I wasn't supposed to be here. Especially not after how loud the office had been today.

Not loud in sound but in the way days get loud when too many things demand too much of you at once.

Meetings that bled into each other. Numbers that refused to settle into anything coherent. Two presentations I barely had time to breathe between. Three departments insisting their approvals were urgent. And a client trying to renegotiate a contract that had already been generous.

By noon, the quarterly projections had stopped looking like data and started looking like static. And by evening even my blazer felt heavy on my shoulders.

I could've gone another day.

A weekend, an easier morning, anything less exhausting than today.

But the idea of delaying this... of letting her go one more night bending over that damned textbook... it didn't sit right in my chest.

So after dropping Diya home, here I was.

At a furniture showroom lit too brightly. I'd been standing in the same aisle for almost an hour now, pretending I was just being thorough when the truth was far less... strategic.

The study desk in front of me wasn't special: clean surface, neutral color, sturdy legs. That was it. There were fifteen others just like it.

But I kept remembering the way she sat on the bed while studying. Back curved, shoulders tensed, notebook propped on her thigh.

Every few minutes, she would shift her weight or stretch her fingers or press a palm to the small of her back like she was trying to chase away a discomfort she didn't want to mention.

I ran my hand along the edge of a dark walnut desk. It was steady, balanced, wide enough for her books and laptop, yet compact enough to fit the space beside the window.

"This one," I heard myself say.

The saleswoman nodded and slipped away to check stock, leaving me alone with the polished rows of wood.

I exhaled slowly.

The desk should've been enough. It was the only thing I'd planned to buy. A simple, practical fix to a problem she'd never mentioned and probably never would.

But when I turned slightly, the couch section came into view beside the desks. Rows of fabric and wood and cushions lined up like they were waiting for someone more decisive than me.

My steps paused before I even realized it.

And just like that, the image of our room flickered in my mind. That empty stretch of wall, the space where the old couch used to be.

A blank corner that made the room feel colder... quieter... too bare for two people who barely spoke.

It wasn't about furniture. It was about what the emptiness felt like. A hollow corner that made the room look colder than it already felt.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I started wandering into the couch aisle.

I rejected the first five couches without touching them.

Too soft, too wide, too comfortable and way too easy to sleep on. The kind of couches people sink into when they're trying to avoid a bed.

I wasn't repeating that.

I wasn't resetting the room to what it used to be, and I sure as hell wasn't giving her another safe corner to retreat to.

My hand finally paused on a compact two seater. Firm cushions that were almost rigid. A narrow frame that didn't offer much comfort beyond sitting. Nothing about it invited curling up or drifting off.

It filled space without offering escape. Exactly what that corner in our room needed.

"This as well," I told the saleswoman when she returned.

I headed toward the billing counter, ready to be done, but a warm glow in my peripheral vision pulled my attention sideways.

The lighting section.

I paused.

It wasn't the lamps or chandeliers. It was the smallest thing there, the string lights, coiled neatly in transparent boxes, strands of gold waiting to be freed.

For a second, the showroom blurred around me. I could see her room again, the one she left behind.

The warm fairy lights strung loosely across her wall. The soft shadows on her skin. The way she breathed easier under that glow... like the light itself understood her in ways people never bothered to.

This house - my house - was nothing like that. It had sharp edges, clean lines, a cold that settled into the walls long before she ever walked into them.

She never said it to me, probably never would, but I know she misses the softness her room used to give her.

I saw it in the way her eyes flickered sometimes. In the way she hesitated before turning off the bedside lamp at night. In the silence she wrapped around herself like a shield.

Maybe a small change, one that didn't demand anything from her, would make our room feel less like a place she was forced into and more like a place she could exist in.

"Including this," I said, my voice quieter than I intended, as I placed the box on the counter.

I paid the bill, scheduled the delivery for the heavier things, and brought the fairy lights myself.

The receipt slid into my wallet.

The showroom door swung shut behind me. And the cold evening air struck my face with a bite that felt too sharp, too sudden, too hollow after all that warmth inside.

The second my foot hit the pavement, my phone buzzed to life. The screen lit up before I even unlocked it.

Poor network. Messages pending.

Checking for missed calls...

Then the notifications appeared all at once.

4 missed calls from Ms. I'll do a cab

7 missed calls from Vivaan.

My thumb went still on the screen.

For a second, the world tilted. The traffic, the voices, the distant honking... everything went flat at the edges.

Seven calls from Vivaan. He never called this much unless something was wrong. And Diya… Diya had never called me before.

A dull pressure bloomed behind my ribs.

I didn't even realize I had started walking toward the parking lot until I reached my car door. My hands moved without direction - unlocking, pulling open, sitting, engine on.

The seatbelt clicked into place out of habit. Everything else inside me was split between autopilot and panic, colliding so sharply it made my pulse throb in my throat.

I reversed out of the lot faster than I should have. Not recklessly but fast enough that the steering wheel felt strained under my grip and the road ahead blurred into urgency.

Something was wrong at home, something had happened. And the worst part wasn't the fear itself.

It was the fact that the moment the possibility of wrong flickered in my mind, my mind kept jumping to two names with an intensity that made my jaw lock hard enough to ache.

I didn't remember the drive.

Just the weight of my foot pressing too hard on the accelerator, the blur of lanes slipping past like they were being swallowed behind me, the concrete dissolving under the wheels as if the road couldn't move fast enough.

My pulse kept climbing, each beat too fast and too sharp.

When I walked into the house, the silence felt wrong, like someone had hollowed out the walls.

There was no one in the living room.

I followed the laughter and chatter coming from Maa's room.

When I pushed the door open, I saw Diya sitting beside her, talking softly. Vivaan was perched at the foot of the bed, listening, his posture relaxed. They were smiling.

The sight didn't comfort me because the way Maa was lying down told me something was wrong.

"What happened?" The words tore out before I even crossed the room.

My gaze snapped to Diya. It always did before logic caught up. She looked calmer than I felt. But her eyes... they held the echo of something she hadn't processed yet.

"She fainted in the kitchen," Diya replied, her voice low.

The sentence didn't just hit me. It lodged itself inside my chest, sharp and heavy, like my ribs weren't built to hold it.

My eyes jerked back to Maa, scanning her like I could piece together what I'd missed in the seconds before panic took over.

The way she was lying... not resting but recovering. Her complexion washed out, faint shadows under her eyes. Breathing steady, but thinner than usual.

"How long was she unconscious?" The question scraped out of me, low and clipped.

