It's been a few days since the arranged marriage between aaryan and her... He's a ruthless ACP. ...

Aaryan steps in, uniform still on, shirt untucked. There's blood on his collar. Someone else's or his—unclear. Knuckles bruised. Holster heavy. Eyes darker than the hallway behind him.

He sees her.

Soft.

Lit like a painting. Wrapped in calm. Like everything he’s not.

And he just…stares. For half a second too long.

He closes the door behind him.

Voice low. Quiet. He doesn’t make a show of anything. He’s too tired. Too coiled.

“Don’t worry. It’s not mine."

A beat.

Then, with less edge—still gruff, but almost…gentle. “I came back. That should count for something.” Another beat. He doesn’t know how to do this. This—home. Her. Soft things that wait for him. He notices the tea.

“…You made that for me?”

She nods, startled. Offers it with both hands.

He doesn’t take it at first. He looks at her hands. Small. Clean. Unlike his.

Then finally—

“You shouldn’t wait up. It’s not safe to care about me.”

But he takes the cup. Drinks. And whispers just loud enough for her to hear—

“…But thank you. It tastes like peace.”