Aliya took several deep breaths, forcing the violent shaking in her hands to stop. She pushed herself off the mattress. Her legs felt like lead.

She crept to the bedroom doorway. Through the crack, her line of sight crossed the narrow hallway and landed on the busy figure in the kitchen.

Cyrus was expertly tearing open a cheap box of Kraft Mac & Cheese. His movements were efficient, yet they carried an innate, undeniable elegance.

Aliya stared at his broad back and his faded, washed-out jeans. Her mind superimposed the image of him in a bespoke suit, stepping on the original owner's throat. A violent shiver ran down her spine.

To survive, her brain kicked into overdrive. She established her absolute priority: save enough money and flee the country before Cyrus regained his memory.

She tiptoed to the old sofa in the living room and grabbed the original owner's phone. She needed to check their current financial situation.

She unlocked the screen. A massive pile of unpaid bills and credit card overdraft alerts popped up, acting like a bucket of ice water over her head.

She opened the text messages between the original owner and Cyrus. The screen was filled with toxic, abusive demands.

Where are you?

Transfer money to me right now.

You are a useless loser.

Aliya's toes curled in profound shame. She aggressively hit the lock button. The original owner had a death wish.

The sound of boiling water bubbling over came from the kitchen. Cyrus poured the macaroni into the pot, stirring it slowly with a wooden spoon.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Aliya sneaking around the living room. He didn't say a word. His eyes just grew darker.

Aliya realized she had been spotted. She awkwardly shoved the phone into her pajama pocket and forced herself to walk toward the kitchen counter.

She stood two steps away, completely unsure of what to do with her hands. She finally settled on gripping the hem of her pajama shirt tightly.

Cyrus turned off the gas. He scooped the steaming macaroni into two chipped porcelain bowls. Through the rising steam, his sharp facial features looked slightly blurred.

He picked up one bowl, turned, and handed it to Aliya. His movements were stiff. He offered zero eye contact.

Aliya reached out with both hands, overwhelmed by the gesture. As she took the bowl, her fingertips accidentally brushed against Cyrus's rough, calloused knuckles.

Cyrus yanked his hand back as if he had been burned. His brows locked together. He looked physically repulsed by her touch.

Aliya's chest tightened. She immediately lowered her head.

"Thank you, Cyrus," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Two polite expressions of gratitude in one night completely shattered Cyrus's cognitive defenses. His hand hovered mid-air.

He looked down at Aliya, scrutinizing her pale, makeup-free face. He was searching for the familiar cruelty and calculation.

But Aliya just kept her head down. She shoved large spoonfuls of the cheap macaroni into her mouth, swallowing it down as if it were a Michelin-star meal. The hot, heavy calories hit her empty stomach, providing a desperate, small burst of energy. The lingering dizziness from the original owner's psychotic hunger strike still made her head swim, but the primal need to survive pushed the physical weakness aside.

The original owner used to complain that this processed food was garbage and would rather starve than touch it. Cyrus watched her devour it, his suspicion thickening.

He pulled out a dining chair and sat down. He threw out a cold, probing question.

"Didn't you say you'd throw up if you ever ate this garbage again?"

Aliya choked on a noodle. She coughed violently, her cheeks turning a deep, flushed red.

Cyrus instinctively reached out to hand her a glass of water, but his hand stopped halfway. He pulled it back, his eyes turning cold again.

Aliya finally caught her breath. Her brain scrambled for an excuse.

"I... I was just starving," she forced a dry laugh. "Everything tastes good right now."

It was a clumsy, unconvincing lie. Cyrus let out a low scoff. He didn't press further. He looked down and quickly finished his own food.

When he was done, Cyrus stood up out of habit to clear the dishes. Aliya sprang up like a coiled spring. She snatched the empty bowl right out of his hand.

"I'll wash them!" she announced loudly.

She practically fled to the sink, turning the faucet on full blast, desperately trying to use the sound of rushing water to cover the frantic beating of her heart.

Cyrus stood behind her. He watched her clumsy but determined back as she scrubbed the bowls. A complex emotion flashed through his gray eyes. He turned and walked into the bathroom.

Aliya quickly dried her hands on a towel. She slipped out of the kitchen and scurried back to the bedroom like a thief.

She stood in front of the old Queen-size bed. It barely had enough room for two people. Panic alarms blared in her head. She had to share this bed with the future tyrant tonight.

The sound of the shower running in the bathroom acted like a ticking timer. She needed a flawless strategy to avoid any physical contact.

She ripped off her outer clothes and changed into a thick, heavily worn tracksuit. It covered her from neck to ankle, providing a pathetic but necessary layer of psychological armor.

Aliya pulled the blanket back and lay down, pressing her body flush against the wall. She occupied exactly one-fifth of the mattress edge.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcibly slowing her breathing. She deployed the oldest tactic in the book: playing dead.

Ten minutes later, the water stopped. Aliya's heart shot up into her throat. Her fingers dug into the bedsheets.

The bathroom door opened. A wave of warm, humid air rolled out. Cyrus's heavy footsteps approached the bedroom.

The door pushed open. Cyrus stood there with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Drops of water slid down the hard, defined lines of his abdominal muscles.

He stood by the bed. His gaze landed on the back of the woman who was practically trying to merge with the drywall. His jaw ticked.

Usually, if she wasn't complaining about his meager paycheck and late hours, she would be clinging to him, demanding money. Tonight, she was as quiet as a corpse.

Cyrus didn't get into bed. He turned and walked to the laundry basket in the corner of the room. He bent down and started picking up the scattered dirty clothes.

Through a tiny slit in her eyelids, Aliya watched him. When his fingertips brushed against her lace underwear, his brow twitched subtly, as if he had touched something contaminated. He pinched the fabric gingerly and tossed it into the basket. A strong sense of bizarre displacement washed over her.