"Barely a minute," Vivaan replied, moving to stand beside me. "Bhabhi was there before she fell. She sprinkled water, got her up and handled everything."

"Atharv bhai and everyone else went to a family dinner, so no one's home." He added.

My eyes stayed fixed on Maa, my thumb brushing the back of her hand in a motion I didn't register until I felt her squeeze back.

A tightness pulled through my ribs.

"Don't worry, bhai," Vivaan added quickly, trying to soften the air. "She fainted, but she's fine now. Especially because she just got promoted from Meera aunty to Meera maa."

He flashed a grin toward Diya. She lowered her gaze, a soft flush touching her cheeks. Maa smiled too, her fingers relaxing slightly under mine.

The room warmed for a moment.

I didn't.

Because the joke didn't erase the image of her collapsing in my head. And me nowhere near her when she did.

Maa touched my wrist gently, pulling my attention back to her.

"Stop thinking so much," she murmured, reading me with the ease of someone who'd been doing it all my life. "I'm alright."

The words were soft, almost teasing. But they didn't land the way she meant them to. If anything, they pressed the guilt deeper, settling it under my ribs.

The idea of her- either of them- needing someone in that moment and not finding me... It twisted something inside me in a way I wasn't prepared for.

Maa squeezed my hand again, firmer this time. "Nothing happened," she said calmly. "I'm fine. These two took care of me." Her voice softened. "Don't carry guilt that doesn't belong to you."

The guilt didn't move an inch.

Still, I nodded.

I stayed beside Maa for a moment longer, forcing myself to breathe slowly, matching the rise and fall of her chest.

Watching the color return to her face.

Vivaan cleared his throat after a moment, glancing between the three of us.

The lingering worry in the room had settled into something softer but still heavy, and he was trying to break it now.

"Bhai... Bhabhi..." he said calmly, "you both should go and change. You've been out the whole day. Maa needs rest now."

Maa nodded right away. "Go get changed. I'm not going anywhere."

Diya stood first.

She looked at me for a moment - a soft, brief acknowledgment, something quiet and steady meant for me even though I wasn't sure I deserved it.

I let her walk ahead, my steps falling in behind hers almost on instinct.

When we entered our room, the urge to thank her pressed against my tongue. Not just a polite, casual thank you, but something that admitted how much it meant that she was there when I wasn't.

But I didn't know how to shape the words. I didn't know how to let them exist. I was still sorting through the wreckage inside my chest.

So I didn't say anything.

I changed in a hurry and headed to the kitchen to make porridge for Maa. The rhythm helped. Stir, measure, taste, add. The small tasks steadied my hands when everything else felt too large to hold.

I was halfway through when Diya walked in.

She paused in the doorway first, her eyes tracking my movements. The hesitation was subtle but unmistakable, before she quietly asked "Can I help?"

I nodded toward the stove. "Stir this."

She moved beside me, taking the ladle gently. The soft sound of the porridge thickening filled the space between us.

I started cutting fruits in slow, deliberate slices, the rhythm grounding, the presence beside me even more so.

"I'm... sorry I missed your calls," I said finally, the words coming out rougher than I intended.

I didn't know what else to offer. Didn't know how to fit fear and gratitude and the ache of being too late into a single sentence.

"It's alright," she murmured, still stirring. The porridge thickened under her hand, the spoon tracing slow circles.

For a moment, she looked like she was debating whether to speak. Her lips parted, closed, then parted again, like she was crossing some quiet line inside herself.

"Don't worry," she said finally. "Your mom is fine. I checked her blood pressure before coming here. It's back within normal range."

Her voice was measured and gentle, carrying the steadiness mine lacked. But beneath it was something unspoken - warmth maybe, or kindness that had nowhere else to go.

Her words eased something sharp inside me, they warmed the cold spot guilt had carved out.

And for one small moment, it felt like she had reached into the panic still clinging to my ribs and pressed her palm over it just long enough to steady it.

"Th-"

The beginning of a thank you almost slipped out.

But she stopped it for me.

"If you're planning to thank me for this," she said, not looking up from the pot, "I'll start booking cabs for office starting tomorrow."

The absurdity of her threat - the audacity - hit me first. Then the warmth followed, curling through my chest in a slow wave.

I stared at her, momentarily stunned into silence.

She didn't give me time to respond. "I think the porridge is done," she said looking at me. "Should I turn it off?"

"Yes." It came out lower than intended.

She switched off the stove, ladled the porridge into a bowl with quiet precision, and left the kitchen, a small shift of presence that somehow pulled me along behind her.

When we entered Maa's room, she sighed dramatically the second she saw the two bowls.

"Will you two stop treating me like I'm one faint away from the ICU?" Her tone had more life in it now - the kind of mock annoyance she used when she was secretly pleased.

Vivaan burst into laughter. Of course he did. He borrowed half his sense of humor from her.

"I'm not eating that bland mush," Maa insisted dramatically, eyeing the porridge.

"Diya made it," I said quickly, before she could continue her performance.

Beside me, Diya shot me a pointed side eye, quiet and impossibly endearing.

But she didn't comment.

It worked immediately. Maa scoffed dramatically. "What are you both waiting for? I'm sick. Come feed me."

Vivaan dissolved into laughter again. He always did crumble at her theatrics. "I want some too if Bhabhi made it," he said, eyes lighting up.

So there we were, the three of us gathered around Maa’s bed.

Diya sat closest to her, feeding her small spoonfuls of porridge. And every few bites, she tilted the spoon toward Vivaan too, because he kept staring at us like a starving puppy.

I fed pieces of fruits to both of them, silently watching the scene settle around me.

The view before me was the warmest thing I'd ever seen inside these walls.

Maa's real and unguarded smile. Vivaan's laughter echoing against the walls. Diya fitting into the moment like she had always belonged to it.

It struck me then, the weight of it. This snapshot of closeness. The quiet, domestic softness I hadn't felt in... I didn't even know how long.

After Maa finished eating, Diya and I carried the bowls out together. Our movements aligned effortlessly, as if we had done this a hundred times before.

We cleaned up in silence.

When we were done, we headed toward the stairs. We'd barely taken two steps when she slowed beside me.

"Can we check on her once more?" she asked.

There was no part of me that could deny her that. I just nodded, and we turned back down the hallway together.

We were just a step away from entering Maa's room again, when the door swung open and Vanraj Malhotra stepped out.

My body went still.

Not from surprise. He has never startled me a day in his life. But because seeing him standing in her space always struck something bitter inside me.

I didn't speak, didn't offer a greeting, didn't acknowledge him in the smallest way. I just waited for him to move so we could go inside.

