The first morning came quiet. No birdsong, no distant traffic. Just a room soaked in filtered grey, and the low hum of breathing—hers, not his. Evan had woken first, blinking at the ceiling above a bed too large and unfamiliar. It wasn't the room he grew up in, or the one he'd occupied in the flat he rented before this. It was something in between. Built for two, yet quietly unsure of who either of them were.
She was lying beside him, her back to him, wrapped in a blanket drawn carefully to her chin. She hadn't shifted once. Even in sleep, Aisha seemed composed—distant but tidy. Her presence was real, warm even, and yet somehow felt like a polite guest someone had left in the living room overnight.
Evan didn't move for several minutes. Not because he was afraid. But because he wasn't entirely sure what to do with himself.
They'd said their vows the day before. Simple. Clean. Nothing performative. There were too many guests and not enough silence, and his mother had cried—not out of joy, but from the kind of emotion that had no name. Aisha had looked down most of the evening. She thanked everyone graciously. Smiled when spoken to. But her eyes didn't linger on anything for long.
Now, in the soft quiet of this morning, there was no script to follow. No ceremony to complete. Only the awkward weight of ordinary life beginning.
Evan finally sat up.
The blanket slid from his shoulder as he moved, and the cold touched his skin like a warning. He stood, pulled a long-sleeved shirt over his torso, and padded toward the kitchen, careful not to make any sound that might disturb her. He didn't know how she took her tea. He realized that almost immediately.
He turned the kettle on and stared at it, as if it might offer instruction.
There were small signs of her here already—two neatly stacked books on the shelf he hadn't filled yet. A soft floral hand towel looped over the oven handle. And a glass jar of honey he was sure he hadn't bought.
The kettle clicked off.
He filled one mug with strong black tea and another with milk and sugar, hoping she might prefer one over the other. He didn't bring them back to the bedroom. Instead, he waited in the kitchen, seated at the edge of the small table with his hands curled around ceramic warmth. Outside, it was beginning to rain. Light, even drops that tapped gently against the window glass.
Ten minutes passed.
She emerged without a word. Dressed in soft beige loungewear, sleeves pulled over her hands. No makeup. Her hair, loosely tied, looked like she hadn't even touched it. She walked in barefoot, slowly, as if measuring each step.
Their eyes met. Briefly.
"Morning," Evan said, his voice low but clear.
Aisha nodded. "Good morning."
She stood still, gaze flicking from the mugs on the table to the rain against the window. Then back to him.
"I wasn't sure how you take your tea," he said. "So… I made two."
Her lips pressed together — a gesture he couldn't read. She sat down, reached silently for the mug with milk and sugar, and cradled it without drinking.
"Thanks," she said after a pause. "This one's perfect."
He gave a small nod. Relief didn't quite show on his face, but it softened the tension behind his eyes.
The silence returned—not heavy, not awkward—just… fragile. Neither of them knew what counted as normal yet.
She took a sip, then another, and then rested her elbows lightly on the table. Her eyes stayed on her cup.
"I think I'll go to the market later," she said quietly. "There's a few things I want to pick up for the kitchen. If that's alright."
"Of course," Evan replied. "You don't have to ask."
She gave a polite smile. The kind one gives a stranger offering directions.
He wondered if it would always be this way. Careful. Measured. Words chosen like each one cost them something.
"I work from home today," he offered, almost out of nowhere. "So I'll be around if you need anything."
She nodded. "Alright."
A beat passed. Then she stood up, rinsed her mug, and left it in the sink without a trace of sound. Her movements were graceful in that way dancers were—not to impress, but to avoid disturbance. She disappeared down the hallway, into a room that was now hers too, but felt like it still had a "his" sign on the door.
Evan remained seated. His own mug empty, but his thoughts full. He wondered what she was thinking. Whether she felt regret. Or fear. Or anything close to what he felt, which wasn't fear exactly, but a kind of quiet uncertainty that came from starting something too big to see the end of.
Later that day, she returned from the market with a modest bag of things—spices, fresh bread, some greens. She moved around the kitchen as if she were renting it. Every cupboard opened and closed with gentle hands. She asked no questions. She put away her purchases in silence.
It took him an hour to realize that she hadn't sat down since she came in.
"Aisha," he said gently, turning from his desk, "You've been standing for a while."
She looked up, almost startled. "Oh. I didn't notice."
"Come sit. You don't have to do everything at once."
She hesitated. Then sat across from him again, her fingers laced together in her lap.
He studied her carefully. Not in the way of men seeking attraction. But in the way of someone trying to understand another's silence.
"You don't have to be… careful," he said after a long pause.
She looked at him, expression unreadable. "I'm not being careful."
"You're being distant."
Her breath caught slightly, but she nodded. "Maybe. I don't know what this is yet."
"Neither do I," he admitted.
That earned him a real smile. Small. Honest. Like an unexpected glimpse of a warmer season.
"I don't think people talk about this part," she said, looking at the table instead of him. "The part where you've already made the promise, but you still feel like strangers."
He leaned back in his chair. "We don't have to rush it."
"I'm not afraid of you, Evan," she said quietly.
He nodded.
"I'm afraid of saying something I can't take back."
That, more than anything, settled into the space between them like an honest thread tying two ends of uncertainty together.
He stood up, walked to the kitchen, and pulled open the drawer where the cutlery sat in perfect lines. Without a word, he brought over a small tin of cookies—simple, round ones she had placed in the pantry earlier that day.
He opened the lid and offered her one.
She took it.
They ate in silence.
And when they were done, she rose to clear the mugs again. This time, he stopped her. "Leave them. I'll do it."
Aisha looked at him—not with surprise, but with something closer to gratitude. She nodded, then turned toward the bedroom.
Evan watched her walk away, the soft rustle of her clothing the only sound in the room. Then he glanced at the table. One spoon sat just slightly out of place, beside the jar of honey she'd brought.
He didn't move it.
And for the first time that day, the silence in the house didn't feel empty.
It felt… lived in.