anaya said quietly.
"Neither do I," Aarav replied. "But I know I don't want to stop."
She turned to him. "That's not reassuring."
"I'm not trying to reassure you," he said. "I'm trying to be honest."
She swallowed. "Honesty hurts."
"Yes," he agreed. "But lies hurt longer."
---
A moment passed.
Then another.
Then another.
And then —
He reached out.
Not to touch her.
Just to move a strand of hair from her face.
She froze.
Her breath caught.
His fingers barely brushed her skin.
Electric.
Immediate.
Dangerous.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, pulling back. "I shouldn't have—"
"It's okay," she whispered.
"No, it's not," he said. "Because I wanted to."
"So did I," she admitted.
The words hung between them.
Heavy.
Real.
Unavoidable.
---
They didn't kiss.
They didn't touch again.
They didn't move closer.
But something had already crossed a line.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
And that line couldn't be uncrossed.
---
That night, Anaya lay awake, her fingers touching her cheek where he had brushed her hair.
In the other room, Aarav stared at his hand like it had betrayed him.
Not because he regretted it.
But because he didn't.
---
They were no longer just almost.
They were standing in it.
And neither of them knew how to step back.
---