Just like that, five days passed.
Five evenings of reaching at seven.
Five evenings of practice.
Five evenings of small conversations that somehow meant more than they should.
At the office, nothing had changed.
Or maybe everything had — just quietly.
They were professional. Measured. Careful.
If someone looked at them from a distance, they would see nothing unusual. He spoke in his usual calm tone. She replied with her usual efficiency. Meetings stayed formal. Corrections stayed precise.
But sometimes their eyes met for half a second longer than necessary.
And sometimes she caught him noticing when she tied her hair differently.
And sometimes he caught her looking at him before quickly pretending to read something.
No one noticed.
That was the beauty of it.
By the sixth day, she didn't even pretend she wasn't waiting for seven anymore.
It had become routine.
Work. Glance at clock. Finish tasks. Leave.
When the final practice day arrived, something about it felt different.
Not heavy.
Just… aware.
At exactly 7:02, she rang the bell.
He opened the door.
"You're late," he said.
"Two minutes is not late."
"It is when you've been on time all week."
"Oh. So you've been tracking?"
"I observe," he replied calmly.
She rolled her eyes and walked in.
His place already felt familiar now. The couch she always sat on. The table where they kept their scripts. The small lamp in the corner that gave the room a warm glow.
"You didn't move anything," she said, looking around.
"Why would I?"
"I don't know. Some people rearrange things when they're bored."
"I don't get bored easily."
She smirked. "Of course you don't."
They began practicing. The final run-through. Lines sharper now. Timing smoother. Fewer interruptions.
But even today, conversation slipped in between scenes.
During a short break, she leaned back into the couch, stretching her arms.
"Finally," she sighed. "Last day."
"You sound relieved."
"I am. My brain is tired."
"You've been working all day and then coming here. That's on you."
"Excuse me?" she narrowed her eyes playfully. "You're part of this arrangement too."
He allowed the smallest smile.
There was a comfortable silence for a moment.
Then he asked, casually, "Your family doesn't complain?"
She looked at him. "About?"
"Staying out till evening. Working this much."
"Oh." She relaxed again. "They're used to it."
He waited.
She realised he wasn't asking casually. He was actually curious.
"I'm the younger one," she said. "My elder sister is still studying."
"Studying what?"
"Post-graduation. She's the serious one."
"And you're not?"
"I'm serious," she defended. "Just… selectively."
He nodded slightly. "Your parents?"
"Papa's a contractor. He's always busy. And my mom is a housewife."
She spoke simply. No drama in it. Just facts.
"They live in another city?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"You live here alone?"
"Yes."
He studied her for a second. "That must've been difficult."
"It was," she admitted. "After my studies, I actually wanted to move back and stay with them. But then I got this job."
"And you chose to stay."
She nodded. "It didn't feel right to leave immediately after studying here. I thought… maybe I should try building something for myself first."
"And do you regret it?"
She thought about it.
"No," she said honestly. "Sometimes I miss home. But I like earning on my own. I like knowing I can handle things."
He didn't interrupt.
She tilted her head slightly. "You're very quiet when you listen."
"I prefer listening."
"Most people don't."
"I know."
She smiled faintly.
"And you?" she asked. "Your family?"
"Three brothers," he said. "I'm the youngest."
"That explains it."
"What does that explain?"
"You have youngest-child confidence."
He almost laughed. Almost.
"We all work," he continued. "Usually we live together in our hometown."
"Joint family?"
"Yes."
"That must be loud."
"It is."
"And you? Quiet person surviving in a loud house?"
"I manage."
"Do they miss you?"
"They call. Often."
"And you?"
He paused slightly before answering.
"Yes."
She nodded softly.
"Then why here?" she asked gently.
"Work," he replied. "Specifically for this project. I'll go back once it's done."
The sentence lingered.
She looked down at the script in her hands.
"Hmm."
They resumed practice.
But now something subtle had shifted.
They knew more about each other.
Not secrets. Not deep wounds.
Just pieces.
The kind that make someone feel real.
Later, as they sat at the dining table reviewing the final scene, she looked around again.
"Your house feels different at night," she said.
"How?"
"Warmer."
"It's the lamp."
"No," she shook her head. "It's not just that."
He didn't push her to explain.
She stood up and walked toward the small shelf near the wall.
"You read?" she asked, noticing a few books.
"Sometimes."
"Fiction?"
"Mostly non-fiction."
"Of course," she muttered.
"What does that mean?"
"You don't seem like someone who'd enjoy dramatic love stories."
"And you do?"
She hesitated.
"Maybe."
He leaned back slightly. "You don't seem like someone who believes in them."
She looked at him carefully.
"I don't believe in dramatic things," she said quietly. "I believe in steady ones."
Something in the air stilled for a second.
He broke the tension lightly. "We should finish the last scene."
"Yes," she agreed quickly.
They practiced it twice. Then once more.
Perfect.
When they finally stopped, it was almost 9.
"Good," he said simply.
"Good?" she repeated. "That's it? After six days?"
"What would you prefer?"
"I don't know. A dramatic speech maybe."
"I don't do dramatic."
"I know."
They both smiled.
She picked up her bag slowly this time.
"So… tomorrow is the presentation."
"Yes."
"And after that, no more seven o'clock rehearsals."
"That's correct."
Why did that sound slightly disappointing?
She walked toward the door.
"Thank you," she said suddenly.
"For?"
"For making this week… easy."
He looked at her.
"It was mutual."
She nodded.
Then, as if remembering something, she asked lightly, "If I didn't get this job and moved back home… do you think we would've ever met?"
"No," he said honestly.
She smiled faintly. "Then I guess staying wasn't such a bad decision."
He didn't respond immediately.
"Goodnight," she said softly.
"Goodnight."
She stepped out.
And for the first time in six days, seven o'clock would mean nothing tomorrow.
But something steady had already begun.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just two people who had slowly, naturally, grown comfortable in each other's presence.
And sometimes, that's how the strongest things begin.