The night spread wide around the estate, thick and quiet. Beyond the balcony railings, the grounds dissolved into shadow, paths and trees swallowed whole by the dark.

The world moved the way it always did, indifferent and endless, carrying on without noticing anything at all.

From this distance, their room appeared as nothing more than a square of light still lit in the vastness of the house.

Inside, the night lost its edge.

The air was soft and slow, as if it had learned the rhythm of two people and chosen to keep it. And whatever sharpness existed beyond the glass failed to cross the threshold.

Warmth lingered in layers - in the low glow of the lamps, in the string lights resting along the wall above the headboard, their uneven arcs casting shadows that felt intentional rather than accidental.

A new couch, conspicuously unsleepable as Vedant would describe it, occupied the space opposite the bed.

Beside the couch, a study desk had found its place in quiet companionship. A laptop lay open, books stacked within reach, the chair pulled back only slightly.

And seated there was someone who had resisted every attempt Vedant made to give her this small comfort.

She pushed through every little insistence, every silly excuse, every casual reason he invented to make the desk feel accidental, until his quiet persistence finally outlasted her reluctance.

Now, she sat there studying tax laws, hair gathered into a loose bun that refused to stay put, her pen moved steadily across the page, absorbed with a focus so gentle and complete that nothing beyond the desk had the right to interrupt her.

The clock on the nightstand glowed faintly, the numbers nudging past eleven.

Across the room, Vedant sat on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees, files open and aligned with careful intent. They looked convincing enough from a distance, like work was happening, like progress was being made.

In truth, none of it had held his attention for several minutes now.

The words on the screen lost their shape the moment Diya lifted her hands to her hair again, fingers gathering a bun that refused to stay obedient for long.

It was a small movement, careless and familiar, the kind she didn't seem to notice herself making.

He did.

She twisted her hair, coaxing the bun back into place as it threatened to unravel. A few strands slipped free anyway, brushing her neck.

And as if something in her had sensed the attention resting on her skin, her eyes shifted to the right.

Their eyes met for a quiet, unguarded second where she realized she wasn't alone in the room the way she thought she was.

It was the second time she had caught him watching her. Mercifully few, considering how many times she hadn't.

The moment her gaze found his, Vedant looked away. His attention snapped back to the laptop with comical urgency, as though the screen had suddenly demanded his life.

His fingers flew to the keys, typing words that formed sentences he didn't read, numbers that meant nothing, effort suddenly exaggerated.

He didn't look up again until the last file was reviewed and closed, until there was nothing left on the screen that demanded even the pretense of attention.

Then he waited.

Not consciously at first, just instinctively. For the moment her shoulders would ease, for the quiet cadence of her studying to slow, for the pen to pause, for the page to stop turning.

He waited for the moment she finally closed her notebook.

And only when she rose to go to bed did he allow himself to follow - fingers finally reaching for his own laptop, shutting it down as if the night could not end for him until it ended for her.

He settled beside her, the mattress yielding just enough to acknowledge his presence, the quiet of the room closing in around them.

She turned toward him and without a word, she extended her wrist in his direction, calm and unguarded.

Vedant's eyes followed the motion instinctively. They rested on her wrist for a heartbeat too long before lifting to her face.

Both his brows rose faintly, a questioning arc forming, eyes staying on hers as he waited for her to explain.

Her voice came soft, almost fond, like she wasn't making an observation so much as stating something already settled. "You're going to hold it later anyway."

The words barely stirred the air. They still struck somewhere unprotected.

His heart gave a sharp, traitorous jump. "I-" The word faltered, useless.

He searched for an explanation that sounded reasonable, respectable, anything other than the truth of a habit that had never once asked his permission.

She tilted her head, watching him struggle with it, and her tone gentled further. "It's okay," she said quietly. "I won't tell anyone."

He looked at her then, properly this time. Stunned, cautious, like he was stepping into unfamiliar ground. "What," he asked carefully, "exactly will you not tell anyone?"

"That you're scared of ghosts," she said, voice gentle, almost indulgent, "and that you can't sleep without holding my wrist."

The sentence settled between them slowly. Intimate in a way that felt unintentional and entirely too accurate.

"That's not true," Vedant replied at once, even though he was painfully aware that at least half of it was and that the truth was pressing insistently against the inside of his ribs.

She studied him then, unruffled with the calm certainty of someone who already knew how this night would unfold.

"It is," she said simply.

"I'm not scared of ghosts," he countered, tone dry and clipped, because that accusation deserved dignity.

"And I can sleep perfectly fine," he added, a quiet note of offense slipping through despite his restraint.

She lingered on him for a heartbeat longer, eyes soft and unreadable.

"Okay," she said quietly as her eyelids fell shut.

Vedant remained awake long after her breathing evened out, the faint rhythm of it anchoring the dark.

He watched the calm take her features one by one, the tension easing from her brow, her mouth softening.

Eventually, the weight of the day reached him too. Sleep claimed him gently, almost reluctantly.

The dream drew me out of sleep with an ease that frightened me more than its contents ever could.

It vanished the moment I woke, every detail dissolving into nothing, leaving only its residue behind.

A heaviness pressed against my ribs, my breath coming too fast for a room that was still, too fast for a body that was safe.

For a few seconds, I didn't know where I was.

The ceiling above me didn't belong to my memory. In the dark, its shadows stretched into unfamiliar angles, refusing to settle into anything my mind could name.

My body reacted before my thoughts could catch up. I turned instinctively, trying to put space between myself and the unease curling under my skin.

But I didn't get far.

