A month passes in the rhythm of small things. Morning coffee brewed by whichever of them wakes first. The shuffle of slippers across tile. Mikha's low voice reading a passage from whatever book she's got open, and Aiah looking up from her laptop to listen. They talk about nothing important—the weather, the food, the characters in Mikha's books who Aiah has started to know by name even though she hasn't read a single page.

"You should try this one," Mikha says one evening, holding up a worn paperback with a cracked spine. "It's about a woman who runs a bakery and falls in love with her rival."

Aiah raises an eyebrow from the couch. "Sounds like a business merger with extra steps."

Mikha laughs. "That's exactly what it is. You'd like it."

Something in Aiah's chest loosens at the sound. She still watches Mikha sometimes, trying to find the cracks, waiting for the explosion that never comes. But there's a growing part of her that wonders if this is just who Mikha is when she's allowed to be still. Away from the chaos, away from the headlines. Just a woman who reads too much and drinks her coffee black and hums along to songs Aiah doesn't recognize.

It's the start of the second month of their marriage when Mikha looks up from her phone during breakfast and says, "We're running out of groceries."

Aiah glances at the fridge, mentally cataloging.

"We could order—"

"No." Aiah shakes her head. "I like picking things out myself. Checking that the produce is fresh. Feeling the weight of a good mango."

Mikha stares at her like she's grown a second head. "You want to go to the grocery?"

"Yes. At a wet market."

There's a beat. Then Mikha shrugs, picking up her coffee. "Fine. But I'm driving."

"You don't even know where the market is."

"I have GPS."

"You have a GPS that you probably argue with."

Mikha grins over the rim of her mug. "The GPS is wrong half the time. It needs to be corrected."

Aiah can't help the laugh that escapes her. It's a small, surprised sound, and Mikha's grin softens into something almost warm. Aiah looks away first, reaching for her plate, and tells herself the heat in her cheeks is from the morning sun through the window.

They leave after lunch, when the worst of the midday heat has started to ease. Aiah stands by the door in simple white sneakers, a fitted white shirt, and jeans that hug her frame. Her hair is pulled back in a neat bun, practical and cool.

Mikha emerges from the bedroom in a black leather jacket, a black shirt underneath, black trousers, and black loafers. She looks like she's about to attend a funeral or rob a bank, and Aiah has to bite back a sigh.

"I told you to wear something comfortable," Aiah says.

"This is comfortable."

"It's leather. In the heat."

Mikha shrugs, already moving toward the door. "I'll be fine."

Aiah watches her walk out and wonders, not for the first time, if Mikha owns anything that isn't black.

The wet market hits them like a wall. The humid air clings thick with salt and fish, slick underfoot from melted ice. Stall awnings slap in the wind, their canvas snapping over the din of haggling voices and splashing water. Aiah breathes it in like a familiar perfume—the chaos of it, the life. This is where her mother used to bring her as a child, teaching her how to choose the best tomatoes, how to tell if a fish is truly fresh by the clarity of its eyes.

Aiah moves through it easily, weaving between bodies and plastic bags, her eyes scanning the stalls. She starts with fruits. The vendor, a stout woman with a wide smile, recognizes a serious customer when she sees one.

"Ate, how much for the mangoes?" Aiah asks, her fingers already testing the firmness of one.

"Two hundred per kilo, mura na yan, ganda."

Aiah picks up a mango, turns it over in her palm, and gives the vendor a warm smile. "Ate naman. I'm buying a lot today. Baka pwede po makahingi ng discount."

They go back and forth for a minute, the vendor laughing and shaking her head, but Aiah's charm is patient and persistent. She ends up with a bag full of oranges, mangoes, bananas, apples, and avocados at a price that makes the vendor groan and wave her off with mock annoyance.

"Sige na, sige na. Kunin mo na."

Aiah beams. "Thank you, Ate!"

Behind her, Mikha has been standing like a shadow, silent and watchful. Aiah glances back and finds her holding the plastic bags, her face unreadable. She hasn't complained once, but Aiah notices the way her jaw is set, the way she keeps shifting her weight.

"You okay?" Aiah asks.

