**Chapter 5: Uninvited Shadows**
Aanya returned to the apartment on a Sunday evening.
No warning. No call. No message.
Just silence as she stepped inside, dragging her suitcase behind her. The living room was exactly as she'd left it—neat, sterile, untouched.
As if she'd never been there.
She heard a faint sound from the bedroom and paused. The door was ajar. Arjun stood inside, shirtless, a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was wet, droplets running down his chest.
He froze when he saw her.
"You're back," he said, voice low.
She looked away quickly. "It's still my home. I came for my books."
"They're in the study."
She walked past him without another word, but she felt his eyes on her, warm and quiet like a storm held in place.
Inside the study, she found more than her books—her notepads were stacked neatly, pens organized, even her favorite mug was washed and placed next to a packet of mint green tea.
It was too careful. Too precise.
She hated how he remembered these little things.
Worse, she hated how that made her chest ache.
She grabbed her things and turned to leave—but he was there.
Blocking the doorway.
His eyes were darker than usual, unreadable.
"I'm not stopping you," he said gently. "But… can you just stay for dinner?"
She opened her mouth to say no.
But the words didn't come.
She hated this about him—the way he asked with that low voice, the way he never demanded and yet made refusal impossible.
She nodded once.
***
Dinner was quiet.
He'd made pasta—her favorite, heavy on garlic and olive oil. The bread was warm, the table set for two, soft music playing in the background.
It was almost romantic.
Almost.
"You cooked all this?"
"I wasn't sure when you'd come back. I made it every night for a week."
She stopped chewing.
"You're insane."
He gave a soft chuckle. "Probably."
"Why are you like this?"
His eyes met hers. "Because I love you."
The words were so simple, so calmly spoken, that she almost believed them.
Almost.
"You don't know what love is."
"I didn't," he admitted. "Not before you."
She didn't answer.
Just kept eating, like her heart wasn't beating erratically.
***
Later that night, she lay awake in her room, unable to sleep.
Their rooms were separate now. Her choice. He respected it. Always.
But the silence between them was louder than any fight.
Around midnight, she heard a knock.
Soft. Hesitant.
She didn't answer.
The door creaked open.
He stepped in, shirtless again, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. She sat up, breath caught in her throat.
"Do you need something?" she asked.
He stood still. Watching.
Then he said, "I had a dream you left again."
"I might."
He walked toward her. "Don't."
She blinked. "Why?"
"Because every time you walk out that door, something inside me cracks."
Her breath hitched.
"You think I'm possessive because I don't trust you," he said, voice low. "But it's not that. I just… I've never had anything that was mine. Not really. My mother wanted control. My sister wanted praise. Friends left when I got better than them. But you…"
He knelt beside her bed.
"You scare me."
She didn't know what to say.
"I don't want to lose you, Aanya."
"I'm not yours to lose," she whispered.
He looked at her for a long moment, then stood up.
"I'm sleeping on the couch."
But he didn't move right away. Instead, he reached out and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered near her cheek.
"I'll wait. As long as it takes," he said again.
Then he left.
She stared at the closed door for hours, heart thudding in a rhythm that made no sense.
***
The next few days passed in a strange limbo.
She didn't leave again.
He didn't push her.
They shared meals, sat in the same room, exchanged small talk. He stayed out of her room, but sometimes she found little signs of him—her favorite chocolate in the fridge, her torn notebook replaced, her highlighters refilled.
Always silent. Always watching.
Until one evening, things shifted.
She came home from a walk to find a woman at their door.
She was tall, confident, dressed in a sleek red sari that clung to her curves. Her lipstick was bold, her heels loud on the tile.
Aanya froze.
"Hi," the woman said brightly. "You must be the wife."
Aanya's stomach twisted.
Before she could respond, Arjun appeared behind her. "Neha, what are you doing here?"
"I was in the area," the woman said with a smile, stepping closer. "Thought I'd say hi. We haven't caught up since your wedding."
"I told you not to drop by unannounced."
"Oh, relax," she laughed. "It's not like I'm here to steal your wife."
Her eyes sparkled as they turned back to Aanya. "But if I were you, I'd hold on to him tight. He's a catch."
Aanya clenched her jaw.
"Arjun," she said, forcing calm into her voice. "Are you inviting her in?"
"No," he said quickly. "Neha, leave."
Neha pouted. "I just wanted to talk. We were friends once."
"We're not anymore."
"Fine," she huffed. "You've changed. Marriage made you boring."
She turned to Aanya, her eyes calculating. "Good luck with this one."
And then she walked off, perfume lingering long after she was gone.
Aanya turned on him the second the door shut.
"Who the hell was that?"
"No one."
"Didn't look like no one."
"She's from college. We dated briefly years ago."
"I thought you said you had no ex."
"I didn't consider her one. We never... went that far."
"Really? She looked like she had a *very* different story."
"She's exaggerating."
Aanya stared at him, heart pounding.
Jealousy. Ugly, hot jealousy. It wasn't rational, but it burned through her like fire.
"Were you in love with her?"
"No."
"You seemed pretty flustered."
"I didn't want her near you."
"Why? Afraid I'd figure out she's more than you let on?"
"No," he said, stepping closer, eyes intense. "I was afraid she'd ruin this. Whatever this is. Whatever *we* are."
Her breath caught.
She tried to speak, but his hand came up gently, cupping her face.
"I've never touched anyone," he whispered. "Not the way I want to touch you."
Her lips parted. "Arjun…"
"Tell me to stop," he murmured, leaning in.
She didn't.
Their lips met, slow and hesitant at first, then with a fire that shocked them both. He kissed like a man holding on for dear life, like she was the only thing anchoring him.
His hands slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She felt the heat of his body, the rough texture of his palm, the way his fingers trembled slightly as he held her.
It wasn't perfect.
It was desperate.
Real.
Raw.
And when they finally pulled apart, gasping for air, she didn't slap him.
Didn't yell.
She just looked at him.
And for the first time… didn't hate him.
Not entirely.
Not that night.
---
**[End of Chapter 5]**