He didn't.

Instead, he looked at me - that familiar sharpness in his eyes, like every word he spoke was a verdict.

"Where were you?"

I didn't answer.

Not because I lacked one... but because none of it belonged to him.

His jaw flexed once, a small violent tick under the skin, before the accusation dropped.

"Where were you," he said, each word clipped and icy, "when your beloved mother was lying unconscious in the kitchen?"

The sentence hit like a blow.

Beside me, Diya went completely still. Her steps, her shoulders, her breath - everything paused.

She shifted closer to me without realizing it.

And for one sharp heartbeat, all I wanted was to pull her behind me, shield her from this ugliness she never deserved to witness.

"Diya," I said quietly, turning just enough to face her while refusing to acknowledge him. "Can you get my phone from our room?"

I didn't need my phone. We both knew it wasn't about the phone. It was about her, about keeping her away from words meant to wound.

Her eyes flicked up to mine, one quick, searching glance and the understanding settled between us without a single word.

She nodded once and walked away. Her footsteps faded down the hallway.

As soon as Diya disappeared around the corner, something in the hallway shifted. Like the air knew she was gone and the moment knew it could turn cruel now.

"Why did you send her away?" he snapped, stepping forward. "Let her stay. Let her see for herself how irresponsible you are."

The words hit a place in me I didn't touch often. My jaw clenched, my pulse jumped and heat rolled up my spine so fast it felt like my skin was burning.

I met his gaze for the first time that evening, something hard settling behind my ribs.

"Don't drag her into this," I said, voice low and even. "I won't say it again."

That should've been the end of it.

But he never knew when to stop.

His mouth twisted into a mocking smile, one he'd perfected over years of speaking only to belittle.

"Oh? Look at that. You finally found your voice." He drawled.

I didn't react.

He wanted that.

He wanted anger, a crack, a flinch, any sign he could still pull a response out of me. But I'd outgrown reacting to his performance.

He wanted to see himself reflected in me, he always had. And silence unnerved him more than rage ever could.

My voice came out steady, low, controlled to the point of cold. "Who allowed you to step into this room?"

His eyes narrowed, offense simmering under his skin. "Allowed?" he echoed. "I am her husband."

A humorless laugh escaped me. "Husband," I repeated, the word falling flat, stripped of any dignity he thought it carried.

His gaze hardened, sharpening like he was picking up an old weapon he knew how to use well.

"Weren't you always the concerned son?" he asked, his voice dripping with ridicule that made my skin crawl. "Then where were you when she actually needed you?"

"Stop pretending to be the good son, Vedant," he went on. "You can't even do the bare minimum. Responsibility clearly isn't something you're capable of."

The accusation wasn't new. It wasn't creative. He'd been throwing the same blade for years, just sharpening it differently every time.

And still, it struck because he knew exactly where to aim it. I stayed silent, refused to hand him the satisfaction of flinching.

"You stay quiet when you're supposed to take accountability," he pressed, tone rising a notch. "You stay quiet when someone shows you reality. You only find your voice when it's convenient for you."

"Are you done?" I asked.

The question didn't need volume.

It slipped out sharp and quiet, right where it would hurt most - straight into the center of his carefully polished ego.

The reaction was immediate.

His lips thinned into a hard line, the skin around them tightening. A moment of speechlessness he couldn't mask.

For a man who lived on dominance, silence was humiliation.

He had nothing else left to throw. So he stepped past me, his shoulder brushing mine in a way that was meant to assert something: authority, superiority, whatever he was still clinging to.

I didn't step back.

I walked into the room right after him.

The atmosphere changed the second I crossed the threshold. The tension of the hallway dissolved into the soft hush of a dimly lit bedroom.

Maa was asleep, her breathing deeper now.

Vivaan sat beside her, elbows on his knees, his posture slumped.

I moved closer, lowering my voice so it didn't disturb her. "Did he say anything?" I asked.

Vivaan shook his head. "He just asked about her health," he murmured. His eyes flicked toward the closed door. "He didn't say anything else."

Relief and resentment tangled inside my chest in a way I didn't have the energy to unpack.

I let out a slow exhale, the kind that carried the weight of everything I'd been holding in since the phone lit up with eleven missed calls.

Vivaan looked up at me, the worry in his eyes replaced by something steadier. "Don't worry, bhai," he said softly, "I'm staying with her tonight."

A tight knot eased at the base of my throat. I nodded once, a small movement that carried everything I didn't have words for.

And then I left.

The moment I stepped into the hallway, the house began to feel too small around me.

Too heavy with everything I hadn't processed — the leftover panic clinging to my ribs, the guilt refusing to loosen its grip, his words scraping over old wounds like they were fresh.

Even the air felt wrong in my lungs, too thick to swallow.

So I pulled open the main door and stepped out. The night met me with a silence that wasn't soft at all.

I rolled my bike out with jerky hands and impatient movements. The metal burned cold against my fingers, but I barely felt it.

The engine roared to life. The sound was too loud, too sharp, but I didn't wait for it to settle. I just needed to move.

I rolled forward, the driveway sliding under my wheels. I was almost past the main gate, almost into the dark road where I could outrun the last ten minutes, when it happened...

“Vedant!”

I froze. Everything inside me stilled.

The bike hummed beneath me but felt miles away. The wind froze mid strike against my jaw. The anger burning low in my chest collapsed and bowed to that voice.

My fingers tightened on the throttle, but the rest of me... went completely still.

Because some sounds reach your body before they ever reach your mind.

Her voice was one of them.

His voice was soft when he said it.

"Diya... can you get my phone from our room?"

The request wasn't about the phone. I knew it in the way you know a storm before the clouds even gather.

It was about escape, about space, about the way his jaw had turned to stone the moment his father walked out.

But I still nodded.

Not because he needed the phone, but because I understand the kind of desperation that makes a person send you away.

I don't like his father.

I didn't like the tone he used.

It wasn't his fault, not even a little, yet he got talked to like absence was a sin and duty was only proven by standing in the room.

It unsettled and irritated me, in that helpless way where you want to step in but you know you shouldn't.

I didn't want to intrude. Didn't want to stand between him and the space he clearly needed, especially when he asked for it in the quietest way.

So I kept walking.

My feet knew what to do, but my heart lagged behind, refusing to leave him in that moment.

By the time I reached the room, my fingers were trembling around the doorknob. Not from fear but from the familiar, nauseating feeling of being in a house where raised voices lived in the walls.

I spotted his phone on the nightstand and grabbed it quickly, wanting to return to him as soon as possible.

