She didn't sleep that night.
Not properly.
Her phone lay face down on the bedside table, as if it had personally offended her. The ceiling fan hummed above, steady and indifferent, while her thoughts refused to slow down.
Six months.
The words replayed over and over, each time carrying a different weight.
By morning, she had counted the cracks in the ceiling twice and lost track of how many times she'd checked the time. When her alarm finally rang, she shut it off before it could finish the first note.
She stared at the wall for a long moment.
This was ridiculous.
She got ready for work on autopilot—shower, clothes, hair pulled back with more force than necessary. The mirror reflected a version of herself that looked the same as always, but something felt… unsettled. Like a question had been asked and left unanswered.
At work, she tried to focus. Emails. Reports. Meetings she half-listened to. But her mind kept drifting back to a quiet café and a man who spoke like he'd already made peace with the world.
Stability.
The word followed her through the day.
During lunch, she opened a document she'd been avoiding since morning. It wasn't complicated—just routine paperwork—but her fingers hesitated over the keyboard.
She scrolled to the bottom and signed without thinking.
Ananya.
The name looked too calm on the screen for the mess her life had become.
She closed the file and leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly.
By evening, she had convinced herself she would say no.
By the time she reached her apartment, she wasn't so sure.
The landlord's call came as she was unlocking the door.
She hesitated before answering.
"Yes?" she said.
The conversation was short. Polite. Firm.
When the call ended, she stood in the narrow hallway of her apartment, keys still in her hand, her chest tight.
He hadn't threatened her. He hadn't needed to.
She sank onto the couch and let her head fall back.
Three days, he'd said.
The first day ended with her staring at the ceiling again, this time with the dull ache of reality pressing in.
The second day was worse.
She saw him in the elevator.
It was brief. Unavoidable.
He stood two feet away, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed ahead. No acknowledgment. No expectation. As if their conversation had never happened.
That unsettled her more than if he'd looked at her.
The doors opened. People got on. The space filled.
Still, he didn't glance her way.
When the elevator stopped at her floor, Ananya stepped out quickly, heart pounding for no logical reason. She told herself it was relief.
She wasn't convinced.
That night, she opened her laptop and typed numbers into a spreadsheet she pretended wasn't about him. The totals stared back at her, blunt and unforgiving.
She closed the laptop.
She didn't call anyone. Didn't ask for advice. She already knew what they would say.
Do what you need to survive.
The third day arrived quietly.
She woke before her alarm this time, the decision sitting heavy in her chest.
At work, she finished her tasks faster than usual. Wrapped things up. Left early with a vague excuse.
The café was busy when she arrived. Different crowd. Different noise. Same corner table.
He was already there.
Of course he was.
He looked up when he sensed her presence, something soft flickering in his eyes before his expression settled back into calm neutrality.
"You came," he said.
She didn't sit down immediately. "You said three days."
"And I said I wouldn't contact you," he replied. "I didn't."
She nodded once and took the seat across from him.
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words pressing between them.
"I haven't agreed to anything," Ananya said.
"I know."
"I'm not desperate," she added, sharper than she meant to.
"I didn't say you were."
That irritated her. "You implied it."
"I acknowledged your situation," he said calmly. "There's a difference."
She exhaled slowly. "You talk like everything is a transaction."
"Only the important things."
She studied him then, really looked at him. The stillness. The control. The faint shadows beneath his eyes that suggested he didn't sleep much either.
"What happens if someone finds out?" she asked.
"They won't," he said. "And if they do, it won't matter."
"That's easy for you to say."
"It's easier for me to manage consequences," he replied.
Her lips pressed together. "You've thought this through."
"Yes."
She leaned back. "Too much."
"Probably."
Silence stretched again.
"Why six months?" she asked.
He hesitated, just slightly. "Because it's long enough to solve what needs solving. And short enough to end cleanly."
"You're very confident it will end cleanly."
"I'm confident in my ability to walk away."
That answer shouldn't have bothered her.
It did.
She looked down at the table, tracing the faint scratch marks in the wood. "If I say yes," she said slowly, "I don't want surprises."
"You won't have any from me."
"I want clear boundaries."
"You'll set them."
"And I want the freedom to leave if this starts feeling wrong."
He nodded. "Anytime."
She looked up. "No arguments?"
"None."
She laughed quietly. "You make this sound too reasonable."
"That's the point."
She sat back, heart racing now.
"This doesn't mean I trust you," Ananya said.
"That's fine."
"And this doesn't mean I won't change my mind."
"That's also fine."
She held his gaze. "Then why do you look relieved?"
For the first time, he smiled.
It was brief. Controlled. But real.
"Because you're considering it," he said. "And that's all I asked."
Her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at it. Another missed call.
She didn't answer.
She met his eyes again.
"Okay," she said.
The word felt small. Heavy. Irreversible.
He didn't reach for her hand. Didn't move closer. He only nodded once.
"Okay," he echoed.
Something shifted between them—not closeness, not trust.
But a line had been crossed.
And neither of them pretended otherwise.