The automatic driveway gate swings open with a quiet mechanical hum, and the car rolls to a stop in front of the house. Aiah looks through the window and feels something settle in her chest. She knows her parents and the Lims bought this place for her and Mikha, a marital home to start their new life together. But she never bothered to ask what it looks like. She never wanted to care about the details, because caring meant accepting that this is real.

The house is one-storey, modern, with clean lines and warm light spilling from the windows. It looks welcoming in a way that makes Aiah's throat tight. She doesn't know why. Maybe because it's supposed to be hers now. Maybe because she's in front of it with a drunk wife who hates her.

The driver opens her door first, and Aiah steps out. The night air is cool against her skin, carrying the faint smell of grass. She hears the driver move to the other side of the car, and then she hears Mikha's voice, slurred and stubborn.

"I'm fine."

Aiah looks back. Mikha is gripping the car door, her red hair falling loose and messy around her face. She steps out and stumbles immediately, her hand shooting out to brace herself against the car. She leans there, breathing hard.

The driver reaches for her arm. "Miss, let me help you—"

"I said I'm fine." Mikha's voice is sharp even through the slur. She pushes the driver's hand away and straightens, swaying slightly. "I can walk."

Aiah watches her for a moment. Mikha's eyes are glassy, her jaw tight, her body barely holding itself upright. She looks like she's about to fall over any second. Aiah walks toward her, heels clicking against the driveway.

"Let me help you," Aiah says softly.

Mikha blinks at her, then chuckles, low and mean. "Fuck off."

Aiah doesn't flinch. She reaches for Mikha's arm anyway, her fingers wrapping around the fabric of her suit jacket. "You're going to fall."

Mikha pushes her hand away, hard enough that Aiah takes a step back. "I said fuck off."

They stand there, facing each other in the driveway, the house glowing behind them. Aiah feels the weight of the moment settle between them. This is what her life is now. A drunk wife who can't stand the sight of her.

Aiah turns to the driver, who is hovering uncertainly. "You can leave now," she says, her voice calm and steady. "Thank you."

The driver hesitates, looking between them. "Are you sure, Ma'am?"

"Yes." Aiah gives him a small smile. "We'll be fine."

The driver nods slowly and gets back in the car. Aiah watches him drive away. She turns back to Mikha, who is still standing in front of her.

"I can walk," Mikha mumbles, almost to herself.

Aiah doesn't argue. She walks toward the main door, and she hears Mikha's footsteps behind her, unsteady and slow. By the time Aiah reaches the door, Mikha is beside her, one hand resting on the wall, her head bowed like she's holding herself together by pure will.

Aiah pulls out the keys the her mother gave her and unlocks the door. It swings open, revealing a big living area. The lights are already on, warm and soft, and the space feels lived-in even though no one has ever stayed here. Aiah steps inside, and she hears Mikha stumble in behind her.

Mikha doesn't look around. She doesn't seem to care about the house at all. She just wobbles toward the couch and plops down, her body sinking into the cushions. She's asleep within seconds, her head lolling to the side, her mouth slightly open.

Aiah stands in the middle of the living room, looking at her. She feels the silence of the house pressing in around her. This is the first time they've been truly alone together, and Mikha is unconscious.

She turns away and starts to explore.

The house is beautiful, she realizes. Clear glass walls in the right places, letting the moonlight spill into the living area. A few steps from the living room is a dining table, polished and empty. A few steps forward is an island counter, then the kitchen, modern and clean. The house has three rooms, and Aiah walks toward the first door on the right, near the living area.

She opens it and finds her office.

It's a comfortable room, with a couch and full glass walls that look out onto the garden beside the house. All of her work things are here. Her laptop, her files, her pens arranged neatly on the desk. She recognizes the family picture frame, the one she keeps inside her room back at the Arceta mansion. Her parents must have brought it here, along with everything else. Aiah touches the frame lightly, her fingers tracing the glass over her mother's smile.

She looks past the glass wall and sees the room beside her office. It's a gaming room. A computer setup with multiple monitors, a wall cabinet stacked with books. Definitely for Mikha. Aiah doesn't play computer games, and she doesn't read half the titles she can see from here. She wonders if Mikha even knows this room exists yet.

The only walls that aren't glass in this part of the house are the ones that separate the rooms from the main area. Aiah looks past the gaming room, and through the glass she can see the pool. It's huge, with a gazebo at one end and a jacuzzi at the far corner. The water is still and dark under the night sky.

Aiah turns and walks out of the office. She doesn't need to check the room beside it. She already knows what's inside. Instead, she walks toward the room across her office. The bedroom.

It's huge. A king-sized bed sits in the center, covered in white linens. There are no glass walls here, only a window that views the gate and the driveway. Aiah walks in and sees a door inside. She opens it.

The bathroom is massive. A huge mirror above the sink, a shower area with glass doors, and a bathtub that looks like it could fit two people. On the right side, there's another door. Aiah opens it and finds the closet.