Cyrus pulled a loose gray t-shirt over his head. He picked up the basket and walked out of the bedroom. The front door clicked shut.

Aliya's eyes snapped open. She let out a massive breath. He had gone down to the laundromat on the ground floor.

She felt a brief wave of relief, but she knew it was only a delay. He would be back.

Forty minutes later, the lock turned. Cyrus walked back into the room, bringing with him the faint, artificial scent of cheap laundry detergent.

Aliya instantly snapped back into her rigid, fake-sleeping posture. She didn't dare mess up a single breath.

Cyrus put the folded clothes into the flimsy wardrobe. He turned off the main overhead light, leaving only a dim, yellow bedside lamp on.

The mattress dipped violently. Cyrus's large frame lay down on the other side of the bed. His overwhelming masculine scent instantly consumed the suffocatingly small space.

A massive, invisible boundary line separated them. Cyrus lay flat on his back, his hands resting on his stomach, staring blankly at the cracks in the ceiling.

In the dark, Cyrus's hearing became razor-sharp. He could clearly distinguish the forced, uneven rhythm of Aliya's breathing.

He knew she was faking it. A cold, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

To test her limits, Cyrus suddenly rolled over, facing Aliya's back.

He extended his long arm, crossing the invisible boundary. His fingertips hovered just inches above Aliya's shoulder.

Aliya felt the approaching heat source. Every hair on her body stood up. Her brain screamed at her muscles not to move.

Cyrus's fingers lightly brushed against the cheap fabric of her tracksuit shoulder. It was a highly restrained touch.

Aliya's body involuntarily went rigid for a split second. She tried to hide it, but Cyrus caught the microscopic muscle spasm instantly.

The mockery in his eyes deepened. He pulled his hand back.

"Stop pretending," his low, gravelly voice sliced through the darkness. "I know you're awake."

Aliya's mind went entirely blank. The fake-sleep strategy had catastrophically failed. She slowly opened her eyes and turned her head, meeting those piercing gray eyes in the dark.

Aliya stared at Cyrus, who was now just inches away. Her throat seized up. She forced a dry, trembling laugh, desperately trying to bluff her way out.

"I... I really was asleep," she stuttered. "You just woke me up."

Cyrus didn't bother arguing with her pathetic lie. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at her from above.

His gray eyes looked pitch-black in the dim light. They carried an oppressive, undeniable weight.

In Cyrus's mind, they were a cohabitating couple. Even if they fought during the day, physical intimacy at night was a form of comfort. It was his duty.

He lowered his head. His warm breath, smelling faintly of mint and laundry detergent, brushed against the side of Aliya's neck. He moved in to press a pacifying kiss to her skin.

Aliya's pupils dilated to the point of bursting. Every nerve ending in her body screamed in rejection. This was the man who would lock her in a cage for the rest of her life!

A split second before his lips made contact, her survival instinct violently overrode her fear. Aliya threw both hands up and shoved hard against Cyrus's solid chest.

Cyrus was completely caught off guard. The force pushed him backward. His back hit the mattress with a heavy, muffled thud.

The air in the room instantly froze. The brief warmth in Cyrus's eyes vanished, replaced by a freezing, analytical glare and a surge of suppressed anger.

He stared at her as if looking at a stranger. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Aliya shrank back against the wall, gasping for air. Her brain spun out of control. She needed a flawless excuse for her physical rejection.

She couldn't say she didn't like him. She couldn't say she was terrified. The original owner's entire persona was built on clinging to him like a parasite.

In a flash of desperate inspiration, Aliya's eyes darted to the crumpled bills on the nightstand.

"We can't have a baby!" she blurted out.

Cyrus froze. The deep crease between his eyebrows showed his absolute confusion at the sudden pivot.

Aliya swallowed hard, the words tumbling out faster now. "We can barely afford rent! You're killing yourself delivering food every day. If we have a baby right now, we can't afford to keep it alive!"

She injected her voice with raw, realistic panic, shifting the entire conflict onto their financial ruin.

Cyrus's eyes flickered. The excuse was brutally grounded in reality. It acted like a physical needle, piercing directly into his current insecurities as a "broke, failing man."

He remembered the bone-deep exhaustion of hauling boxes at the warehouse today. He remembered the pathetic fifty-dollar tip. A subtle, stinging blow hit his pride.

He sat up, running a frustrated hand through his hair. His voice dropped an octave, sounding rough. "We always use protection."

"Nothing is ever one hundred percent safe!" Aliya shot back instantly, her voice trembling with raw, unfiltered panic. "What if there's an accident? What if it breaks? We can't afford to gamble on a 'what if' right now! Even a microscopic mistake would completely destroy our... our lives right now."

She bit down hard on the word "lives," forcing him to look at their poverty.

Cyrus stared at her in silence. A complex storm of emotions raged in his eyes. He knew this woman was vain and greedy, but the sheer panic in her eyes right now didn't look fake.

He assumed she was disgusted by his current incompetence. She was disgusted that he couldn't provide a stable safety net.

An unspeakable sense of defeat and a nameless fury spread through Cyrus's chest. But his iron-clad rationality forced it down.

He let out a cold, sharp laugh. He rolled over, turning his back to Aliya, and pulled the blanket up over his shoulder.

"Relax," his voice was as cold as ice. "Until you feel safe, I won't touch you."

The words acted as an absolute pardon. The heart Aliya had suspended in her throat finally dropped back into her chest.

She quietly exhaled a breath of stale air. She lay back down, but maintained her highly defensive posture, her back glued to the wall.

That night, they lay back-to-back on the same small bed. A massive chasm of missing information and heavy defenses separated them until the sun came up.