But as I reached the staircase, I stilled. I saw him walking out of the house, his steps sharp and hurried.

I didn't think, my body did.

My feet carried me back into the room, my hand snatching up his helmet before the thought even formed.

My gut whispered something cold and certain, and I couldn't ignore it.

I rushed after him, because every second felt wrong. I followed the path he'd taken, through the open door.

And then I saw him.

He was already on his bike, leaving in a reckless blur... without his phone, without his helmet, without a single thought for himself.

My heart lurched violently.

And before I could stop myself, before hesitation could wrap it's fingers around my throat, before doubt could choke the sound back down, the word tore out of me, raw and instinctive.

"Vedant!"

It rang through the air harder than a shout should.

The bike shuddered to a stop beneath him as if the sound alone had cut the engine.

He went still.

Then slowly turned, slow enough that I felt each second land heavy in my chest.

And then those stormheavy eyes found me.

I stayed frozen at my spot. The echo of his name still trembled in my mouth, and the realization that I had said it like that made heat crawl up my spine.

He switched off the engine, got down, and started walking toward my direction. Slow, certain and unblinking.

I lifted the helmet in one hand, his phone in the other. A reason for why I had called out to him with that desperate edge.

He didn't even glance at them.

When he reached me, his hand came beneath my knees in one fluid movement, the other slid around my torso with a certainty that sent heat rushing up my neck.

Before I could understand what was happening, the ground slipped away from me.

My breath stuttered as he lifted me, my body rising effortlessly into the cradle of his arms. Shock burst through me in a cold rush and a warm one all at once.

My eyes flew wide. One hand clutched his shoulder on instinct, fingers curling into the fabric. The other held on to the helmet, suspended helplessly in the air.

He didn't look at me, didn't speak, didn't acknowledge the shock radiating off my skin.

He just gathered me close, as if I weighed nothing, and started walking toward the house.

I was too stunned to speak. Words wouldn't have survived in my throat even if I tried.

When we reached the entrance, he lowered me gently. His hands slowly slipping away from me.

He straightened.

Eyes finally meeting mine.

"Don't walk barefoot from here," he said quietly. His gaze flicked to the gravel path behind us, then back to my feet. "The gravel will hurt you."

For a second, my soul didn't return to my body.

I could have walked.

I should have walked.

He didn't need to carry me.

And he definitely didn't need to make a habit of sweeping me up every time something felt a little off, as if I'm weightless.

But the thought dissolved as quickly as it came.

"Where were you going without a helmet?" I finally asked, forcing my voice to move past the lump sitting tight in my throat. "You know that's dangerous... right?"

The question came out softer than I intended, softer than anger would've allowed.

Because I wanted to be angry at him - for leaving like that, for riding off recklessly, for scaring me in ways I didn't have the vocabulary to confess.

But I swallowed it down.

I saved the anger for later, choosing instead to speak in a low, careful voice, not wanting to add even a gram more hurt to whatever his father had already put on his shoulders.

"Wear your helmet," I said gently, extending it toward him when he didn't say a single word.

He took it without breaking eye contact. Even as he slipped it on, his gaze stayed on my face, quiet and unreadable.

"Take your phone," I said next, offering it to him.

He brushed my fingers as he took it, then tucked it into his pocket.

I drew in a breath.

"Don't go above sixty," I said firmly, turning to walk back inside before worry could slip into my tone.

I barely took a single step when his fingers wrapped around my wrist, stopping me.

I looked up.

"Stay here," he said quietly, and disappeared inside before I could ask anything.

I waited exactly where he'd left me, confusion curling in my stomach, counting heartbeats instead of minutes until he walked back out.

He came back holding another helmet, my phone... and my shoes.

My shoes?

Before I could even form a question, he stepped in front of me.

Without a single word, he placed the helmet over my head, adjusting it with careful fingers.

My chin lifted instinctively when his fingers brushed the buckle, letting him fasten it even though confusion twisted in my chest.

He pressed my phone into my palm. Then crouched a little, steadying my ankle gently as he slid my shoes on one by one.

"What-" I started, the word still forming on my tongue when he cut in.

"You're coming with me to make sure I don't go above sixty," he said, already walking toward his bike like the decision wasn't just made, it was inevitable.

I stood there for a full second, stunned, trying to make sense of the last five minutes that had unfolded like some strange, quiet dream.

But my feet moved before my mind caught up, following him because there was nowhere else they wanted to go.

I climbed on behind him, and this time my hands didn't hesitate. They slid around his torso naturally, like muscle memory.

His shoulders softened just a little.

And just like that, we were on another bike ride.

The city glowed around us, still awake under the ten p.m. sky. Lights blurred into soft gold streaks, the air cool against my cheeks, the steady hum of the engine beneath us was strangely calming.

I thought he would take us to that same quiet garden as before, the one tucked away from the outside world.

But he surprised me.

He turned onto a nearly empty stretch of road, open and silent except for the soft hum of the streetlamps painting the pavement in yellow.

He slowed, then stopped the bike.

I leaned back slowly, letting my hands fall away from his torso, the warmth of him lingering against my palms even after I'd pulled them back.

"Diya..." he said, turning just enough that I could see part of his face under the streetlight. "You said you like bikes, right?"

I hummed a small "Hmm," in response, a sound more like breath than word.

His gaze lingered on me for a heartbeat brfore asking quietly. "Do you want to try riding it?"

My head snapped up. "I can?"

The excitement slipped out before I could cage it, bright and embarrassingly obvious in my voice.

Something softened in his expression. "Yes," he replied. "You can."

"But... I don't-" The confession almost fluttered out of me like a nervous breath.

"I'll teach you," he said before I could even complete the sentence. His eyes steady on me as though that alone was enough to convince me I could.

One moment we were standing on the side of the road. The next, I was seated on his bike in his place, my fingers hovering awkwardly over the handles while he slid into the space behind me.

His knees brushed the outside of my thighs, warm through the fabric. His chest hovered a breath behind my back, close enough that the night didn't feel cold anymore.

Then his hands came over mine, guiding and patient. His fingers curled around my fingers on the handlebars.

"Alright," he murmured, voice low, the night folding around us as though it wanted to listen, "let's start from the basics."

I nodded, I was trying to look confident, chin lifted and eyes forward but inside, my heart was doing cartwheels.

"This," he said, curling my fingers correctly around the left handle, "is the clutch. You'll use it every time you start moving."

He guided each of my fingers like they were fragile things he didn't want to mishandle. He didn't need to be that gentle, but he was.

