Vedant could read the storm Diya tried so hard to hide. He didn’t know the shape of her pain, but he could feel it pressing against her ribs, gnawing at her relentlessly.

From the tear burns he saw at her parents’ house, to the nights she had cried herself to sleep, and now this, shutting herself away in her own vulnerability.

Something was weighing on her. He understood parts of it, because how could anyone feel whole after leaving the home they’d grown up in? How could anyone be at ease while living under the same roof with someone they barely know?

He understood enough, and that was why he didn’t try to mend her. Instead, he offered what had once calmed his own restless nights.

The road. The wind. Bike rides.

While she stayed inside the bathroom, he stepped out quietly, retrieving his helmet, then digging out the older one that had long been tucked away in his study.

So when Diya finally opened the door, she found him waiting with two helmets dangling from his hands.

He said nothing about the glisten on her face or the fragile afterglow that clung to her features. He wasn’t here to name her sorrow, only to offer her a way out of it.

He held out a helmet, his voice quiet, almost casual. “I’m going to buy a pacifier for Misha. Do you want to come?”

The choice of words wasn’t careless, it was deliberate. He knew she would never refuse anything tied to the Misha, yet she would have pulled away the moment it sounded like pity dressed as kindness.

For a beat, she only stared at him, caught off guard, before giving the smallest nod.

Neither of them had changed into nightclothes yet— one had been bracing herself for the collapse of tears, the other had been waiting with helmets in hand for that very moment.

Vedant slipped on his gloves and led her out. The clock had already struck ten. The house was wrapped in dim silence, dinner plates long cleared, every door shut for the night.

In the garage, he pulled the cover off his bike.

The sight alone made her breath hitch. Diya loved bikes. She loved the rush of speed, the way it peeled the weight off her shoulders and left her lighter, freer.

And the idea of riding one at night was something else entirely. A kind of liberation she had never tasted before.

Back in college, she would often book bike rides for her commute. It wasn’t just convenience, it was indulgence.

Those rides were her little escapes— earbuds in, music turned up, the wind tangling her hair as she secretly wished the journey would never end.

So when Vedant uncovered the bike, her breath caught, excitement rising sharp and bright inside her chest and the question tumbled out before she could stop herself. “On a bike?”

Vedant only nodded at her question, though it had been a silly one, because he was standing there with literally two helmets in his hands.

Without a word, he held out the newer one for her, keeping the other for himself. It wasn’t old in truth, just worn in, carrying the memory of many rides. The fresh one was hers now.

He noticed her struggling with the clasp and before she could process, his hands were already there, warm, certain, closing over hers and taking the task from her.

She tilted her chin up instinctively, eyes meeting his through the open visor. His hands worked steadily near her throat, every movement unhurried, until the strap finally clicked into place.

“Tap me once if you want me to slow down, and twice if you want me to stop,” he told her, voice carrying a promise tucked inside instruction. She nodded.

And with that he swung a leg over the bike and settled into place, the machine humming beneath him. He glanced back, waiting.

Diya hesitated. Excitement churned in her chest, but nerves threaded through it too. She had only ever been on regular bikes, and this one felt... different, heavier and sharper.

Still, she placed her hand on his shoulder and climbed on, gripping the rear handle for balance.

“Comfortable?” he asked, glancing back, not starting the bike until her quiet “yes” reached him. Only then did he let the night open up before them.

The bike cut cleanly through the wind, the city unraveling in streaks of light around them.

Vedant rode slower than his nature allowed, careful and measured. Because she wasn’t holding onto him, and he couldn’t quite trust the thin grip of her fingers on the handle.

And Diya— she was soaring. To say she was on cloud nine would hardly be an exaggeration. Every second was a pulse of exhilaration, a freedom she hadn’t realized she’d been starving for.

In the mirror, her reflection stilled him— the wide eyed wonder with which she traced the city lights, the quiet reverence in the way her gaze lifted to the night sky, and the fleeting moments when her eyes found his in the mirror.

Beneath his helmet, a tiny smile ghosted across his lips.

