The city looked different that evening.
Not brighter.
Not softer.
Just… steadier.
Arvan walked me out of the building without comment, not rushing, not hiding. The elevator ride was quiet, but it wasn't awkward anymore. It felt settled—like something heavy had finally found its place.
Outside, the air was cool.
"You didn't have to walk me," I said.
"I wanted to," he replied simply.
We stopped near his car, neither of us reaching for the door.
This was the part where things usually became complicated.
Instead, they became honest.
"People are watching," I said quietly.
"They always will," he answered. "What matters is whether it changes how you feel."
I thought about it.
About the whispers.
The meetings.
The pressure.
Then about the way he listened.
The way he stood still when I needed space.
The way he stepped in only when lines were crossed.
"No," I said finally. "It doesn't."
His gaze softened.
"That's good," he replied. "Because I won't hide you."
The words didn't feel like a claim.
They felt like respect.
We stood there, the city humming around us, when his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then put it away without answering.
"Something urgent?" I asked.
"No," he said. "Something that can wait."
That was new.
For him.
"For dinner," he added, almost casually.
I blinked. "Dinner?"
"Not a meeting. Not an obligation," he clarified.
"Just… dinner."
I smiled despite myself. "That sounds dangerously normal."
His lips curved faintly. "I'm learning."
We drove in comfortable silence, not filling it just to prove something. The restaurant was small, quiet—nothing like the places he was usually expected to go.
No reservations under his name.
No private rooms.
Just a corner table and warm light.
We talked.
About work—briefly.
About books.
About places we'd never been.
Nothing heavy.
Nothing strategic.
At one point, I laughed without thinking, and he paused, watching me like he was memorizing the sound.
"What?" I asked.
"You're different when you're not bracing," he said.
"So are you," I replied.
He considered that. "I don't hate it."
When the bill came, he didn't make a show of it. He paid quietly, then looked at me.
"Thank you for today," he said.
"For dinner?"
"For choosing," he corrected.
My chest tightened.
"I didn't choose lightly," I admitted.
"I know," he said. "That's why it matters."
Outside, the night had settled fully.
He stopped a step away from me—not closing the distance unless invited.
This time, I didn't step back.
Neither did he.
He reached out slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, and rested his hand against mine.
Warm.
Steady.
Certain.
"This is me being careful," he said softly.
"I see that," I replied.
"And this," he added, thumb brushing my knuckles, "is me not pretending anymore."
I looked up at him, heart full and unsteady.
"We'll take it slow," I said.
"Yes."
"And if it gets hard—"
"It will," he said calmly. "But we'll talk. Not disappear."
I nodded.
Then, without rush, without urgency, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead.
Not possessive.
Not claiming.
A promise.
When he pulled back, the world felt quieter somehow.
Not because everything was resolved.
But because, for the first time, we were facing it together.