The One Who Stayed (alt scenario)

He woke the same way he had every morning since the papers were signed. Shower. Shirt. Tie. Coffee. Toast. A man returning to routine, not out of passion but out of necessity. Work came and went. Calls answered, meetings concluded, clients pleased. There was no drama. No added weight. But peace wasn't the same as contentment. His thoughts wandered more these days. Often to the "what ifs." What if he'd never found out about Priya and her manager? What if he'd stayed in that imperfect but familiar life, clinging to moments that looked like love even when they weren't? Then there was Anya. No pretenses, no false promises. A survivor. She'd been brought here under the worst conditions and clawed her way into independence. He respected that. Maybe even admired it a little too much. But he never let it go further. That line stayed uncrossed, even when she looked at him like she hoped it wouldn't.

The One Who Stayed (alt scenario)

He woke the same way he had every morning since the papers were signed. Shower. Shirt. Tie. Coffee. Toast. A man returning to routine, not out of passion but out of necessity. Work came and went. Calls answered, meetings concluded, clients pleased. There was no drama. No added weight. But peace wasn't the same as contentment. His thoughts wandered more these days. Often to the "what ifs." What if he'd never found out about Priya and her manager? What if he'd stayed in that imperfect but familiar life, clinging to moments that looked like love even when they weren't? Then there was Anya. No pretenses, no false promises. A survivor. She'd been brought here under the worst conditions and clawed her way into independence. He respected that. Maybe even admired it a little too much. But he never let it go further. That line stayed uncrossed, even when she looked at him like she hoped it wouldn't.

It was like any other day. At least at first glance.

Anya woke up in her bed, reaching out as she always did, fingers brushing the cold, empty space beside her. It was silly, she thought, staring at the ceiling, but some part of her had begun to wish. That longing... it had only deepened over the past few months.

She sat up with a sigh, dragging the duvet off. "Хватит, Аня," ("Enough, Anya.") she whispered to herself. "Get up. You have a schedule."

Her morning routine moved like clockwork. Shower. Coffee. A quiet bite of toast with jam. She checked her phone. One client. The last name she'd see in that slot if everything went the way she hoped. She stared at it longer than she should have.

"Сегодня," ("Today.") she whispered. "Let this be the last."

But nerves had their own ideas. She found herself knocking on his door earlier than planned. 6 a.m., her hair barely brushed, still in sleepwear under a long cardigan. He opened the door in the middle of adjusting his shirt, clearly just getting ready.

"Я... я подумала, что... чёрт," ("I... I thought that... damn it.") she stammered, flushing red. "I think I set the wrong alarm," she lied quickly as in fact she forgot to check the clock completely. "I was going to make breakfast. I thought it would be a nice surprise... I mean—you like eggs, yes?" Her fingers twisted at the edge of her sleeve as she ducked into the kitchen without waiting for permission.

He didn't question her. He never did. That quiet trust—unchallenging, patient—it made her both grateful and terrified.

They ate in companionable silence broken by light chatter. She commented on the weather, the strange story in the morning news, how the neighbors kept leaving their garbage outside the chute again.

"Люди — идиоты," ("People are idiots.") she muttered, then blinked and corrected herself. "You should not have to see trash first thing in morning," she said more carefully. "Bad omen."

By 9 a.m., he left for work, like always. She smiled at him at the door, resting one hand on the frame.

"Work well," she said, softly. "Come home safe."

Then she turned inward, tidying the space, folding the throw blanket, straightening the cushions. She made his home feel like a place someone was waiting for him. Maybe someone was.

Her appointment was short. By 11 a.m., she was gone from that world. It had never belonged to her anyway.

When she returned, the apartment welcomed her like it always did. Familiar. Quiet. Filled with echoes of a man who'd never asked anything of her, and somehow made her want to give everything.

She changed into a clean dress. Soft beige cotton that felt homey, not seductive. She prepped a warm dinner, lit a few candles, ran the bath just right.

Then she waited.

When she heard the elevator down the hall, she stepped outside and stood by his door. Her heart drummed fast, but her smile was steady.

"There you are," she greeted gently as he approached. "I made chicken stew. You like the one with rosemary, right? I remembered this time."

She hesitated, glancing down at her hands before meeting his eyes again.

"I cleaned your room too. I did not touch your desk... обещаю," ("I promise.") she added instinctively, then quickly, "I even washed your jacket. It had that little stain from the coffee shop."

There was a pause.

Her voice softened. "You know... I see you come home every day. Always tired. But still standing. Still kind. After all that's happened..."

Her eyes shimmered, just faintly.

"I admire that. You. I..." she caught her breath, voice shaking slightly, "...I think you are one of the only good men I have met who never once looked at me with a price in mind."

Still not enough. Still circling the words she couldn't say.

So, she stepped closer, reached out, and gently took his hand.

And then, barely above a whisper:

"Если я... чёрт... If I leave my work, fully... and stayed at your apartment instead of mine... what will you think of me?"

Her voice cracked with hope and fear wrapped together.