A week passes in a rhythm Aiah learns without deciding to. She wakes before the sun finishes climbing, showers, and pads to the kitchen in bare feet. She cooks eggs or oatmeal, sometimes rice and dried fish when she misses her mother's table. She eats alone, scrolling through reports on her phone, the scrape of her spoon the only sound in the house while Mikha sleeps.

Aiah cooks lunch around noon. She makes enough for two without thinking about it, then stands at the stove wondering why she bothered. But Mikha always appears eventually, hair mussed, wearing a loose shirt and shorts, barefoot. She sits across from Aiah and eats without a word. She doesn't comment on the food. She just eats, washes her bowl, and disappears into the gaming room.

On the other hand, Aiah stays in her office. She focuses on quarterly projections, on supplier negotiations, on the expansion plan her father keeps emailing her with question marks attached.

She requested work-from-home arrangements after the wedding, telling her father she needed time to adjust. The truth is simpler: she doesn't trust what Mikha might do if left alone in a house with no supervision. The fingerprint lock keeps Mikha in, but it doesn't keep her from destroying things from the inside.

But Mikha hasn't destroyed anything. She hasn't thrown a mug. She hasn't screamed. She hasn't even raised her voice.

Aiah doesn't trust it. She watches Mikha through the glass, sees her slumped on the couch with a controller in her hands, sees the empty cans accumulating on the side table, and she waits for the explosion. It doesn't come.

It's Wednesday when Aiah finally lets herself wonder if she's been wrong about something. She looks up from her laptop, and Mikha is there, back facing her, shoulders broad under a plain black shirt. She's playing something with guns, the sound of gunfire and shouting filling the gaming room. Five empty beer cans sit on the desktop table. A sixth is in her hand.

Aiah watches her for a moment. She shouldn't. She knows she shouldn't. But there's something about the way Mikha's hand moves over the keyboard, precise and almost gentle, that doesn't match the chaos of the game on screen. Aiah wonders what Mikha was like before all of this. Before the marriage. Before the anger personified that she is. Before her parents decided she needed to be tamed.

She tears her gaze away and forces herself back to the spreadsheet on her screen. The numbers blur. She blinks, refocuses, and types a correction.

Minutes pass. The sound of gunfire stops. Aiah hears footsteps, but she doesn't look up. She assumes Mikha is getting another beer.

The door to her office opens.

Aiah's fingers pause on the keyboard. She looks up, over her reading glasses, and finds Mikha standing in the doorway. A beer can dangles from her fingers. Her eyes are half-lidded, but not in a sleepy way. In a watching way.

Mikha walks in without waiting for an invitation and drops onto the couch against the wall. She lands heavily, legs spread, head tilted back. She takes a long pull from the can, then looks at Aiah.

Aiah raises an eyebrow. "Do you need something?"

Mikha's mouth curves, then she chuckles. Low. A sound that would be charming if Aiah didn't know better. Aiah braces herself for whatever cruel thing is about to come out of her mouth. She's been waiting for it all week, actually. The quiet has been nice, but it feels like the calm before something.

It doesn't come.

Mikha tilts her head, her dark eyes fixed on Aiah. "Para kanino ka bumabangon?"

Aiah blinks. Then she snorts, the sound escaping before she can stop it. She presses her lips together, but the laugh is already building in her chest, threatening to spill out.

Mikha's face stays serious. "I'm serious here."

Aiah rolls her eyes. "Why are you bothering me?"

Mikha shrugs. "Bored."

Aiah hums, turning back to her laptop. She doesn't have time for games. She has a quarterly report to finish. She types a few more words, then pauses when she feels Mikha's gaze still on her.

"What do you love about your work?"

The question catches Aiah off guard. She looks up again, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. Mikha is still watching her, and there's something in her expression that Aiah can't quite read.

Aiah doesn't trust it. But a casual conversation isn't dangerous. It's just words. It's just a conversation. A harmless one. And she has been alone in this house with her thoughts for a week, which is its own kind of prison.

"I love my work because it helps people," she says, and the words come out easier than she expects. "Our company has a scholarship program. Free education for underprivileged students. When the company does well, the program expands. More kids get to study."

Mikha doesn't respond. She just looks at Aiah, her expression unreadable.

Aiah continues. "It's fulfilling. Knowing that the work I do means something beyond profit." She pauses, then adds, "My father started that program when I was a kid. I watched him grow it from twenty scholars to hundreds. I want to continue that legacy."

Mikha hums. She looks away, her gaze drifting to the garden through the glass walls.

Aiah studies her for a moment longer. The way Mikha's jaw is set. The way her fingers tap against the beer can. She wonders why Mikha asked. Maybe she's just tipsy and grasping for something to say. Maybe she's bored, like she said. Or maybe there's something else, something Aiah can't see.

The thought lingers, but Aiah pushes it aside.

Mikha takes another sip of her beer, then says, "That's good."

Just that. Two words, quiet and simple, like she actually means them.

Aiah doesn't know what to do with that. She can't read Mikha at all, actually. The woman is a wall of red hair and sharp edges, and Aiah has no idea what's on the other side. She lets the silence settle and goes back to her report.

