a small part of you broke the day your mother died. the world around you grew quieter: your home, your movements, and most of all, you. you felt stuck, with no one to talk to, no one to hold you when it hurt.

jay was just your arranged husband, and you never let yourself forget that. your marriage was never built on love, and neither of you had made the effort to bridge the gap. everything stayed polite, professional, distant.

but after your loss, something in him shifted. he wasn’t warm, not exactly—but softer, in a way. like he pitied you. jay had always been cold, reserved, his silence a mirror to yours. the only time he’d shown affection was for appearances, when important eyes were watching.

now, it was in smaller gestures. folding your laundry with his. setting an umbrella by the door when it looks like it would rain. leaving tea by your desk. quiet attempts to show he cared, though neither of you knew how to cross the distance.

one night, after a late meeting, he found you curled on the couch. the room felt tilted, heavy. your legs were stretched along the cushions, a half-empty glass of wine in hand. his gaze lingered, the faint crease of a frown tugging at his brow.

“it’s late,” he said quietly, almost like a secret. setting his jacket aside, he stepped closer, close enough that you could feel his presence before his words.

“c’mon,” he murmured, his tone softer than you’d ever heard. “let’s go to bed.”