Diya tried to sit with space between them. Yet at every stoplight, when the bike jolted and then surged forward, her helmet would brush against his. Small, accidental collisions, soft reminders of proximity she couldn’t quite avoid.

When he finally pulled over, the air shifted from restless traffic to the hushed rustle of trees. “Are we here?” she asked.

Vedant only nodded.

With her hand pressing lightly against his shoulder, she slid down, he followed, wheeling the bike neatly into place before parking it.

Diya looked around, curiosity flickering in her eyes, “What place is this?” she asked.

“A park,” he replied.

“Thanks, I couldn’t tell.” The sarcasm slipped from her without realisation.

The corner of his mouth twitched, amusement threatening, but he let it pass unspoken. Instead, he looked ahead at the fountain, the slow sway of trees.     

“It’s called the Garden of Echoes,” he said after a beat. “They believe that whatever is spoken here never really disappears. It lingers in the air, like the garden remembers.”     

His voice dropped slightly. “Some say even silence leaves its own kind of echo here.”     

Something passed over Diya's expression, a quiet acknowledgment. She only nodded, though her eyes seemed to absorb the thought.

The air inside was different, cooler, gentler, as if the city outside had been muted the moment they crossed the iron gates.  

Vedant followed a pace behind, not guiding, just watching. And as the garden wrapped around her, he noticed the way her shoulders began to ease, the tension uncoiling from her frame bit by bit.

The koi pond was the first to catch her attention. Lanterns spilled golden light onto the surface, and the fish moved like living flames, crimson and gold weaving through dark water. 

Diya leaned in without meaning to, for a fleeting second her face broke open—softened with awe, the kind children wear. And Vedant let himself memorize that.

They moved on. The path was narrow, bordered with roses in every shade, velvet red, pale cream, dusk pink. Their perfume thickened the air, settling into the night like a slow exhale.

The wind toyed with her hair, pulling a strand across her cheek, and she brushed it back impatiently. 

And of course, he noticed.

He always did.

Then came the fountain.

Tall, tiered, carved in old marble, it stood like the heart of the park.

Diya stopped. Her breath caught in a way she couldn’t disguise. Wonder cracked through the practiced calm of her face.

“It’s…” She didn’t finish. Words would have been too small.

Vedant said nothing. He only stood close enough to see the reflection of the fountain ripple in her eyes.

And when she finally glanced at him, startled by her own honesty, he offered her the faintest nod, as if to say he understood.

After wandering a little, they found a bench perfectly placed before the fountain.

From that seat, it felt less like they had chosen the bench, and more like the bench had been quietly waiting, holding its breath until they arrived.

He sat first, giving her space, but his gaze never wavered. She lowered herself beside him, spine still taut, though the hush of the place was already working on her, smoothing the edges of her restlessness.

A comfortable silence stretched between them. Diya’s hands lay folded in her lap, and for the first time in days, they weren’t clenched. Vedant leaned back, watching the way the lamplight gentled her face.

Her eyes lingered on the fountain, on the way the water seemed endless. Then, turning slightly, she asked, “Have you been here before?”

His gaze didn’t shift. “No.”

Her head tilted, curiosity softening her face. “Then how did you know about it?”

“Through a friend,” he said, the words neat and practiced.

But inside, the truth breathed louder.

Last night, when she’d fallen asleep against his arm, he hadn’t been able to close his eyes. So with his free hand, he’d scrolled endlessly, flickering through images of parks, gardens, any place that wasn’t too crowded, too loud, too cruel.

He wanted silence, but not the kind that reminded her of loneliness.

And when he stumbled across Garden of Echoes, something in the name caught him. And now, here they sat. His first time being here too.

The night wrapped around them like a shawl— dark, but not suffocating stitched with cricket hums.

The fountain before them rose and fell in an unhurried rhythm. Its steady murmur filled the spaces between their silences, like it was speaking for them when words refused to come.

Vedant’s thumb tapped absently against his knee, the faintest of restless movements betraying a storm of thoughts inside him. He didn’t want to ruin the peace of this night but something kept pressing at him.

