the unspoken realization

The house had changed. Or maybe, it was them.

Mikhail hadn’t meant for it to happen, but ever since Anaya arrived, something had shifted. The suffocating silence wasn’t as heavy, the air inside wasn’t as dead. He still locked every door before leaving, still reminded her in subtle ways that she was nothing more than a caged bird. And yet, somehow, the cage didn’t feel as lifeless as before.

Anaya had started cooking. Not because he asked her to, but because she had nothing better to do. The weight of reality pressed down on her every second, but when she stood in the kitchen, lost in the rhythmic motions of chopping, stirring, and tasting, she could almost pretend she wasn’t here—wasn’t trapped.

Mikhail returned late that evening, his movements sharp with exhaustion. He had expected the same cold emptiness to greet him, but instead, the scent of something warm filled the air. His eyes flickered toward the dining table—dinner was already served.

His gaze shifted to the couch. She was curled up there, her back facing him, her breaths slow and steady. Sleeping. Or at least, pretending to.

A smirk tugged at his lips. "Don’t act like you're asleep, sweetheart," he said, his voice laced with amusement.

No response.

He let out a low chuckle and sat down at the table. The first bite was cautious, but the moment the taste hit his tongue, he stilled. His grip on the fork loosened just slightly. It wasn’t extraordinary, but it was… comforting. Warm.

Something he hadn't felt in a long time.

Across the room, Anaya lay still, listening. The soft clink of utensils, the quiet sigh that escaped him—he probably didn’t even realize he did it. A strange sense of satisfaction curled in her chest, though she didn't understand why.

Mikhail leaned back in his chair, watching her unmoving form. He knew she wasn’t asleep. Her breathing was too controlled.

"You’re amusing," he murmured, more to himself than her.

Still, she didn't respond.

But in that silence, something had changed.

Anaya didn’t know what made her want to keep him company, to cook for him despite knowing who he was. Maybe it was because, after staying together for this long, she had started to see something beyond the monster.

Mikhail, on the other hand, didn’t know why he allowed this—why he let her exist in his space like this.

But one thing was certain.

Neither of them had realized it yet, but the threads of fate had already started weaving them together

The cold night air slipped through the cracks of the windows, but inside, the silence was even colder. Anaya sat on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through a book she had stolen from Mikhail’s shelf. She wasn’t really reading—just waiting.

She could feel his presence before she saw him. The sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoed as Mikhail entered the room.

She didn’t even look up when she spoke. "You took longer than I expected."

Mikhail didn’t respond. Instead, he walked past her and set a bag of groceries on the counter, pulling off his gloves with practiced ease. His usual cold indifference was back in place, but Anaya had learned something—he was good at pretending.

She smirked. "I was bored, so I took a little tour of the house. Hope you don’t mind."

This time, he glanced at her, his eyes sharp. "You shouldn’t touch things that don’t belong to you."

Anaya simply shrugged, feigning innocence. "Oh? You mean this?"

She pulled something from her pocket—a small, old locket. The metal was dull with age, and a faint stain of rust—or was it blood?—marked its edges.

Mikhail stilled.

For the first time since she had met him, she saw it—a crack in his carefully built mask.

A second later, he was in front of her, grabbing her wrist in a firm but careful grip, snatching the locket away.

"Where did you find this?" His voice was low, dangerously calm.

Anaya tilted her head, studying him. "So it is important to you."

Mikhail’s jaw tightened. "I told you not to touch my things."

Her lips curled into a slow, taunting smile. "Oh? Did I touch a nerve?"

Silence.

His grip on her wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go. Instead, his fingers trailed up to her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes, usually so unreadable, were burning with something dark.

"I could kill you right now, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Anaya didn’t flinch. "Then do it."

A single beat passed between them.

Then, instead of tightening his grip, he let go. Abruptly. Almost too quickly. As if he had realized something he didn’t want to.

Without another word, he turned and walked away, his back stiff, his shoulders tense.

Anaya watched him leave and, for the first time since she had been trapped in this house, she smiled to herself.

She was getting under his skin.

Later that night…

Anaya sat near the fireplace, hugging her knees to her chest. The locket still lingered in her thoughts, but her mind was elsewhere.

She heard the door open again. Mikhail returned, his expression unreadable as always.

But this time, something was different.

Without a word, he tossed his coat onto her.