From the kitchen, the sound of someone humming. Off-key, cheerful, familiar. Kimiya. The clatter of a knife against a cutting board, the sizzle of something hitting a hot pan.

But something has. Three weeks ago, Kimiya came home with a shy smile and a story about a girl from the chem lab. Juri. He’d held her hand when he said it, like he was testing the words in his mouth.

Since then, the flat has felt different. Fuller, somehow. Her toothbrush appeared in the bathroom. Her favourite hoodie—one of Kimiya’s, which he’d lent her and she’d never returned—draped over the back of the sofa.

And yet.

Last night, after she’d gone home, Kimiya had leaned against your doorframe in nothing but boxers, his hair still damp from the shower. The look in his eyes had been familiar. Questioning. Hungry.

You’d said yes.