There was something dangerous about shared silence.
Naya woke up the next morning, still wearing yesterday's emotions like a coat she forgot to take off. Her heart felt sore. Not broken—just bruised, in places she didn't know were even alive.
She found herself in the kitchen again, drawn by the smell of cinnamon and something warm.
"You made pancakes?" she asked, surprised.
Kian looked up from the stove, hair still damp from the shower, plain gray shirt hugging his torso like a second skin. "Tami's request."
"She runs this house, huh?"
He chuckled. "She's the boss. I just work here."
Naya leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Seems peaceful this morning."
Kian handed her a plate without a word.
She didn't thank him. Didn't need to. Something between them was already past that.
---
After breakfast, Kian left to take Tami to school and stop by his office. Naya was alone.
The house suddenly felt too big.
She wandered aimlessly into the study. Books lined the walls, mostly law and business, but tucked in the corner was something unexpected: a sketchpad.
Out of curiosity—or impulse—she opened it.
The first page was blank. So was the second. The third held her breath.
There it was.
Her.
Sketched in soft charcoal, raw and unfiltered. Messy curls. Half-smile. The angle of her collarbone when she turned her head. Eyes that didn't know they were being watched.
The date on the page was the night after she moved in.
She closed the pad quickly, as if it had bitten her.
He'd been watching. Not in a creepy way. In a way that said: I see you, and I can't unsee you now.
---
When Kian returned, Naya was in the garden, sipping something too cold for the weather. He paused before joining her.
"You found it," he said.
She didn't pretend not to know. "You draw."
He gave a slow nod. "Sometimes. It's private."
"You sketched me."
"Do you want me to stop?"
The question was a trap. And he knew it.
She didn't answer. Not directly. Just looked at him with eyes that said everything is spinning.
He sat beside her, their knees almost touching.
"I sketch things I can't say," he murmured.
"And what can't you say, Kian?"
He looked away. "I'm trying to keep this simple, Naya."
She laughed, bitter and beautiful. "You married me. There's nothing simple about that."
He turned toward her then, and in that quiet second, she could feel the pull—something magnetic and uncontrollable.
Kian reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It was too soft a gesture for someone she barely knew... and yet, she didn't pull away.
His fingers lingered.
"If I kiss you now," he said lowly, "I won't stop."
A heartbeat.
"Then don't start," she whispered.
And she left him there, in the cold morning light, holding a silence that burned louder than words.