His voice, when it finally emerged, was low and cautious. “Do you want to live alone?”

Diya turned, startled, her eyes flicking to his face.

Vedant’s jaw worked for a moment before he went on. “I have a place. We can move out. If you’d be more comfortable that way.” There was hesitation in every syllable, he feared she might mistake his intent.

Her lips curved, almost sadly but not quite, into something softer. “I would’ve accepted your offer… if your family weren’t the sweetest people on earth.”

His head tilted slightly, caught off guard.

“Who would want to live away from them?” she went on, her tone light but honest. “Especially away from Misha.”

That way she spoke with such affection tugged unexpectedly at his chest.

“Are you sure?” he asked, leaning toward her, voice rougher now. He couldn’t stop himself. The thought of her feeling suffocated under the weight of his house and this marriage, unsettled him.

Her lashes fluttered, gaze slipping away from his. “Are you asking this because I… cried last night?”

His answer came instantly. “No.”

He opened his mouth to explain more, to reassure her, but she cut him off, words tumbling out in a rush, urgency in her tone.

“I’m sorry if you thought it was because of you. Or your family. It wasn’t.” The guilt in her voice was sharp and undeniable.

She turned her face to the fountain again, as if it could swallow the heaviness her confession carried.

And beside her, Vedant stilled, taking in not just her words, but the way she said them— how desperately she wanted him to understand.

For a moment, he just looked at her, the corners of his mouth tightening, not in annoyance, but in the way someone does when they’re holding back too many things at once.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said finally, his tone gentler. “Crying doesn’t mean you’re… unhappy here. I know that.”

Diya’s fingers twisted in her lap, restless. She wanted to believe him, but the instinct to explain herself wouldn’t let her be still.

“I just don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful. Or that I—”

“I don’t,” he cut in, firm enough to quiet her thoughts. His words had taken the sting out of her guilt, left behind only a tender ache she didn’t know how to name.

Then she spoke again, meeting his eyes. “I don’t want to live alone, Mr. Malhotra.” Her voice was softer, stripped down.

For a long second, he didn’t move. Then, as though her words had struck something deep within him, his shoulders eased. The tension he carried so naturally, like armor welded to his skin, loosened just enough for her to notice.

He let her have a moment, then added. “But if you ever feel differently… if you ever want to live alone, or move out, you should tell me.”

Her gaze snapped back to him.

“I mean it,” he said, holding her eyes as though to anchor the weight of his promise. “You don’t have to swallow anything for my sake. Or for theirs. If you want space, you’ll have it. Just… say the word.”

She blinked, caught between wanting to thank him and not knowing how. In the end, she only whispered, “Okay.”

After a while, Vedant gathered the helmets, and they left the park.

Something inside them felt lighter, as if the night had peeled away a layer of silence and given it back softened, easier to carry.

He slipped his own helmet on and then turned to Diya. His hands were steady when he adjusted the strap beneath her chin.

There was no rush in the gesture, only the stillness of a man who wanted to make sure she was safe.

They climbed onto the bike again, the engine purring as Vedant drove them through the quiet streets. The night slipped past in fragments of streetlights and shadows, the city hushed around them.

When the next light flicked red, Vedant eased the bike to a stop. The halt was a fraction sharper than it needed to be, and their helmets tapped together—again, the seventh time that night.

Diya startled. As always, apology leapt to her tongue before laughter ever could. She pressed her lips together beneath the visor, a whispered “sorry” slipping out, too soft for him to hear.

He caught the movement anyway, and the smallest smile ghosted across his mouth.

She didn’t know it, but her clumsy tenderness had begun to undo him. Each time she bumped into his helmet, he found himself oddly grateful for the excuse it gave her to stumble into his space.

But this time, something else tugged at his attention.

Diya let go of the handles. Her palms were raw, red from gripping too tightly, like her body hadn’t yet learned the difference between holding on for safety and holding on out of fear.

She stared down at her hands, flexing her fingers to ease the soreness.

Vedant caught it in the mirror.