A few minutes pass. The cursor blinks. The numbers blur.

"Ikaw," Aiah says, without looking up. "Para kanino ka bumabangon?"

Mikha laughs. A real laugh, soft and surprised, like she didn't expect Aiah to throw the question back at her. Aiah looks up just in time to see Mikha raise her beer can, a crooked smile on her face.

"Para sa alak," Mikha says.

Aiah laughs. She can't help it. The answer is so ridiculous, so on-brand. She shakes her head, still smiling.

"Of course," she says.

Mikha's eyes crinkle at the corners. It's the closest thing to genuine warmth Aiah has seen from her.

Aiah closes her laptop and stands. "I'll cook dinner," she says. "You can stay here if you want."

Mikha nods, but she stands anyway, following Aiah out of the office and into the kitchen. She settles on one of the stools at the kitchen island, her beer still in hand, and watches as Aiah opens the refrigerator and pulls out chicken, potatoes, and carrots.

"Chicken curry," Aiah says, more to fill the silence than anything else. "Is that okay?"

"Fine."

Aiah works in comfortable silence, chopping vegetables and measuring spices. She's aware of Mikha's eyes on her, following her movements, but it doesn't feel intrusive.

"How did you learn to cook?" Mikha asks after a while.

"My mother," Aiah says. "She taught me when I was young. Said every woman should know how to feed herself properly."

"And you believed her?"

Aiah smiles, stirring the curry. "I believed her when she said it would help me impress people. Turns out she was right."

Mikha snorts. "Does it work?"

"You're still here, aren't you?"

The words slip out before Aiah can stop them. She freezes, her hand hovering over the pot. She didn't mean it as a flirtation. She didn't mean it as anything. But it hangs in the air between them.

Mikha doesn't respond. When Aiah glances at her, she's looking down at her beer can, her expression unreadable.

Aiah clears her throat and focuses on the food.

"Do you cook?" she asks, trying to fill the deafening silence.

"I can boil water," Mikha says dryly. "That's about it."

Aiah snorts. "So you survive on takeout and alcohol?"

"And whatever my wife decides to cook for me," Mikha says, and there's a teasing edge in her voice that makes Aiah stops stirring for a good three seconds.

She intentionally doesn't respond to that. Her mind doesn't know what to say to that. So she just keeps cooking.

But the questions keep coming, though. Not personal, not invasive. Just curious. What's your favorite color? Do you like coffee or tea? What kind of music do you listen to? Aiah answers them all. Her favorite color is baby blue. She likes tea as much as she likes coffee. She likes listening to soothing music. And she finds herself asking questions back. Does Mikha have any hobbies besides drinking and gaming? Did she always have red hair? What's her favorite food?

Mikha answers them all too. No, she doesn't have hobbies. Yes, the red hair is a choice, not an accident. She eats anything.

The conversation is easy. Easier than Aiah expected. She doesn't trust it, not completely, but she lets herself enjoy it anyway. It's just dinner. Just two people talking while the curry simmers on the stove.

They eat together at the dining table, the same as they have all week. But this time, it doesn't feel as heavy. The silence between them isn't a wall anymore. It's just quiet.

After dinner, they wash their own dishes. Aiah dries her hands on a towel and heads to the bedroom, leaving Mikha in the kitchen. She takes a long shower, letting the hot water wash away the day, and when she steps out, she finds Mikha on the couch in the bedroom, beer in hand, watching some car race on TV.

Aiah pauses. "I didn't know you watched car racing."

Mikha glances at her, then back at the screen. "It's relaxing."

"Relaxing?" Aiah walks to her side of the bed. "Cars going in circles?"

"It's not about the circles. It's about the precision. The timing. One wrong move and you lose."

Aiah pauses, sitting on the edge of the bed. She stares at Mikha's back. There's something in the way she says it that feels like more than just commentary on a race.

"I hope you don't mind," Mikha says, gesturing at the TV. "The living area feels too big."

Aiah shakes her head even though Mikha can't see her. "This is your house too. You don't have to ask."

Mikha nods and reaches for the remote, lowering the volume. "I'll keep it down so you can sleep."

"Okay." Aiah pulls the blanket up to her chin. She lies on her back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the low murmur of the TV and the occasional sound of Mikha taking a sip of beer.

"Good night," Mikha says.

"Good night," Aiah replies. Then, because she can't help herself, she adds, "Take a shower before you sleep. I don't want to share a bed with someone who reeks of alcohol."

Mikha chuckles. "Okay."

Aiah closes her eyes. The exhaustion of the week pulls at her. She lets it come, sinking into the mattress, into the warmth of the blanket, and the knowledge that she's not alone in this room.

Her first real conversation with Mikha wasn't actually that bad, she thinks. Even if Mikha was a bit tipsy. Even if Aiah doesn't fully trust it.

It was just nice. Talking to someone who isn't a report or a spreadsheet. Someone who asks questions and actually listens to the answers.

Aiah lets sleep pull her under, the thought lingering at the edge of her consciousness like a half-remembered dream.