Mikha nods. "Fine."

Aiah studies her for a moment, then turns back to the market, moving toward the meat section. She can feel Mikha's presence behind her like a dark cloud, and when she glances back again, she sees it—a bead of sweat rolling down Mikha's temple, another at her neck, the collar of her leather jacket starting to look damp.

Aiah stops walking. She turns fully, and Mikha nearly bumps into her.

"What—"

Aiah pulls a handkerchief from her back pocket. It's soft, light blue, folded into a neat square. She reaches up and gently wipes the sweat from Mikha's forehead, then her temples, then the line of her jaw where the heat has gathered.

Mikha goes very still. Her eyes fixed on Aiah's face, and she doesn't move as the cloth traces the path of moisture down her skin.

"I told you to wear something comfortable," Aiah says softly, her voice carrying no reproach, only concern.

Mikha swallows. "You should have been more specific about the market you meant."

A laugh escapes Aiah, light and genuine. "There's only one wet market within driving distance. What did you think I meant—a grocery store?"

"I thought you meant, like, a nice grocery. With air conditioning."

"You thought I meant a nice grocery when I said 'wet market'?"

"I was being optimistic."

Aiah laughs again, shaking her head, and continues wiping the sweat from Mikha's neck. The skin there is warm under her fingers, and she can feel Mikha's pulse beating against her thumb. She finishes, folds the handkerchief, and tucks it back into her pocket.

Then she looks at Mikha properly. The leather jacket is clearly suffocating, and Mikha's hair—slicked back this morning—is starting to cling to her forehead.

Aiah reaches for her own wrist, where a spare hair tie sits. She pulls it off and holds it out. "Here."

Mikha blinks at it. "What?"

"Take off your jacket and tie your hair back. You're melting."

Mikha's jaw tightens. "I'm fine."

"Mikha." Aiah's voice is gentle but firm, the same tone she uses when she's closing a deal. "You're sweating through your shirt. Take the jacket off."

For a second, Mikha looks like she's going to argue. Aiah meets her eyes and holds them, patient and unmoving. It's not a challenge—just a quiet certainty that this is what needs to happen.

Mikha's shoulders drop. She lets out a breath, takes the hair tie from Aiah's hand, their fingers brushing, and hands Aiah the plastic bags. Then she shrugs off the leather jacket, and Aiah can practically see the relief wash over her as the air hits her skin.

Mikha ties her hair up in a loose mid-bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looks more intimidating yet charming like this. Aiah watches her for a moment too long, then looks away.

Mikha steps forward and wraps her jacket around Aiah's waist, tying the sleeves loosely. Aiah looks down at it, then up at Mikha, confused.

"What are you doing?"

"So people will stop looking."

Aiah knits her eyebrows. "Stop looking where?"

Mikha shakes her head, not meeting her eyes. "Nothing."

Before Aiah can press, Mikha pulls the plastic bags from her hands and starts walking toward the fish section. Aiah stands there for a moment, the leather jacket warm against her hips, trying to make sense of what just happened.

People will stop looking. Looking at what?

She shakes her head and follows.

The fish section is louder, wetter, more chaotic. Aiah moves through it with practiced ease, asking about the day's catch, pressing her fingers against the flesh of a fresh tilapia to test its firmness. She bargains with the same charm, and the vendor—a wiry man with a cigarette behind his ear—gives in with a grumbling smile.

Mikha stands behind her the whole time, holding the growing collection of plastic bags. Aiah glances back at her after each purchase, checking that she's still okay. And each time, Mikha meets her eyes and smiles—a small, soft thing that makes something in Aiah's chest flutter in a way she doesn't want to examine.

They move to the chicken and pork section next, then to vegetables. Broccoli, cauliflower, iceberg lettuce, kangkong, tomatoes, garlic, onions. Aiah's hands move quickly, selecting each item with care, while Mikha's arms fill with bags until they're both carrying more than they should.

The last stop is rice. Aiah approaches a stall stacked high with sacks, each one labeled with a different variety. She runs her hand over the grains, testing the textures, and looks up at the vendor—a young man with a shy smile.

"Kuya, how much for a sack of this?" She points to a good medium-grain variety.

