The house felt different when they returned that night.
Not because anything had physically changed, but because something invisible had shifted between them — something steadier, something stronger, something that no longer felt fragile.
Anaya slipped off her shoes near the door, her body finally registering the exhaustion she had been holding back all evening, the adrenaline slowly draining from her veins.
For hours, she had been composed.
Confident.
Unshaken.
Now her knees felt weak.
Aarav closed the door behind them and turned toward her.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"I think so," she replied. "I didn't realize how tense I was."
He stepped closer, his expression softer than she had ever seen it.
"You were incredible," he said.
She shook her head lightly. "I was terrified."
"I know," he said. "And you still spoke."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was reflective.
They had crossed something tonight.
Not just a conversation.
A boundary.
"Do you regret it?" she asked suddenly.
The question surprised even her.
He didn't hesitate.
"No."
"Even if they never fully approve?" she pressed quietly.
"Yes," he replied. "Because approval isn't what I want."
She looked at him.
"What do you want?" she asked.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his breath, steady and warm.
"You," he said simply.
The word wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't whispered with intensity.
It was calm.
Certain.
And that made it heavier than anything else.
Her heart pounded, but this time it wasn't fear.
It was the realization that there was no turning back anymore.
No safety net of "it's just a contract."
No convenient ending.
They had made this real.
"I kept thinking," she admitted softly, "what if they asked you to choose?"
"They did," he replied.
Her breath caught. "What?"
"Not directly," he clarified. "But it was implied."
"And you didn't hesitate?" she asked.
He shook his head slowly.
"No."
The steadiness in his voice made her chest tighten unexpectedly.
"Why?" she whispered.
"Because I've lived my life making practical choices," he said. "And none of them ever made me feel the way you do."
Silence wrapped around them again.
But this silence was intimate.
Not tense.
Not uncertain.
Just full.
Anaya felt her emotions rise unexpectedly, overwhelming in their quiet intensity.
"You didn't have to fight," she said softly. "You could have kept things simple."
He gave a faint smile.
"You're not simple," he replied. "And I don't want simple."
The air between them felt warmer now.
Closer.
Not hesitant anymore.
He lifted his hand slowly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face — a small gesture, but one that carried more meaning than grand words ever could.
She didn't pull away.
She didn't overthink.
She just stood there, feeling the weight of his choice.
Their choice.
"Are you scared?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," she admitted.
"Of what?"
"Of how much this matters," she whispered.
He understood.
Because he felt it too.
That night, they didn't retreat into separate emotional corners.
They stayed in the living room longer than usual, talking softly about small things, about the future without outlining it too clearly, about practical steps without turning them into pressure.
They weren't planning a fairy tale.
They were planning reality.
Together.
When Anaya finally went to her room, she didn't lie awake worrying about the calendar.
She didn't think about the word temporary.
Because for the first time since the contract began, the ending didn't feel like a threat.
It felt like something they had already rewritten.
In his room, Aarav sat for a long time before turning off the light, his mind replaying the evening, replaying her voice when she had said "I choose us."
He had built his life on stability.
On structure.
On expectation.
But tonight, he realized something quietly powerful.
Stability isn't about control.
It's about knowing who stands beside you when things shake.
And now, nothing felt uncertain anymore.
Not because the world had changed.
But because they had.