I stepped into the living room and froze for a fraction of a second.
Suha was sitting there, a small tray on the table before her, the steam from the food curling lazily in the warm light. She looked up as I entered, and for a brief moment, the faint surprise in my chest was mirrored in my eyes. I had assumed she was already asleep. She hadn't been.
"Jay," she said softly, her voice carrying that calm steadiness she always seemed to manage so effortlessly.
I nodded once. "You're still awake."
She offered a small smile, not teasing, not demanding. "I thought… we could have dinner together."
I didn't say anything immediately. My gaze lingered on the tray, the simple meal she had prepared, and then on her. A quiet acknowledgment, no words, no unnecessary warmth forced onto the moment. I always moved cautiously around emotions—mine and others'.
"I see," I said finally, my tone even, detached enough to hide the fraction of surprise that lingered.
She didn't flinch. She simply gestured toward the empty chair across from her. "Sit," she said. "Let's eat before it gets cold."
I complied, pulling the chair out and settling down. The tray between us carried nothing extravagant—just enough for two, modest portions, but the effort wasn't lost on me. My lips didn't curve, but I allowed my eyes to study her for a moment longer than necessary. She had waited. For me. That alone carried weight.
"You didn't have to wait," I said finally, the words precise, stripped of excess.
"I wanted to," she replied, straightforward, honest, careful. "We're married now. I don't want us starting our first night apart without even sharing a meal."
I nodded. Nothing more. It was a small gesture, but it meant something. Actions mattered more than words.
We ate slowly. The room was quiet except for the faint scrape of utensils against plates and the occasional sip of water. I was aware of her presence without needing to acknowledge it constantly. Her quiet attentiveness, the way she didn't force conversation, didn't pry, fit into the rare corners of my mind that didn't belong to work, deadlines, or responsibilities.
"You've been long at work," she said after a few bites, softly, almost as an observation rather than a question.
"Yes," I replied. "Long day."
She nodded, accepting the brevity. She didn't need to push for details. That was enough. That was always enough.
The meal continued in silence, but not an uncomfortable one. It wasn't heavy with expectation or obligation. It was a quiet acknowledgment that she was here, that she had waited, that she cared enough to offer me the small normalcy I rarely allowed myself.
I finished my portion and set the spoon down deliberately, carefully. Her eyes met mine briefly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips, but nothing excessive.
"You should rest soon," she said. "Don't stay up too late."
"I'll be fine," I replied. Not a lie, exactly. I would go to bed eventually. The thought of sleep was simple, tangible, and I preferred it to anything else.
She watched me for a long moment, then nodded and began clearing the tray. I stayed seated, letting the quiet stretch. Her presence alone felt enough, even if we didn't speak.
After she left the room, I remained for a moment, staring at the faint steam rising from the empty plates. The thought struck me, quiet and almost painful: someone had waited for me, just for me, on our first night together as husband and wife. I didn't display gratitude. I didn't speak it aloud. But it settled in my chest anyway.
Eventually, I rose, heading toward the bedroom I now shared in the strange, distant way that our separate rooms defined. Our lives were linked but not intertwined yet. I paused at the doorway for a fraction of a second, glancing back toward the living room. She was gone. The quiet warmth lingered.
I closed the door softly behind me, leaving the world outside—and the first night's small ritual—intact.
And for once, I allowed myself to carry the quiet knowledge that someone cared, even if I didn't speak it.