He quotes a price, and Aiah's face falls slightly. "Kuya, baka pwede babaan? Isang sako po bibilhin ko oh."

"Pasensya na, ma'am. Nagtaas po kasi presyo ng bigas."

Aiah tries a different approach. She leans in slightly, her smile warm and friendly. "Kuya pogi, please? Bigyan niyo po ako ng discount para sayo na lang din ako kukuha every month."

Behind her, Mikha snorts. Aiah ignores her, keeping her eyes on the vendor, who is now trying very hard not to blush.

"Sige na, kuya," Aiah says, her voice light. "You'll make my week."

The vendor cracks. He waves his hand, muttering a lower price, and Aiah's face lights up with genuine delight.

"Thank you, kuya! You're the best."

She glances back at Mikha, who is looking away, her jaw tight. Aiah tilts her head. "What?"

Mikha shakes her head. "Nothing."

"You snorted."

"I cleared my throat."

"You snorted," Aiah repeats, amused. "Like a pig."

"I didn't snort like a pig."

"You did. It was very undignified."

Mikha snorts again. "You called a stranger 'kuya pogi' to get a discount on rice."

Aiah grins. "And it worked."

She turns back to pay the vendor, who is now getting the sack of rice. The man looks at Aiah. "Ma'am, pauwi na po ba kayo? Pwede ko 'to buhatin hanggang sasakyan niyo."

Aiah's face brightens. "Really? That would be—"

"I'll carry it."

The words cut through the air, flat and final. Aiah turns to look at Mikha, who has stepped forward, her expression blank but her jaw tight.

"Mikha," Aiah says softly, "your hands are full. Let the guy carry it."

"I can take the bags to the car first," Mikha says, her voice clipped. "Then come back for the sack."

Aiah stares at her. She doesn't understand why Mikha is being stubborn about this. It's a sack of rice—heavy, awkward, and completely unnecessary for Mikha to carry when there's a young man right there offering to do it.

"Mikha," Aiah says again, "you don't need to—"

"I'll carry it."

Something in Mikha's tone makes Aiah pause. It's not angry, not demanding. It's something else—something almost desperate, buried under a layer of stubborn pride.

Aiah studies her face. Mikha's eyes are fixed somewhere over Aiah's shoulder, refusing to meet her gaze. Her hands are full of plastic bags.

Why won't she let someone else carry it?

Aiah takes a step closer. She reaches up and gently wipes a bead of sweat from Mikha's temple with the back of her hand. Mikha's breath catches, barely audible.

"No," Aiah whispers, her voice soft and final. "You will not carry it."

Mikha's jaw works. For a moment, Aiah thinks she's going to argue. But then, slowly, Mikha's shoulders drop. She nods, once, and looks away.

Aiah turns back to the vendor and smiles. "That would be wonderful, kuya. Thank you."

The walk back to the parking lot is quiet. The sun has started to dip. Aiah's feet ache in her sneakers but she doesn't complain. She just keeps walking, Mikha's leather jacket still tied around her waist, a warmth against her hips.

They reach the car—Mikha's white Mercedes-Benz AMG G63, gleaming in the fading light. Mikha opens the rear door and carefully arranges the plastic bags inside, securing them so they won't tip over. She takes the bags from Aiah's hands, their fingers brushing briefly, and places them inside as well.

The vendor arrives with the sack of rice on his shoulder. Mikha steps forward, directing him with precise gestures. "Put it here. No, angled like this, so it won't shift."

The man follows her instructions, and Mikha thanks him with a flat voice that doesn't invite conversation. Aiah steps in, smiling warmly as she hands him a tip.

"Thank you so much, kuya. You saved us."

The man beams, pocketing the tip. "Ang laki nito, ma'am. Salamat po. Enjoy your rice!"

He leaves, and Aiah climbs into the passenger seat. The moment she sits, she feels it—a dull, throbbing ache radiating from her feet and legs. She's been on her feet for hours, walking and standing, and her body is making her pay for it now.

Mikha starts the engine and reaches for a water bottle in the center console. She opens it and hands it to Aiah without a word.

