short tales - Chapter 28: Chapter 28

The early morning light poured softly into the apartment.
Aarika stirred awake, eyes blinking against the warm gold seeping through the curtains.
For a moment… she forgot.
Forgot about the fight.
The storm.
The ache in her chest.
But then her eyes landed on the folded blanket resting at the edge of her bed — the one that wasn’t there when she had fallen asleep.
Her heart skipped.
Slowly, she sat up. One hand instinctively covering her baby bump, the other brushing a strand of hair away from her tired face.
The silence of the house was unfamiliar.
Not cold… but not warm either.
Just—quiet.
She swung her legs off the bed, her feet barely touching the cold floor. She tiptoed toward the hallway, still in her oversized nightshirt, her hands hugging her belly.
And then…
She saw him.
Rivan.
Standing in her kitchen again.
Hair messy. Eyes heavy. Wearing a plain white t-shirt and black joggers.
He was making breakfast — quietly.
No loud music. No humming. Just soft clinks of utensils and the occasional sound of something sizzling on the pan.
Aarika leaned slightly against the wall, hiding halfway behind it, watching him.
Not saying a word.
Just watching.
The man who once broke her.
Now... acting like she still belonged to him.
He didn’t notice her right away.
He was focused — carefully chopping something, stirring the pot like it held glass instead of food.
There was a bandage wrapped around his hand from last night.
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
She didn’t ask.
But she knew.
He had hit something. Hard.
And he bled because of her.
He turned suddenly, placing a glass of warm water on the counter.
That’s when he saw her.
For a second — he didn’t say anything.
His expression softened instantly, like just seeing her calmed something wild in him.
“Morning,” he said gently. His voice was deep, raw from the night, but soft around the edges like he’d practiced being gentle for her.
She didn’t reply.
Just shifted her weight slightly and murmured,
“You didn’t have to cover me with a blanket.”
He wiped his hands with a towel.
“You were shivering,” he said simply.
She walked in — slowly — and sat at the corner chair near the table.
Not close. Not too far either.
He placed the plate in front of her.
Two slices of toast. Warm, buttery.
Sliced fruits. Just like she used to eat in college mornings.
And a tiny bowl of that weird pickle she had randomly craved a month ago.
Her gaze flicked to him.
"You remembered?"
He gave her a soft smile. “I never forgot.”
She looked away quickly.
“Eat,” he said. “I’ll get your vitamins.”
“I can do it myself,” she replied flatly.
“I know,” he nodded. “Let me, anyway.”
Silence again.
But not the awkward kind.
It was the kind that made hearts beat louder.
She watched him from behind her lashes.
Watched the way he moved around the kitchen like it was second nature now.
He wasn’t acting like a mafia boss here.
He wasn’t acting at all.
Just a man... trying to fix what he broke.
Trying to be a father. A protector. A husband.
Or at least — the version of one she could tolerate under her roof.
When she finally took the first bite, he watched her — not like he was waiting for thanks — but like he needed to make sure she’d be okay.
“Your pressure needs to come down,” he muttered under his breath, pouring tea.
She glanced up. “You think cooking breakfast is enough?”
“No,” he said calmly. “But I think being here… might be a start.”
And in that moment… something cracked again.
Not her walls.
But the silence between them.
Later that morning…
She walked to the living room and saw the couch — messed up, pillow tucked on one side, a light throw blanket lazily tossed.
He had really slept there.
Just like he promised.
Her hand rested on her bump again.
The baby didn’t kick.
But her heart did.
Harder than she expected.