"And this," he continued, his palm sliding over the back of my right hand, enclosing it with warmth, "is the accelerator."

I nodded, trying to look very serious and capable.

"Now," he said, voice dropping slightly, "press the clutch fully. All the way."

I pressed it, my fingers tightening around the cold metal, and I felt his presence behind me shift subtly.

He leaned in closer to check my wrist position. "Good," he murmured, the word settling against my skin more than my ears.

I held still, waiting, every part of me tuned to his next instruction.

"And when I say slowly," he continued, his hands guiding mine with precision, "I mean slow. No sudden movements, no jolting, no-"

I released the clutch a little.

The bike lurched forward, sharp and unsteady, like something startled from sleep.

A small, helpless squeak escaped me.

He didn't make a sound.

His arm wrapped around my waist instantly, anchoring me, pulling me back against him before balance could slip.

His chest steadied my spine, a firm wall of warmth behind me.

"Sorry," I whispered mortified, guilty for almost killing us while he's trying to keep us alive.

He let out a slow, controlled exhale. It was a long breath, like he'd been holding it without realizing.

"It's fine," he said, voice quiet in the dark. "Just... don't let go suddenly."

"Okay," I breathed.

He adjusted my wrists again, fingertips brushing along the back of my hand.

"Now clutch in. All the way."

I followed the instruction without question.

"Good. Now start releasing... very slowly." His palm stayed over mine, guiding each fraction of movement.

His voice dropped, warm and steady, threading through the quiet. "Easy... easy... that's it... keep going..."

The bike began to creep forward, smooth and alive under us.

My breath hitched.

"You're doing it," he murmured, the words so close they grazed the skin just behind my ear.

Joy exploded through me. I grinned so hard it felt like my cheeks might crack.

The tiny thrill of controlling the bike, of making it move on my own, lifted me straight into a ridiculous kind of happiness.

His arm around my waist loosened slowly, carefully, giving me space while still hovering close enough to catch me if I stumbled.

"Eyes ahead," he instructed, tone suddenly sharper.

"They are ahead," I replied confidently.

"They're in the mirror," he said flatly.

Every cell in my body died and resurrected in humiliation. I snapped my gaze forward so fast my neck almost made a sound.

He adjusted the angle of my elbows, and each time I wobbled, even a little, he held me, steady and sure.

And every time he leaned forward to explain something: clutch, brake, throttle, his breath ghosted across my skin and he inhaled like he needed to reset himself.

Slowly, the bike found a rhythm, and so did we.

I rode a few shaky, glorious meters, the world swaying beneath me. My body trembled with adrenaline and wonder, but I didn't fall. He was right there, warm and constant behind me.

When I finally braked, too fast obviously, his hands closed firmly over mine, steadying the controls.

I twisted back to look at him, unable to contain the happiness bubbling in my chest.

"Did you see that?" The words came out breathless.

He nodded, eyes soft and utterly sincere.

"I did it," I said, almost in disbelief, waiting for him to confirm, waiting for his approval because I couldn't believe that I actually rode a bike.

"Yes, you did," he said patting my helmet twice.

I need to show this to Tara. "Can I video call Tara?" I asked him.

His brows lifted slightly. "You want to show her?"

I nodded, probably far too eagerly, probably like a child showing off a drawing.

He let out a quiet breath. "You don't need anyone's permission to call your friend," he said. "Just call her."

I didn't waste another second.

I fumbled with my phone, my excitement almost spilling out of my fingers. Before the call even connected, I was already grinning.

Tara's face filled the screen on the second ring.

"HELLO?" she shouted immediately, then froze mid sentence. "Why are you wearing a helmet? Did someone kidnap you? Blink twice if-"

"I rode a bike," I blurted, unable to contain it, the words tumbling out with a grin that stretched my entire face.

Her jaw dropped.

"YOU DID WHAT?"

I nodded, trying desperately to contain the explosion of joy inside me. "I rode a bike. Me. I drove it."

"Oh my god! Show me right now." Her voice jumped an octave.

I angled the camera a little, letting her see the empty street, the bike beneath me... and accidentally, him. Sitting behind me silently, visor up and the night painted across his shoulders.

Tara sucked in a sharp breath.

"Oh- wow. Your husband is right there, behind you."

Her expression shifted into pure wicked delight. "So you're basically sitting in his lap."

"TARA," I whispered sharply, horror blooming across my face.

"What?" she blinked, feigning innocence. "I'm just saying that seat looks very... shared. Like legally, you might be married now."

Heat shot up my neck. "We will talk later," I blurted, panic bubbling straight to my throat.

"Wait-"

I hung up.

I didn't wait for another syllable. I killed the call like I was defusing an explosive, screen going black in my hand.

Silence rushed back in.

The empty road, the streetlight glow, the late night, the bike beneath us, everything fell still.

My heart thudded like it wanted to escape my chest. My face burned, hot enough that the helmet might have steamed from the inside.

Behind me, I felt him shift barely.

I cleared my throat, a ridiculous cough, as if that could erase the memory of Tara's voice echoing in both our heads.

For a long moment, we didn't speak.

Then his voice broke the quiet, low and controlled. "Do you want to try one more time?" he asked.

I didn't trust my throat to behave, so I just shook my head once.

"Alright," he said softly. "Let's head back then." He got off the bike first. The movement was slower this time, more careful.

I followed, swinging my leg over and landing on the road beside him. The street felt wider when I was standing on it.

He reached up to fix the strap of his helmet.

I watched him for a moment, and before I could overthink it, the words slipped out. "I'm hungry."

His fingers froze on the helmet strap.

A faint crease appeared between his brows, small and genuine, like he was trying to understand what universe had led me to say that.

"You're hungry?" he asked, as if he needed to confirm it.

I nodded.

I wasn't actually hungry.

But he hadn't eaten anything since coming back from the office, and after the way the evening had unfolded, the idea of him going to sleep on an empty stomach felt unbearably wrong.

He swung one leg over the bike and sat. I climbed on behind him, settling into the familiar space.

"What do you want to eat?" he asked, voice quiet under the streetlight.

"Wait," I said, pulling out my phone.

Earlier, at a red signal, I had messaged Vivaan. 'What does your brother like to eat?'

I opened his chat.

Vivaan: he loves vada pav

"Vada pav," I replied.

The reaction was instant.

He turned toward me so sharply the movement looked nearly painful.

"You like vada pav?" His voice pitched higher than it had been all evening, a note of surprise, almost disbelief.