Without a word, he reached back, his hand closed gently around her knuckles, and with quiet insistence, he guided her hand around his torso.

Diya froze. Her breath snagged, caught between her ribs. The hard lines of him pressed beneath her palm, unfamiliar and steady.

The light shifted green, and the bike rolled forward. For a moment she hovered, caught between hesitation and need.

Then, quietly, as if surrendering, she lifted her other hand and let it rest against him too.

On the surface, Vedant remained composed, a man steering through traffic with practiced ease.

But inside, beneath that calm veneer, something sharp and dangerous bloomed. Her touch was igniting a warmth that wasn’t gentle.

He tightened his grip on the throttle, the only evidence of how much her hesitant surrender had undone him.

By the time they pulled into the Malhotra garage, the night had slipped deep into silence. The house stood still, lights dimmed, as if it too was asleep. The bike came to a low rumble, then stilled.

Diya’s fingers loosened slowly from where they had clung to him. Her palms tingled, empty now, as she slid off the seat.

The cool night air rushed against her, and with it came the quiet realization, sharp and sudden.

“Wait,” she blurted, turning to him.

Vedant had just begun to unstrap his helmet. He stilled, his dark eyes lifting to hers.

“We…” She bit her lip, guilt crawling into her voice. “We went to get a pacifier for Misha.” Her brows pinched, the worry etched clearly on her face. “And we didn’t.”

He looked at her, still seated on the bike. “It’s okay.” His voice was calm, too calm. “We can get it tomorrow.”

We slipped into bed after changing. The night ride still clung to me, a trace of wind in my chest, cool and steady. It had been years since I last rode beneath a sky like that.

But its true gift wasn’t mine. It was the person beside me, whose restlessness seemed to loosen, like knots slowly untying.

“Are you using that pillow?” she asked, pointing toward the spare one on my side.

“No,” I said, passing it over.

A small “thanks” escaped her, quiet and distracted, already busy welcoming it into the strange little army she’d built.

She had three already. Now four.

“Do you want more?” I asked, half amused, half curious how far this ritual could go.

“I’ll let you know,” she said, adjusting them with methodical care. One under her head, one near her feet, one behind her back, and the one I’d surrendered now tucked safely in her arms.

And then there was Honey. Snug under the duvet as if swaddled, a furball mistaken for an infant— maybe not mistaken at all, not for her.

It was absurd and adorable all at once. The way she needed so much softness around her just to close her eyes.

I lay there in silence, listening. Waiting for her breathing to steady, to soften into the rhythm of sleep. Only then did I let mine follow, surrendering to the quiet pull of slumber.

When sleep loosened its hold on me, the first thing my eyes found was her. Her face, turned toward me, half buried in a tangle of wavy hair.

I didn’t move. I didn’t dare.

It felt sacrilegious to.

So I lay there, suspended in that fragile moment, until something… shifted. A pull. Not sight, not sound. It was a sensation threading itself through me with every quiet breath she drew.

My attention lowered, and then— there it was. Beneath the duvet, my hand resting against her wrist, fingers brushing over the soft, steady thrum of her pulse.

A sharp inhale left me, my eyes shutting against the sudden weight of it, jaw tightening. Not again.

There was space between us, a careful distance I’d maintained. She was only slightly on my side, but I stayed at the edge.

Yet my treacherous hand had ignored it all, curling around her wrist, claiming a right it didn’t have.

This was the third time— first at her house, when she had known and I hadn’t. Then last night, when she fell asleep on my arm and I woke to find my other hand clutching her wrist. And now, here again, the same silent betrayal of my body refusing to let her go.

She wasn’t waking anytime soon. That much I was grateful for. So, with something that felt like defeat, I let her wrist slip from my fingers.

I left the bed carefully, and my gaze fell on two pillows lying abandoned on the floor, casualties of the night.

“Clumsy,” I muttered, stooping to gather them. Carefully, I placed them back beside their rightful owner, her fortress rebuilt.

I stole one last glance at her before leaving for the gym. Eight years of this routine had taught me more than strength.

