Hiya pushed open the door, the soft creak echoing into a home too quiet for love.
The air smelled of metal and dust. Not decay — just… emptiness. The kind that sat like a coat on the walls, heavy with solitude. The living room was almost bare. No photos. No flowers. Just a desk pushed to one corner, a wrinkled blanket on the couch, and a book left half-read on the armrest.
She wandered into the kitchen — the sink dry, shelves half-empty, and in the freezer, a single water bottle stood tall like a forgotten promise. No vegetables, no jars of pickles, not even a half-used ketchup bottle.
When she turned, he was already watching her — leaning by the doorway, hands in his pockets, sheepish.
"This is your home?" she asked, voice soft but steady.
He shrugged. "Technically. But it never really felt like one."
"Why didn't you ever make it… yours?"
Dev looked away, then back at her. "Because I was waiting."
"For what?"
"For you."
Hiya's heart twisted at the quiet honesty in his voice.
"I didn't know it back then," he added, stepping closer. "But nothing here made sense without you. I never bought more than I needed. Never decorated, never lingered. It was just… a stop between work and sleep."
Hiya stared at the cold white walls, the faded floor rug, the soulless light bulbs. "Dev, this place doesn't even have curtains."
He chuckled. "But now you're here to take care of me, aren't you?"
She raised an eyebrow.
He reached for her hand, pulling her gently into his chest. "Look, I've earned enough. If you like this place, I'll buy it. Or we can move — find a brighter one. One with sunlight and your laughter in every corner."
"Dev…"
He cupped her face, his thumb brushing under her eye.
"Can you stay with me, Hiya? At least for these fifteen days. Otherwise… I'll leave everything and come back with you. Because I don't think I can stay away any longer. I'm not that focused anymore. I keep forgetting papers on my desk, skipping meals, losing sleep. But when you're around, it feels like I can do anything again."
She didn't speak. Just pressed her forehead into his chest.
His voice lowered to a whisper. "Please… stay."
Hiya's hands clutched his shirt. Her lips brushed his neck, tender, trembling.
"I came all this way to be with you. And now that I'm here… I'll make sure you never live like this again."
She didn't promise with words. She promised in the way she hugged him tighter, in the way her lips found his — slow, deliberate, reverent.
A kiss that said home isn't a place. It's us.
Later that afternoon, they stepped out hand in hand — wandering through local markets and quiet furniture stores.
Hiya tested cushions and held up curtains to the light, debated between ceramic bowls and clay mugs. Dev watched her more than anything else, carrying her chosen items like fragile treasures.
He never imagined the first spoon they'd buy together would mean so much.
And that night, when they returned, the once-empty apartment began to hum — with the rustle of shopping bags, the scent of new linen, and the soft sound of Hiya's humming as she unwrapped a little wind chime and hung it by the balcony.
He watched her with awe.
His house was finally breathing.
Because she was in it.