Unspoken Words| Love

There was tape on the bathroom floor.

Literal masking tape. A straight, unforgiving line bisecting the cold marble tiles like a crime scene.

Aria stared at it, toothbrush in one hand, satin robe tied in a messy knot. "Are you serious right now?"

Ashraf stepped beside her, calm as ever in a black T-shirt and gray joggers, arms crossed. "Very."

"You made a bathroom border?"

"I prefer the term 'territorial boundary.'"

She blinked. "You know this makes you a bathroom dictator, right?"

"It's not dictatorship. It's survival. I almost slipped on one of your sparkly bras yesterday."

"It was delicate! And it was air-drying!"

He glanced at her with narrowed eyes. "On the towel rack?"

"I don't control where the wind carries my laundry."

They stood in silence for a moment, facing off like two generals before battle.

Then Aria took a deep breath.

Uncapped her lipstick.

And wrote across the bathroom mirror in loopy cursive:

> "Time is a social construct 💋✨"

Ashraf stared.

Then walked out.

Muttering, "I need to buy more tape."

---

Later That Day

"Have you seen my shampoo?" Aria called from the hallway.

Ashraf didn't look up from his laptop. "Check your side of the border."

She leaned over the back of the couch. "Okay, I don't mean to alarm you, but my conditioner is gone, and the only explanation is that you're trying to sabotage my curls."

"I would never."

"You're jealous of the volume."

"Henfer, I have no interest in your hair. I'm trying to work."

She made a dramatic gasp. "Oh no. Did someone disturb the King of Spreadsheets?"

He kept typing.

"I will file a report to the UN."

---

The Kitchen, 10:23 PM

Aria padded into the dark kitchen in an oversized shirt that said "Not Your Muse." She opened the fridge, grabbed a lemon yogurt, and closed the door quietly.

She froze.

Ashraf was passed out on the couch, sprawled sideways, a hardcover book resting on his chest. His hair was messy. His jaw had soft stubble. His arm draped over the cushion in a way that looked... relaxed.

Peaceful, even.

She stood still for a moment, spoon halfway to her mouth.

Then caught herself.

Shook it off.

And whispered to the yogurt, "We don't talk about this."

---

The Next Morning

Ashraf returned from his run, sweat-slick and annoyed at the world, only to nearly slip on a fuzzy sock covered in glitter.

He looked down. Then up.

Aria stood in the hallway, sipping coffee from a "Don't Talk To Me Until I've Emotionally Recovered" mug.

She pointed at the sock. "Karma works fast, huh?"

He picked it up with two fingers like it was contaminated. "You weaponized laundry."

She sipped. "I consider it sparkle therapy."

He tossed the sock at her.

She dodged.

Laughed.

And he… didn't hate the sound.

---

That Afternoon

She started pinning mini sketches to the fridge.

Silly ones.

A lemon with sunglasses.

A cat on a skateboard.

A very obvious cartoon of Ashraf wearing a crown that said "King of Rules."

He stared at it, unimpressed. "I run a billion-dollar company."

She smiled sweetly. "And now you run a fridge gallery. Congrats."

He peeled one off. "This is clutter."

"It's creativity."

"I don't need a dancing broccoli judging me while I reach for almond milk."

She shrugged. "You're just scared of being perceived."

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

And left the broccoli where it was.

---

That Night

There was no music. No arguing.

Just two people on opposite sides of the same living room.

She was sketching with her feet tucked under her. He was reading again, jaw set, shirt sleeves rolled up.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Aria glanced over once.

Just once.

And saw the tiniest frown tug at his mouth—like he was thinking too hard. Like something in him was heavy but locked away tight.

She looked away fast.

Felt weird.

Annoyed, even.

At him, for being more than she expected.

At herself, for noticing.

---

End of Chapter Six.