Gym wasn’t just about the body; it cleared the mind, sharpened it, kept it from wandering into chaos.

I’d never missed a single day in the last two years… except yesterday.

Because someone had been sleeping on my arm, clutching my hand. I wasn't going to move even an inch, let alone leave her alone.

The workout followed its usual rhythm: warm up, strength training, a few sets of cardio, and stretching to finish. The routine grounded me, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the faint pulse beneath my hand.

When I returned, she was standing before the mirror. Her head tipped slightly, strands of damp hair slipping through her fingers as she tried to tame them.



Her bambi eyes were fixed on her reflection, soft and unguarded in a way she never was when she looked at me.

I moved to the wardrobe for my clothes, careful with my steps. And then, in the glass, our gazes touched. Just a flicker, a fleeting second that was over before it could become anything more.

I grabbed my clothes and ducked into the washroom, letting the hot water work its way into my shoulders until the ache loosened. For a few minutes, it was just me and the hiss of the shower and a thoughtless mind.

When I stepped out, towel knotted at my waist, I paused. Should I change here or in the room? Normally, I wouldn’t think twice.

But after yesterday? After she nearly cracked her head open walking in on me? Yeah, no. I wasn’t taking chances.

So I dressed there, in the safety of steam and silence, before heading downstairs.

At the breakfast table, the words dropped casually— our reception is tomorrow.

I just sat there, unsure of what to do with that information, or with the sudden weight it pressed onto my chest.

My thoughts these days feel like a maze with no exit. I keep circling the same questions, bumping into the same walls, and somehow I still end up more lost than when I started.

Did I want to get married? No.

Did I want to become a husband? No.

Do I hate these endless rituals? Absolutely.

Do I hate the person I married? No.

Do I want space between us? Yes.

But does it bother me when she disappears too far into it? …Yes.

I told myself nothing would change. Just a legal status, a social label. That’s all. But somewhere between then and now, everything has tilted, quietly and subtly.

I just can’t summon indifference when I look at her. And a part of me doesn't even want to try.

After breakfast, I retreated to my study. A few calls, a handful of reports, my schedule neatly lined up for the weeks ahead.

It was the closest thing to order I could create. At least this way, the work wouldn’t bury me alive once I returned.

By evening, I’d managed a solid six hours. I closed my laptop with the faint satisfaction of productivity, stretching as I moved toward the bedroom to grab my charger.

Halfway to the room, my phone buzzed in my hand. Vivaan’s name lit up the screen.

“Do you want to play football?” his voice was all energy.

“No,” I said flatly, pushing the door open with my shoulder, my charger mattered more right now.

“Are you sure?” he pressed.

“Yes. Have fun.” I said entering the room.

“That I am,” he laughed, careless and bright. “Bhabhi is too good at playing football.”

The call ended before I could process his arm words, let alone form a reply.

My gaze swept the room, automatically, almost urgently. My charg— Diya wasn't here.

A flicker of unease tugged at me until I stepped out onto the balcony and saw her.

Down in the garden, barefoot on the grass, the late sun brushing her hair gold. She stood with Vivaan, Tanya, and Atharv— his tie loose, coat missing after work.

They’d dragged a ball out, set up some kind of makeshift goal, and the four of them were laughing like children let loose after class.

Diya had the ball at her feet, her posture angled as if she was about to strike, but at the last moment she flicked it toward Tanya instead.

Tanya didn’t waste a second. She kicked it past the post, scored, and both women collided in a laughing embrace, spinning each other like they’d just won a championship.

Something in me stilled. Then softened.

The tightness in my shoulders that I hadn’t even known I was carrying seemed to ease all at once.

Watching her laugh like that felt like stepping into sunlight after a long stretch of shadow.

I didn’t think about moving. My body simply decided for me. Feet leaving the balcony, carrying me down the stairs, across the hall, and into the garden as if there was no other place I was meant to be.

By the time I reached the garden, Misha was the first one to greet me.

“E-dant!”

I turned, and found her perched on Dadu’s lap a little distance away. She clapped her tiny hands together, her wide eyes flicked toward the garden. “E-yaa,” she pointed proudly, finger aimed at Diya.