"I love vada pav," I answered with more enthusiasm than intended, partly to sound convincing, partly because it might've been true.

The way he had turned to me, that quick snap of attention, that sudden brightness in his voice, told me more than any confession ever could.

He absolutely loved vada pav.

He didn't say anything after that. He just faced forward again, started the bike, and we slipped back into motion.

The speed was a little higher now, as if some part of him wanted us to reach the destination quickly. I held onto him a little tighter, the wind sliding around us in long, rushing ribbons.

Buildings rose around us, glass, steel, familiar lines, and the air felt oddly known.

The streets, the glow of the signs, the late night traffic... and then he rode past our firm.

Within minutes, he slowed and pulled over beside a small shop tucked into the corner of the street.

It was nothing extravagant, just a modest storefront washed in mustard yellow, glowing like a warm pocket of light in the night.

It looked homely, and had a tiny seating area inside that looked impossibly cozy.

The most amusing thing about this place was its name.

Just "Vada Pav." Bold letters on a faded mustard board. Nothing before, nothing after, as if the food itself was a full sentence.

We stepped inside. It was eleven p.m., yet people still sat at tables, eating, laughing, and chatting.

We chose a corner. It was slightly tucked away, half in shadow, half in glow.

I reached for the menu, it had exactly one line.

Vada Pav.

That was all.

No forty seven types of cheese, no peri peri or paneer tikka experiments, no strange "fusion" crimes against humanity.

The simplicity made me weirdly impressed. I felt a sudden, ridiculous affection for this menu.

"I'll go place the order," I said, half rising from my seat. But before I could fully stand, his hand held mine and I found myself sitting back down.

"You don't need to order," he said quietly.

"Why?" I blinked. Everyone else was walking to the counter and shouting things over the noise. It was clearly a self service place.

He didn't respond.

At that exact moment, a man in an apron approached our table carrying two fresh vada pavs.

He set them down with practiced ease, nodded at him like greeting an old friend, and walked away.

I blinked. "...Oh. Are you a regular here?" I asked, genuinely curious.

His eyes didn't lift from the food, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Kind of," he said, unwrapping a vada pav and holding it out for me. The paper was warm against my fingers when I took it from him.

He unwrapped his own, folded the paper neatly, and took a quiet bite.

"Is it good?" I asked.

He lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug.

"You tell me."

I bit into mine.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the flavours bloomed inside my mouth. It was simple and perfect in a way that caught me off guard.

"It's good," I murmured, mostly to myself, still chewing.

He nodded, his eyes resting on me rather than his food, watching as I took another bite with more confidence this time.

I suddenly understood why he liked this place. Why he came here often enough that he didn't need to order. "It's really good," I added, wiping a crumb from my lip.

"Don't you think the name of this place is funny?" I asked, taking another bite.

He looked at me, genuinely puzzled. "How is it funny?"

"I mean," I said, gesturing vaguely at the signboard outside, "it looks like the owner was starving, opened a shop, and didn't have the energy to think of anything else. They just named it vada pav and went home."

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn't smile.

"No," he said, tone unexpectedly serious. "I think the owner was too focused on the recipe to waste time on a fancy name. That's probably why it's good."

I blinked, surprised at how earnestly he said it.

"That's actually better than fancy names," I admitted, finishing the last bite.

"Do you want another?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No. I'm full."

Honestly, I hadn't expected it to be so filling, but it settled warmly inside me, heavy in the best way.

And since I was full, I assumed he must be too.

We stood up.

I wanted this to be my treat, just something small I could do for him after such a long, heavy day. So I headed toward the billing counter.

Before I could take more than two steps, he caught my hand. The grip was gentle, but there was no mistaking the intention.

He looped his arm through my elbow, slid his hand into the pocket of his jacket, and started guiding me toward the exit.

My eyes widened.

"We forgot to pay," I said as we stepped outside - or rather, as he walked confidently and I was politely dragged along.

"We don't need to," he replied, fastening his helmet. His tone wasn't smug, it was simply... matter of fact.

"Why? Do you own this place?" I asked, hands planted on my waist, sarcasm dripping from my voice.

He didn't answer.

He simply reached out, lifted the helmet, and settled it over my head. Then he walked to his bike and climbed on as if nothing remotely unusual had happened.

As if we hadn't just eaten and walked out like ghosts.

"Get on," he said.

I didn't move.

"I'm not leaving without paying," I stated firmly, crossing my arms.

The streetlight painted a soft gold across his visor.

For a moment he just looked at me, engine humming beneath him, as though he was weighing the best way to respond.

He let out a quiet sigh, the kind that carried the weight of patience, like he'd been expecting this argument.

"I'll deduct it from your stipend," he said calmly. "Can we go now?"

For a second, I genuinely couldn't tell if he was joking. "What do you mean?" I asked, eyebrows pulling together.

He didn't look at me when he answered. "It means we just ate at my shop," he said simply, "and you don't need to pay."

Then, as if this wasn't the single most unhinged revelation of the night, he sat straighter on the bike and repeated his words like a command he had no intention of repeating.

"Get on."

I didn't move. My feet stayed anchored on the pavement, my mind had fallen through a trapdoor.

His shop?

I stared at his calm posture, absolutely unable to connect this man with the image in my head of someone who... owned a vada pav shop.

I climbed onto the seat after a moment, but my brain stayed behind.

I'd heard jokes about CEOs having underground lives, mafia connections, secret networks.

Was his version of organized crime... vada pav? Was I sitting behind a vada pav mafia boss right now?

The absurdity of it wrapped around me so thoroughly that I didn't even notice when the city blurred by.

Streetlights, wind, motion - all passing in a haze while my mind tried to rearrange itself around the idea of him casually owning a street food shop.

By the time I realized we were moving, we were already there.

I was seconds away from pushing the main door open when my jacket didn't move with me.

I felt a small tug.

When I turned around, I saw her fingers holding the sleeve of my jacket. Her grip wasn't strong, it was careful, like she was testing the weight of the moment.

When I glanced down, she met my eyes. Hesitant, soft, and so painfully sincere that it made something in my chest go unsteady.

It looked like she was sorting through a hundred words before choosing the smallest ones. "You know it wasn't your fault... right?"

My breath thinned.

Those eyes - wide and honest in a way that made it impossible to lie to her, and impossible to tell the truth.

It wasn't my fault, I knew that. But I should've been there. That's the part that won't leave me alone, the part sitting in my chest like a stone.

Her bambi eyes could make a man believe in gentle things, but they couldn't undo what was already carved into me.

Her fingers were still on my sleeve, gentle and hesitant.

