The days after the investigation were… calm.
Not the fragile kind that comes from avoidance.
The earned kind.
Meetings resumed their rhythm. Deadlines returned to being just deadlines. People stopped looking for something to read between the lines.
And in that quiet, something deeper settled between Arvan and me.
It wasn't urgency anymore.
It was understanding.
We didn't announce anything.
We didn't correct assumptions.
We just existed—openly, carefully, without apology.
One evening, long after the office had emptied, Arvan knocked on my door again.
"You free?" he asked.
I nodded. "For you."
He didn't smile.
Not yet.
We took the elevator down in silence and drove without speaking, the city passing in a blur of lights and reflections.
When we arrived, I realized where we were.
His childhood home.
The place he rarely spoke about.
"I've never brought anyone here," he said quietly as we stood at the gate.
"You don't have to," I replied.
"I want to," he said.
Inside, the house felt exactly like I imagined—large, immaculate, distant. Nothing out of place. Nothing warm.
"This is where discipline lived," he said. "Not comfort."
We walked slowly, footsteps echoing in spaces that felt more like corridors than rooms.
"My mother believed love made people weak," he continued. "So she replaced it with structure."
I listened.
Didn't interrupt.
Didn't try to soften the truth.
"This is where I learned to be excellent," he said. "And invisible."
My chest tightened.
We stopped in a quiet room at the back of the house.
"I didn't bring you here for sympathy," he said. "I brought you because this is the part of me that still hasn't learned how to rest."
I stepped closer.
"You don't have to perform here," I said softly. "Not for me."
He looked at me then—not guarded, not controlled.
Just… tired.
"Stay," he said quietly. "Not forever. Just tonight."
I nodded.
"Yes."
We sat together in the quiet, shoulders touching—not needing more than that.
For the first time, he didn't seem like he was carrying the weight alone.
Later, when we lay side by side, fully clothed, no urgency in the air, he whispered something I didn't expect.
"I don't feel the need to prove anything when you're near."
I turned toward him.
"That's what safety feels like," I said.
He exhaled slowly.
"I didn't know it could be this quiet," he admitted.
Neither did I.
But as the night settled around us, I understood something important—
Strength wasn't loud.
Power didn't need to dominate.
And love, when it was real…
Didn't demand.
It stayed.