A corner of my mouth tugged upward. I bent to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be back.”

And then I straightened, tugging at my cuffs before rolling up my sleeves. Step by step, I crossed into their little circle of laughter, the grass cool beneath my feet, the sound of her joy pulling me closer than gravity ever could.

“Bhai! Join our team!” Atharv called out, waving me over. Vivaan’s smirk was quick to follow. “Someone said they didn’t want to play,”

My gaze flicked to him, brow lifting. “Who?”

Before he could respond, Tanya cut in, breathless from the run. “Vedant bhaiya, we’re in the middle of a match. You’ve got to pick a side.”

Atharv scoffed, dragging me closer by the wrist. “Pick a side? He’s already with us.”

“That’s not fair!” Tanya argued, hands flying up in protest. “You three together? That’s practically cheating.”

“Let it be,” Diya’s voice came at last, steady but threaded with something sharp, something that landed straight on me. Her gaze lifted, locking with mine. “We’ll still win.”

Is that so?

I raised a brow, amusement threading through me, spilling into the unspoken challenge that stretched between us.

And just like that, the match picked up again.

The ball landed at Vivaan’s feet first. He darted forward, swift and smug, but before he could send it Atharv’s way, Diya slipped in, stealing it clean.

The laugh in her eyes flashed brighter than the garden lights as she sprinted ahead, leaving both brothers scrambling after her.

And me? I found myself watching her instead of running after her. The determined set of her jaw, the way her hair caught the breeze, the way she effortlessly ran.

“Bhai!” Vivaan’s voice snapped me back, half mocking, half genuine. “Bhagna bhi hota hai… bhabhi ko dekhne se nahi jeetoge.”

[“You actually have to run… you won’t win just by looking at Bhabhi.”]

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and finally shifted my weight forward.

Their goalpost stood only a few feet from me, the one they’d marked out with terracotta flowerpots.

Diya’s shot came fast, precise, certain. It would’ve sailed in… But I moved. Stepping in at the last moment, I let the ball slam into my chest before it fell to my feet.

Her face changed in an instant— glee faltering into disbelief, then settling into a quiet sting of disappointment. Her eyes, still locked on mine, held all of it.

I didn’t give her time to process it. I was already moving, carrying the ball away.

Vivaan’s voice rose in a loud cheer. Tanya cut across my path, but I flicked the ball toward Atharv just in time. She chased after him instead, her laughter ringing out.

And Atharv, lover boy through and through, slowed down just enough for her to steal it from him, wearing a smile that made his surrender obvious.

I shook my head. Beside me, I felt Vivaan mirror the gesture before he darted after Tanya. In one swift move, he snatched the ball back, earning an exaggerated glare from Atharv.

The game roared on around us. But my eyes, no matter how hard I tried, kept straying back to Diya.

I dashed toward our goalpost, already knowing Atharv wasn’t going to score.

Vivaan had the ball, one clean shot away from sealing the win. Even Atharv chased after him now, not for the game, but to toss the ball to Tanya.

Then Vivaan kicked. The ball lifted into the air, spinning toward the post.

I don’t even know when Diya got there, but suddenly she was standing right in the ball’s path, ready to block it with her head.

God, this girl.

Before it could touch her, instinct took over. I cut across the lawn, sliding in front of her, the thud against my skull sending the ball spinning away.

“Bhai!” Vivaan’s voice cut through, sharp and disappointed.

But I wasn’t looking at him. I turned straight to her, scanning her face, her forehead, making sure she was fine.

Her brows were drawn tight, eyes flashing like she could burn through me. “Why did you block me?” she demanded, her voice fierce.

Woah. Lioness.

I hadn’t expected this side of her. But I couldn’t deny how alive it made me feel.

“You shouldn’t use your head,” I told her, my tone steady but my pulse anything but. “It’s dangerous.”

Her chin tilted higher, defiance brimming. “I was a football captain in high school. I know how to play,”

“I know you can play well,” I said quietly, holding her gaze. “But you hurt your head yesterday. In case you forgot… captain.”