"It's okay if you couldn't be there," she said. Her voice was soft and careful. "I was there."

"Vivaan was there," she added, like she wanted to stack reasons until they were enough.

"She's fine. The doctor said it's nothing to worry about. He gave her medicine to make her feel better and she's okay now."

I tilted my head, just a fraction.

Trying to understand her. Trying to understand how she was comforting me without even knowing she was doing it.

"She wasn't lying unconscious in the kitchen," she murmured, looking away. "Vivaan took her to her room. She was conscious. Just weak."

Then she lifted her gaze again, straight into mine. There was no hesitation now, just quiet insistence.

"Don't feel bad, okay?" she asked.

Her tone was gentle, almost childish in its coaxing, like she was trying to convince me to put down something heavy even though she couldn't see its shape.

Something in my chest went unbearably warm.

I stood there, absorbing it. All of it. The heat radiating off her, the calm in her voice, the quiet certainty that the world hadn't ended even though my mind insisted it had.

I couldn't speak.

Words felt useless. Too small for what she was giving me just by standing there and not looking away.

She didn't move.

"Okay?" she asked again, softer this time. Like she wasn't going to step inside until I answered, like my silence mattered.

I nodded. "Okay."

It came out quieter than I expected. Almost obedient. I wasn't proud of that, but I didn't fight it either.

Her mouth pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile, but close enough to warm the corners of my chest.

Her fingers loosened from my sleeve one by one, slipping away slowly, and then she turned and walked inside.

I stayed on the threshold, letting the evening rest on me.

It had been a strange night. Heavy in some places, unexpectedly gentle in others. My chest felt too full and too empty at the same time.

And then the memory of my name on her lips slipped in.

Vedant.

I kept hearing it, turning it over in my mind like something small and warm in my palm. She had said my name, for the first time.

I remember freezing on the bike. Every muscle, every thought, turned to stone at the sound of my name.

But when I turned around and saw her standing barefoot on the gravel path, something inside me tightened painfully. Even now the memory rattles me.

For a moment, I forgot the sound of my name, forgot the way she stood there with my helmet in her hands, forgot how she spoke to me like she was speaking to a child she didn't want to frighten.

Only now, looking back, do I realise it. How desperately I had wanted to hear my name from her lips again.

When I stepped inside the house, my feet carried me straight to Maa's room. My mind wouldn't settle until I knew she was breathing easily and sleeping peacefully.

I opened the door slowly.

She was asleep.

Vivaan had fallen asleep too, curled awkwardly on the other side of the bed. His hand was near hers, as if he had been holding it before drifting off.

I crossed the room and sat on the edge of the mattress.

Her face looked pale under the lamp, and a loose strand of hair lay across her forehead. I reached out and slowly brushed it back.

Her hand lifted and found mine before I could pull away. Warm fingers wrapped around my knuckles as she pressed my palm to her cheek.

Her voice came out low, without opening her eyes. "When you were five, you used to cling to me whenever I fell sick."

The memory hit me with the soft force of truth.

"Even when the disease was contagious, you wouldn't let me go," she murmured, her eyes opening slowly.

Her mouth curved with memory, faint and fond.

"I thought now my Vedant is almost twenty nine. He has different responsibilities. He has built his own firm, made his own name. He is not that restless five year old boy anymore."

She lifted her hand and cupped my face with the same tenderness she used when I was small. Her thumb brushed my cheekbone.

"But look at you," she whispered. "Beating yourself up for nothing."

"It's not nothing, Maa." The words scraped their way out of my throat. "I should've been there when you needed me."

She glanced at the clock, then back at me.

"Aren't you here now?" she asked quietly. "At midnight, after a long day at work?"

I exhaled, long and uneven. I had no answer that sounded sensible.

Her smile changed into something softer, almost amused now.

"Go sleep," she said, squeezing my hand. "I'm fine. Stop behaving like I'm dying."

"Maa." It came out sharper than I meant, frustration tangled with fear. "Don't say things like that."

"We're going to the hospital tomorrow," I told her. It wasn't up for debate. "Just for a full check up."

She let out a small breath, eyes slipping closed again, her voice barely more than a sigh.

"I'm really fine, Vedant."

I didn't believe her.

Her eyelids fluttered again. "Fine," she whispered. "Go sleep now."

Her fingers loosened from mine and her breathing evened out within seconds. She was already falling back asleep.

I stayed there for a moment longer, watching her, letting the relief sink just a little deeper than the guilt.

Vivaan shifted on the other side, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep. I pulled the blanket up over his shoulder too.

Then I stood, stepped out quietly, and closed the door without letting it click.

I passed the living room and picked up the bag of string lights I had abandoned earlier.

When I reached our room, I pushed the door open and saw Diya sitting on the edge of the bed.

Her posture straightened the moment she saw me. "Is she resting well?" she asked, getting to her feet.

I gave her a reassuring nod.

Relief passed over her features, subtle but visible.

I walked further into the room, closing the door with a soft click behind us. Then I held the bag out to her.

She looked from me to the bag, brow furrowing. "What is this?"

"Open it," I said, even though half of me wasn't sure why I was nervous.

I didn't realize how much I wanted to see her reaction until the words left me.

She reached inside, fingers brushing against cardboard. When she pulled the box out, her eyes widened just a little.

"Fairy lights...?" she murmured.

I cleared my throat, suddenly aware of my own awkwardness. "I saw them in your room..." The words drifted out before I knew what I planned to say next.

Her eyes were on me now: patient, curious, and waiting.

"And..." I trailed off, scrambling for something that didn't sound ridiculous. Something that didn't sound like I had gone into her room and memorized the things she liked.

"And?" she prompted, still waiting, the slightest tilt to her head.

"...and I found them cool," I finished, after a painfully long pause. "So I thought we could put them up here too."

She gave me a long, unreadable look. A quiet one, like she was checking if she should believe me.

Then she simply said, "Okay."

I exhaled without meaning to. "Can you help me put them up?" I asked. “I don't know where they should go.”

I said it lightly, but what I really meant was: choose the place and make this room feel a little more like yours.

She took her time, looking around carefully.

Her eyes moved from wall to window, to the space above the headboard. I watched her think, her fingers tapping lightly against the box, like she was drawing lines in her mind.

Finally, she pointed.

"They'll look good here," she said, indicating the wall beside the bed.

I nodded. Of course they would.

She opened the box with that careful, almost ritualistic concentration, and I just stood there uselessly with a bag in my hand until she finished sorting them into a neat, long strand.