Aiah takes it, their fingers brushing again. "Thanks."

She drinks deeply, the cool water easing the dryness in her throat. Mikha pulls out of the parking lot, driving carefully, her eyes on the road. But Aiah notices the way she glances over from time to time, checking on her.

"Are you tired?" Mikha asks.

Aiah nods, stretching her legs out as much as the space allows. "My feet hurt." She breathes hard, leaning back against the seat. "I didn't realize how much walking we did."

Mikha laughs softly. "We walked almost every corner of that market. I'm surprised your feet aren't more angry."

Aiah groans. "Don't remind me."

The drive home is quiet, comfortable. Aiah closes her eyes, letting the hum of the engine lull her.

When they pull into the driveway, Mikha kills the engine and turns to her. "I'll handle the groceries. You go inside and rest on the couch."

Aiah opens her eyes, frowning. "I can help."

"You're tired. Your feet hurt."

"I can still carry—"

"Aiah." Mikha's voice is gentle but firm. "Go rest. I've got this."

Aiah wants to argue, but the exhaustion is pulling at her, heavy and insistent. She nods, reluctantly, and climbs out of the car.

They remove their shoes at the threshold, leaving them in a neat row by the door. Aiah pads inside on socked feet, and despite Mikha's instruction, she finds herself in the kitchen, reaching for the plastic bags.

Mikha appears behind her, a sack of rice hoisted over her shoulder like it weighs nothing. She sets it down by the pantry and gives Aiah a look.

"I thought I told you to rest."

"I'm putting away the groceries."

"I can put away the groceries."

"You're carrying a sack of rice," Aiah points out. "You can't do everything."

Mikha sighs, but there's no real frustration in it. They work side by side in the kitchen, moving around each other with an ease that surprises Aiah. She cleans the fish at the sink, her hands moving through the familiar motions. She separates the chicken and pork into four portions each, wrapping them carefully before placing them in the freezer.

Mikha arranges the dry goods in the fridge, sorting everything with a careful precision that Aiah wouldn't have expected from her. Their shoulders brush as they pass each other, and neither of them pulls away.

When everything is put away, Aiah leans against the counter, exhausted. Mikha watches her for a moment, then says, "I'll order dinner. Go sit down."

Aiah opens her mouth to protest, but Mikha cuts her off. "You've been on your feet all day. Let someone take care of you for once."

The words land somewhere unexpected. Aiah looks at Mikha, at the softness in her eyes that she's started to recognize over the past month, and nods.

She pads to the living room and sinks onto the couch with a groan. She stretches her legs out across the cushions, her socks still on, and circles her ankles, trying to work out the ache.

She closes her eyes, letting the exhaustion wash over her. She can hear Mikha in the kitchen, the low murmur of her voice as she orders food, the soft clink of dishes being set out.

A few minutes later, the couch dips. Aiah opens her eyes to find Mikha sitting at the other end, reaching for her ankles. Before Aiah can react, Mikha pulls her legs up and rests them on her lap.

"What are you—"

Mikha doesn't answer. She removes Aiah's socks, folding them neatly and setting them aside. Then her hands settle on Aiah's bare feet, warm and sure, and she begins to massage.

Aiah's breath catches. Mikha's thumbs press into the arch of her foot, finding the knots and working them loose with steady pressure. It feels incredible—the kind of deep, thorough relief that makes Aiah's eyes want to close.

A soft sound escapes her. A hum, low and involuntary.

"I'll defintely sleep if you keep doing that," Aiah murmurs.

Mikha doesn't stop. Her hands move to Aiah's heel, then up to the ball of her foot, each stroke firm and gentle. "I'll wake you when the food gets here." she says softly.

Aiah wants to say something—to ask why, to understand this shift between them. But the exhaustion is too heavy, and Mikha's hands are too warm, and the steady rhythm of the massage is pulling her under.

Her eyes flutter closed. The last thing she feels is Mikha's thumb tracing a slow circle on her ankle.

"Thank you," Aiah mutters, the words slurring with sleep.

Mikha hums in response, low and soft. Aiah lets the sound carry her down, into the quiet dark, where she doesn't have to think about what any of this means.