Her breath faltered, realization flickering in her eyes. For a beat, silence hummed between us, charged and unspoken. Then she turned, breaking it first, running off to join the others.

Tanya caught her in a whirl of arms, both of them tumbling into each other’s joy, their laughter threading through the late evening air.

Her smile was bright for everyone else, but I caught the flicker beneath it, the shadow of her unsatisfaction. How the win hadn’t tasted the same, because it wasn’t her head that blocked the ball.

Silly.

From the side, the youngest and the oldest Malhotra— our only audience— watched with wide grins, their laughter carrying over the garden.

Misha clapped with all the seriousness of a judge announcing a verdict, though her cheers were anything but impartial.

“Mumma!”

“Papa!”

“E-yaa!”

“E-dant!”

She rooted for everyone equally, her tiny voice rising like bells, everyone except Vivaan, only because her tongue hadn’t yet mastered his name.

Atharv scooped Tanya into his arms, twirling her until her hair fanned around them, the picture of victory written across both their faces.

And in the middle of all that chaos, I caught Diya watching them. Her gaze softened, caught between joy and something quieter, something heavier, an ache that looked too much like yearning.

Her gaze shifted then, found mine. And for a moment, longer than her comfort usually allowed, it stayed on me.

“I’m never playing with married people again,” Vivaan’s voice rang out, loud and dramatic. “You all are cheaters.”

Laughter rippled around us. But I couldn’t laugh.

Because all I could think about was the unspoken in her eyes, the ache she didn’t voice, the longing she didn’t name. And the quiet, dangerous truth that it stirred something in me.

🪔

I stepped into the room after giving Dadu his night medicines, Diya was at the wardrobe, rifling through her clothes.

“We need to go,” I said, my voice stopping her mid motion.

“Where?” Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“To get Misha’s pacifier. We forgot yesterday.” I wasn’t usually a liar, but since meeting her, I’d learned that a little coaxing— harmless lies included— was sometimes necessary.

“She already has one,” she said, reasonable as ever.

“I know, but she’s teething. She needs a new one.” I kept my eyes on her, watching the moment when logic might bow to me, and before her mind could argue further, I reached for the helmets and handed one to her.

“Okay,” she muttered, a faint surrender in her voice, and followed me.

In the garage, I slipped on my gloves, my helmet followed. And then I turned to her, extending my hands to clasp hers.

It had quietly become a quiet ritual now, me clasping her helmet, our eyes locking through the visor, and her glancing away the moment it was secure, like she couldn’t bear to hold the gaze for too long.

We settled onto the bike, her body adjusting cautiously, and I watched through the mirror as her hands hovered near my sides, hesitant, unsure.

My hand reached back and I guided her hand gently, wrapping it around my middle. Almost instinctively, her other hand found its way to me as I eased the bike forward.

I could feel her weight leaning into mine, and for a moment, I couldn’t tell if my heart raced from the rush of speed or the nearness of her.

Her hair whipped around in the wind, wild and untamed, strands brushing against my arms.

At a traffic light, I tapped her knee lightly, turning to meet her gaze. “Hold tight,” I murmured before accelerating.

Yesterday, I had been cautious, keeping the speed low as she clutched the handles like a lifeline. But now, with her hands around me, steady and trusting, I allowed the bike to stretch its legs, letting her taste the thrill I’d long missed.

Her grip tightened with mine, and in response, my chest constricted, awareness of her closeness sharp and electrifying.

Her head swiveled from side to side, eager not to miss a single glimpse of the city passing by. It had been months since I’d taken the bike out like this. Maa had always warned me against it, despite my repeated assurances that I didn’t speed. She still worried.

I brought the bike to a gentle halt in front of the same park. She swung her leg off first, landing softly on the ground.

I followed, peeling off my helmet and gloves, then took hers from her hands. Together, we stepped into the quiet embrace of the park.

“What about Misha’s pacifier?” she asked, glancing up at me, a hint of reason threading through her curiosity.