She stretched it once, testing the length, then looked at the wall she'd picked.

"Get on the bed," she said.

I blinked. "Why?"

"So you can hang the lights?" Her tone was flat, but her eyes carried the slightest spark, the kind she didn't notice she had.

I climbed onto the mattress. The springs dipped under my weight, the headboard nudged my knee.

She stepped closer and handed me one end of the lights, careful not to tangle them.

I lifted my hand to hand the first wire.

"No. Higher," she instructed.

I raised my hand.

"Higher."

I reached further.

Her exhale came sharp and judgmental, like a teacher who had already lost hope in her brightest student.

“God give me strength.” I muttered.

She stepped up onto the bed beside me. The mattress dipped under her weight, bringing us close enough that her shoulder brushed mine.

She didn't seem to notice; she was already focused on the wall.

Her arm lifted as she reached up, fingertips guiding the wire into a gentle curve.

"Here," she murmured, her voice brushing the moment as lightly as her touch. She tilted my wrist a little. "It'll fall better like this."

She leaned in a little more, looping the middle section of the lights along the wall. Her hair fell forward, hiding half her face, strands brushing my arm when she moved.

"Can I ask you something?" she said, eyes still on the lights.

I made a low sound of acknowledgement. My hands were full, my mind was not.

"Do you really own that vada pav shop?" she asked, carefully hooking the next bit of wire.

Heat crawled up the back of my neck.

God! This was humiliating.

"Yes," I said, voice low.

She finally glanced at me, surprised. "So you weren't joking?"

"Why would they let us leave without any questions if I was joking?" I muttered.

She paused, considering that, then nodded slowly. "When did you open it?"

"Four years ago," I said, gathering another section of the lights to unlatch them from a knot.

Her head snapped toward me.

"Four!?" The shock shot through her voice.

The string slipped in her hands for a moment. She steadied it quickly, but her eyes were still wide.

She wasn't judging, she was genuinely stunned.

"Do you love vada pav that much?" she asked, lifting another strand, her fingers working neatly as she looped it across the wall.

"How do you know I love vada pav?" I asked curiously.

She shrugged, eyes flicking to mine for a second before returning to her task.

"Only someone who loves vada pav would open a vada pav shop while running an entire firm. Nobody sane does that for fun."

Her logic was absurdly simple, and uncomfortably accurate.

"Pass me the next section," she said - not a request, just a calm command spoken through concentration.

I handed it to her.

She reached up again.

Then she laughed under her breath. Almost to herself.

It wasn't loud enough to be a proper laugh. Just a small release of amusement that curved the corner of her mouth.

"Did you name your shop while having a vada pav?" she burst out laughing midsentence.

The sound of it hit me like a warm gust. Soft, sudden, bubbling out of her without hesitation.

I just stared.

I didn't answer fast enough, which only encouraged her.

"Is that why you were defending the owner for naming it 'Vada Pav'?" she asked, laughter spilling again.

I cleared my throat, dignity disintegrating by the second. "You said it was better than any other name," I protested, because that was the only shield I had left.

She shook her head, still smiling, still focused on the lights. "If your employees ever find out that their CEO owns a vada pav shop two minutes from the office," she said, "you will lose all your aura."

Her tone was teasing, but there was an odd affection in it, hidden under the joke.

I swallowed a retort.

The truth was — I didn't care about what my employee thought about me. I cared that she was laughing.

Her shoulders moved with a quiet chuckle.

"You're the only one who knows about it," I said quietly.

She didn't look surprised, didn't even pause. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me," she replied, hanging the last loop of lights with steady fingers.

She stepped back, studying her work. "Turn on the switch."

I crossed to the wall and flicked it.

The room transformed.

The lights draped across the wall in a soft arc, warm and golden, spilling their glow over everything.

It felt like a memory, like the night I had slept in her room, surrounded by this same quiet warmth.

The glow hit her face first.

Softening the angles, catching in her hair, turning her eyes into dark pools of light. She stood there, still for a moment, looking at the wall she had decorated.

She studied it for a few seconds, lips pursed. "This needs a little fixing," she decided, reaching for the highest strand.

She rose onto her toes, stretching, fingers brushing the top layer. The lights swayed above her, catching in her hair.

She tried to adjust them gently, without disturbing anything else.

And then a tiny shift happened.

The smallest loss of balance, her body tipped.

I didn't think, my hands were already moving. I reached out, catching her by the waist, pulling her into me before she could fall.

Her hand fisted into my shirt on instinct. But instead of keeping us steady, her weight shifted back, mine came forward, and gravity did the rest.

We fell.

The mattress took us in with a sudden dip, the fairy lights quivering against the wall like startled fireflies.

The room went still. A breathless pause, suspended between one heartbeat and the next.

Neither of us moved.

Her eyes were wide, dark and startled, the pupils blown with something that was not fear but very close to it.

Her breath snagged against my collarbone, warm and uneven.

Her fingers were still fisted in my shirt. My hands still held her, unsure where to go, unwilling to go anywhere.

My heart hammered too fast, too loud… until I understood that the echo wasn’t just mine.

I could hear her heartbeat. Feel it. A fast, urgent flutter pressed against my chest, like small wings beating against glass, desperate to get out.

She tilted her face up, slow and careful, eyes lifting to find mine. Our noses were a breath apart. Her exhale brushed my mouth, soft and unsteady, as if the air between us had turned fragile.

Her breathing tried for calm but kept betraying her, held in a body that didn’t know how to be still.

The fairy lights cast a soft haze over the room, gold scattered over walls and sheets, turning everything unfamiliar.

Every part of our bodies went still.

Only our hearts continued, urgent and loud, knocking against each other through fabric and ribs, as if they were having a conversation our bodies hadn’t found words for yet.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Hi everyone (:

I sincerely apologise for the delays you’ve had to face so far. I totally understand the frustration and  disappointment. I don’t have any explanation for anything, and I’m genuinely sorry for making you all wait.

From this point on, there won’t be a schedule for this book anymore.

I also want to clear something up. When I said that you could stop reading if the pace was too slow, I never meant that in a rude/dismissive way. I didn’t want anyone to feel unwelcome or hurt by those words and I’m sorry if they did.

I don’t ever want to guilt trip/pressure/threaten you all for anything. I just want you to know that I would never use your love for this story against you. That’s not who I am, and that’s not how I want this space to feel.

Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter.

This one turned out longer than usual, since I ended up combining two chapters into a single update.

Vote and comment if you feel like it 🤍

Thankyou for being here.

Happy reading!

— M 💌