Her side is already arranged. All her clothes, her bags, her heels, neatly organized. She touches a silk blouse, feeling the familiar fabric. And then she looks to the other side.

Mikha's side. Tailored suits in dark colors, leather jackets, plain shirts and shorts, sweatpants, and loafers. It's a wardrobe that tells a story Aiah doesn't fully understand yet. She stares at it for a long moment, the reality of it settling on her chest.

She really is living with Mikha Lim. Under one roof. In one house. In one bed.

Aiah sighs heavily and steps out of the closet. She walks back through the bathroom, through the bedroom, and into the living area, where Mikha is still passed out on the couch. Her head has fallen back, her arms sprawled, her suit jacket bunched awkwardly around her shoulders.

Aiah stands there, looking at her. She could leave her here. Let her wake up with a crick in her neck and a hangover that makes her wish she hadn't. It would be easier. Cleaner. She wouldn't have to touch her, wouldn't have to get close.

But Aiah doesn't have the heart to.

She walks to the couch and tries to wake Mikha up. "Mikha." She shakes her shoulder gently. "Mikha, wake up."

Mikha doesn't move.

Aiah tries again, firmer this time. "Mikha. You need to sleep on the bed."

Mikha groans and shakes her head, her eyes still closed. "Mm-mm."

Aiah sighs. She grabs Mikha's arm and pulls, hauling her upright. Mikha's head lolls, her body heavy and uncooperative. "Come on," Aiah mutters. "Stand up."

Mikha's eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused. She blinks at Aiah, and for a moment, there's something there. Something almost vulnerable. Then it's gone, and she's just drunk and exhausted.

"Where—"

"Bedroom," Aiah says. "Come on."

She pulls Mikha to her feet, and Mikha stumbles into her, her body warm and heavy against Aiah's. Aiah wraps an arm around her waist and guides her across the living room, into the bedroom, toward the bed. Mikha doesn't protest. She's too drunk and too tired to fight.

Aiah drops her on the bed gently. Mikha sinks into the mattress, her eyes already closing, her breathing evening out. She's asleep instantly again.

Aiah stands there, looking down at her. Mikha's suit is still on, wrinkled and twisted. Her hair is a mess. Her shoes are still on her feet. Aiah knows how uncomfortable it feels to wake up in yesterday's clothes, the fabric clinging to your skin, the stiffness in your joints. She doesn't want that for Mikha. Even if Mikha hates her, she doesn't deserve to wake up like that.

Aiah walks to the closet and grabs a shirt and shorts from Mikha's side. She also grabs a face towel and wets it slightly in the bathroom. Then she goes back to the bed.

She kneels down and removes Mikha's shoes first, then her socks. Her hands are careful, methodical. She moves up and unbuttons Mikha's suit jacket, sliding it off her shoulders. Then the long-sleeve polo underneath. Then the inner shirt. Mikha's skin is pale and warm under her fingers, and Aiah keeps her eyes on the task, on the fabric, on anything but the body she's undressing.

She pulls the fresh shirt over Mikha's head, guiding her limp arms through the sleeves. Then she wipes Mikha's face gently with the wet towel, cleaning away the traces of the night. Mikha's skin is soft under the cloth, and Aiah is careful not to press too hard.

Then she moves down and unbuttons Mikha's suit pants. She has to tug hard to get them off, grunting slightly because Mikha is heavy and uncooperative. The pants slide down her legs, and Aiah sees the white boxer briefs underneath, the evident outline of Mikha's—

She looks away. She keeps her gaze on the task, pulling the shorts up over Mikha's legs, over her hips. She doesn't let her eyes linger anywhere they shouldn't.

She pulls the thick blanket over Mikha's body and tucks it around her. Then she picks up the dirty clothes and carries them to the bathroom, dropping them in the laundry basket. She stands there for a moment, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Her own dress is still on, her hair still done, her makeup still perfect.

She takes a shower.

The water is hot and steady, washing away the exhaustion of the day. Aiah stands under it longer than she needs to, letting it run over her skin, over her hair.

Then she gets out and dries herself, putting on her silk sleepwear. She dries her hair, runs a brush through it, and walks back to the bedroom.

Mikha is still there, but the clothes Aiah put on her are gone. The blanket is pushed away. She's lying in just her sports bra and her boxer briefs, sprawled like a starfish in the middle of the bed.

Aiah stops in the doorway. She looks at Mikha's sleeping form, at the pale skin and the messy red hair and the way her chest rises and falls. She must have gotten hot in her sleep. She's drunk. It's valid.

Aiah looks away and walks to her side of the bed. The bed is huge, and she slides under the blanket, keeping as much distance between them as she can. She lies on her back, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on her.

She's married. She's living with Mikha Lim. She's supposed to tame her, whatever that even means.

Aiah closes her eyes and lets the exhaustion pull her under.