I suppressed a laugh, Misha already had four, yet here we were. “We’ll get it on the way back,” I said lightly, and we continued walking along the winding path.

The park was calm, almost untouched by the bustle of the city beyond its gates.

I’d never been here before, but the greenery, the gentle sway of trees, the faint ripple of water from a distant fountain— it was the perfect little escape.

I made a mental note to bring her here in the mornings too, let her see it bathed in sunlight.

“When did you learn it?” she asked, her voice soft as we strolled toward the small lake in the garden.

“Learn what?” I glanced at her, catching the way her eyes lingered on the water.

“To ride a bike.”

Oh.

“When I was twenty,” I said simply, and her eyes snapped to mine, wide and expectant.

“How did you learn it?” Curiosity danced in her gaze, impossible to ignore.

“On my own,” I replied, and something in her tiny impressed smile made my chest tighten— a soft, silent approval I didn’t even realize I craved.

“Wow, that’s cool.”

Cool, I see.

A couple of minutes passed, filled with the quiet of our footsteps and the gentle rustle of leaves, before another question slipped out.

“Do you speed a lot?”

“Nope. Mostly under 200 kmph,” I said, letting the exaggeration hang between us.

Her eyes went wide. Mortified. “What?” she gasped. Then, incredulous, “You’re joking, right?”

I nodded, the edges of my grin threatening to escape into laughter.

The way her tiny sigh of relief followed, made my chest warm. “Thank God,” she whispered, then added, “Don’t go above 60, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, a small twitch tugging at the corner of my mouth. Her little “okays'” soft, earnest, and stubborn in the sweetest way, always caught me off guard, making me smile quietly to myself.

We walked on, the world around us fading. The koi ponds, the lakes, the stone pathways, even the fishes she paused to watch, everything blurred into the background. All I could see, all I could feel, was her.

“Do you know how to ride a bike?” The words slipped out before I could think better of them.

“Theoretically, yes… practically, no,” she replied, a small, wry smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve tried it once,” she added, almost as if confessing a secret.

“When?” I asked, curiosity piqued, remembering the questions she had volleyed at me just minutes ago.

“Way before you did,” she said, pride lighting her face like a tiny sun.

“Yeah?” I asked, amusement flicking at the corners of my lips. She gave a small, confident nod.

“When I was ten,” she said, eyes meeting mine steadily. Then she paused, a small mischievous glint surfacing. “I know it sounds a little… illegal— but it wasn’t.”

She went on, her voice softening, carrying a note of nostalgia I hadn’t heard before.

“It was with my dad. We went on a night ride together, and when we returned, he taught me how to start the bike… and how to actually ride it. It was just outside our house, so totally legal,”

Her smile softened, touched by nostalgia, her eyes sparkling with something I couldn’t quite name.

“I’ve loved bikes ever since. They’re…fun,” she added, almost shyly.

“They are,” I replied softly. My eyes never left her face, not because I couldn’t look away, but because I wanted to see her, really see her, while she spoke so freely.

I was about to say something, to break the delicate thread of our shared silence, but she beat me to it. “Let’s go… we need to get Misha’s pacifier.”

She wasn’t forgetting it today.

I guided her to a small, random kid shop and got a pacifier for Misha, watching her soft smile as she picked it out.

Back on the bike, heading home, the ride felt different now. Knowing she loved it, really loved it, made every turn, every rush of wind, more vivid.

I found myself reading her expression through the visor, catching the fleeting moments of joy, the quiet freedom in the tilt of her head, the gentle sway of her hair in the air.

She was present, free from worry, her thoughts didn’t betray her, didn’t cage her, she was just…here, and that was everything.

When we reached home, she fell asleep almost immediately, and I just watched her, letting the quietness of the room wrap around us.

My mind replayed the day, over and over: how attentively she had fed Misha at lunch, how light and carefree she looked playing football and the way her face softened when she spoke freely.

And it stayed with me.

I know it would take time, patience, quiet understanding… but I hope, somehow, I can give her the home she’d thought she didn’t have.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Mr. Malhotra is officially falling in love 💘

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