The mansion had gone still again. The evening breeze crept in through the long curtains, the scent of jasmine from the garden lingering faintly in the air.
Arush stood by the study doorway, a file still open in his hands—but unread. He should've been working. Numbers, contracts, calls—they had kept him going all day. He hadn't stopped once. Not after bumping into her, not after hearing that sharp breath leave her lips when she hit the wall.
He had forced himself not to look back.
He was supposed to stay angry.
But now… now he stood there frozen. Because the sight before him made something in his chest feel like it had been scraped raw.
She was in the kitchen. Alone. The only light came from the faint overhead glow and the moonlight spilling in through the window. She sat at the counter, unwrapping the cloth from her arm.
The fabric stuck to her skin, tugging lightly. She didn't flinch.
He could see it clearly now.
A deep red wound running just above her elbow. Dried blood clung to it, cracked and old.
He watched in silence as she dipped a small cloth in warm water and pressed it to the cut.
Still no sound.
No hiss of pain.
No tear.
Just slow, practiced movements—like someone who had done this many times before. Like someone who never expected anyone else to notice.
She wasn't even frowning.
Just… distant.
Detached.
Too quiet for someone who should've cried.
Arush didn't know when his fingers curled tighter around the file or when his jaw clenched again. But this time it wasn't out of rage.
It was something else.
He didn't move. Couldn't.
He wanted to look away. Wanted to tell himself it didn't matter. That she deserved this. That everything she was going through—every wound, every silence—was earned.
But she looked so small under that flickering light. Her hair messy, her cheeks pale. And that wound—it wasn't just on her skin. It was in the way she didn't wince. The way she didn't seem surprised.
Like pain had long become a quiet companion.
He took a step forward before he could stop himself.
Then stopped.
She hadn't seen him.
And maybe it was better that way.
Because he didn't know what he'd say. Or why his heart felt too tight in his chest.
The silence of the kitchen was only broken by the faint sound of water dripping from the cloth she had been using. Her fingers carefully moved across the skin, cleaning the wound with a practiced touch, as if tending to something that had been with her for far too long. The cut was shallow, but it still stung—though she didn't show it. She never did. There was no one here to see her weakness.
But she wasn't entirely alone.
A presence lingered in the doorway, just outside her line of sight. She felt it—a shift in the air. The subtle tension that had been there, as if the weight of someone's gaze was pressing down on her.
She froze for a brief moment, fingers still on her arm, before slowly turning her head, just enough to glimpse the shadowy outline of Arush standing in the frame of the door.
Her heart skipped, not in anticipation, but in the instinctual recognition of the storm that always followed him. She didn't flinch or gasp. She didn't say a word either. It was as if his presence alone had managed to still her into a quiet submission.
Her eyes met his for a brief second before she quickly looked down again, focusing on her wounded arm. She could feel the weight of his stare, the tension in the space between them, thickening by the second.
Her voice, soft and almost distant, broke the silence. "I didn't hear you."
Arush didn't respond right away. His gaze lingered on her, unreadable but intense, his arms crossed as if to physically distance himself from what he was witnessing.
Sanya continued, her fingers moving over the cloth with mechanical precision. "It's nothing," she whispered, but the words felt heavy on her tongue. She couldn't lie to herself. The wound wasn't the issue—how she was treating it was.
She was used to this, used to the quiet, used to handling everything herself. There was no one else to do it for her.
He noticed. She could feel it.
The sharp silence between them seemed to stretch on, each passing second pulling tighter and tighter, until Arush finally spoke, his voice rougher than it should have been.
"Why are you always so quiet?"
His words hung in the air, sharp, but there was something else behind them. Something darker.
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she focused on wrapping the wound, the cloth now stained with the evidence of what she hadn't said. Her hands trembled slightly, but she made sure to hide it—always hide it.
"Does it matter?" she asked, her tone almost empty, like the question was far too old to hold any weight. "You don't care."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't ask if I cared. I asked why you never say anything. Why you just let everything slide."
Sanya felt the familiar sting of emotion at the back of her throat, but she pushed it down. She was too tired to argue. Too tired of pretending she didn't see what was in his eyes, what he was thinking. She was too used to being ignored. Too used to carrying her own weight.
She closed her eyes briefly, not because she wanted to cry—but because she was trying to block out the suffocating need for something more.
Arush watched her for a long time. He didn't know what to feel, or what to do with the strange discomfort that stirred in his chest. She was so still, so composed, even in the face of something as simple as a wound. It didn't make sense. How could she have so much control over everything… except her own pain?
His voice was quieter this time, but still sharp. "You really think I don't care?"
Sanya let out a small, dry laugh, but it was devoid of humor. "Why would you?"
Arush's eyes flickered to her arm again, then to her face—her expression so closed off, like she was trying to protect something.
His next words were colder, but somehow… there was a deeper edge to them. "You're wrong."
She didn't look up at him.
"I'm not here to take care of your wounds, Sanya," he continued, his voice almost a low growl. "But I'm damn sure not blind to everything. So stop pretending you don't need help."
The words caught her off guard. For a fleeting moment, she almost turned to face him. Almost let him see the cracks she'd been holding together for so long. But she quickly pushed it away. She couldn't afford to. Not now.
Instead, she turned away and moved toward the sink, the space between them feeling like a chasm.
"I'm fine," she muttered, not meeting his eyes. "Really."
Arush stepped forward, his movements deliberate. "You don't look fine."
She didn't respond.
He reached out, grabbing her arm with more force than she expected, pulling it gently but firmly toward him. She stiffened at the contact but didn't pull away. She never did.
His fingers brushed against the wound, causing her to flinch slightly, but she quickly composed herself, swallowing any trace of discomfort.
Arush stared at the raw skin for a moment before his gaze snapped back to her face. "You've done this before."
The words hit her harder than she thought they would.
She couldn't look at him. She couldn't let him see the truth behind those words—the truth she had buried so deep.
His grip on her arm tightened slightly, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of something in his eyes—frustration, maybe even confusion. But it was quickly replaced by the hardness she knew all too well.
Without another word, he let go of her arm and turned away. He didn't say anything more.
But Sanya could feel his presence as he walked toward the door, as if he hadn't fully left.
For a moment, her chest tightened, and she held her breath, fighting the urge to break down. But she didn't. She wouldn't. Not now. Not ever.
As the door closed behind him, Sanya allowed herself one last glance at the bandage she had barely finished applying. The rawness of the wound mirrored the rawness inside her. It was almost as though he could see it too.
But in the end, she still kept it all hidden.
And maybe that's what hurt the most.