A familiar resistance stopped me. I didn't need to look, I already knew.

His palm was wrapped around my wrist, warm and steady.

I didn't pull away or pretend this was unexpected. The sight no longer surprised me the way it once might have.

His thumb rested against the inside of my wrist, unmoving now, but I knew if I shifted even slightly, it would follow.

'I can sleep perfectly fine.' His voice surfaced on its own, stubborn and self assured even in my head.

Sure you can.

I lay there for a while, eyes fixed on the ceiling as my breathing gradually found its way back to normal.

The clock on the nightstand glowed dimly when I glanced at it. Four something, too early to wake up, too late to sink back into real sleep.

Carefully, I turned toward him.

Up close, sleep had undone him.

The sharp lines of his face had eased, tension smoothed away, lashes resting against his cheeks as if they'd forgotten their usual vigilance.

His mouth was relaxed, shaped into something gentler than I'd ever seen when he was awake.

There was something almost boyish about him in sleep.

It had been two weeks since we started going to the office again, and he never looked like this there.

At work, he was all edges. Every movement deliberate, every word weighed before it left his mouth.

Even his voice shifted the moment we stepped inside the building, like the building itself demanded distance, demanded that he become someone unreachable.

I shouldn't complain.

I was the one who asked him to keep it professional, to draw that line clean and sharp, to make sure no one knew about us. He was only doing what I had asked.

Still, seeing him like this felt unreal.

This man, who is scared of ghosts, who held my wrist in his sleep, turned into someone entirely different once daylight and responsibility touched him.

His grip tightened just a fraction, enough to remind me that beneath the discipline and distance this version of him still existed.

🪔

The cotton gathered beneath my fingers as I tried to roll my sleeve up, the fabric creasing and slipping free as soon as I tried to coax it into place.

I exhaled and tried again, quicker now, movements losing their patience as awareness crept in. We were running late, late enough that my body had already started rushing ahead of my thoughts.

I still didn't understand how I'd fallen asleep again. There was no memory of me closing my eyes.

One moment I had been awake, counting breaths that weren't mine, and the next I was opening my eyes to morning with time already lost.

I flattened the cuff against my arm, smoothing it down with my palm before folding it over again.

This time the fabric bulged unevenly, sitting wrong against my skin, awkward in a way only I would notice and hate.

I stared at it for a second too long, weighing perfection against time, and time clearly won.

So I undid the fold and reached for my earring instead.

I leaned closer to the mirror, bringing the earring up to my ear, tilting my head just enough to find the opening. It slipped in smoothly, almost effortlessly.

A small relief loosened in my chest. At least one thing had decided to behave.

Then I reached for the other one, confidence already thinning, but it didn't go in.

I tilted my head, adjusted the angle, pressed a little harder than necessary, as if insistence might help. It didn't.

I tried once more, slower this time, breath held, patience fraying. It still wouldn't go in.

My fingers finally gave up.

The earring slipped from my grip and landed against the glass tabletop with a soft clink.

I stared at my reflection for a moment, lips pressed together, eyes a little too sharp with annoyance. Then I turned away, abandoning the fight, and reached for my brush instead.

My hair was tangled more than usual, strands twisted together like they'd spent the night conspiring against me. I dragged the brush through it impatiently, wincing as it caught, tugging at my scalp.

I pulled again, sharper this time, frustration bleeding into the movement, every tug a reminder that I didn't have time to be gentle.

A hand closed around my wrist before the next pull could land.

The brush stilled.

My grip loosened instinctively as his presence settled behind me, my body recognizing the interruption before I could register it.

"We have time," he said.

I lifted my eyes to the mirror and found his gaze already there. There was no urgency in his eyes, no judgment either. Just calm certainty, as if time itself bent a little in his favor.

He eased the brush from my fingers and I let him take it without protest. His touch moved to my hair then, gathering the tangled strands gently into his palm.

He worked through them with a patience I hadn't offered myself, his fingers treating each knot like it needed understanding instead of force. The brush moved gently and deliberately, as if my hair might remember the care later.

My shoulders relaxed before I realized they had been tense.

When he finished, his hands lingered for a second before shifting down to my sleeve.

He folded the fabric once, then paused, then folded again, smoothing it flat with his palm until the cuff sat exactly where it should.

I watched him through the mirror, he looked calm in a way that felt contagious.

He was almost ready for the day, white shirt crisp against the black of mine, his tie knotted neatly at his throat, every line of him sharp and composed.

He looked like someone the morning couldn't touch unless he allowed it. As if the clock answered to him and not the other way around.

"Didn't you have a meeting at nine?" I asked. "It's eight thirty five already."

He didn't look up, his attention was on my other sleeve now.

"We still have time," he replied.

His gaze dropped to the table next, his hand reached for the earring I had abandoned earlier, the small casualty of my impatience.

"Turn around," he murmured.

I obeyed without thinking.

My breath stilled when his fingers brushed my ear. The touch was feather light, like he knew precisely how much pressure not to use.

He guided the earring in smoothly, the cool metal settling into place under his careful hands.

When he was done, he stepped back at once, the space between us returning as neatly as he had fixed everything else.

He reached for his blazer, shrugging into it with effortless precision, adjusting the lapels, straightening the lines, composed and tranquil as ever.

When he finished, he lingered in front of me, waiting.

"Come," I said, already reaching for the sunscreen.

He leaned in without a word.

I applied it to his face first, my fingers moving lightly along the familiar line of his jaw and cheekbones.

Then I smeared the rest onto my own face, the small repetition settling something restless inside me.

When I was done, I slipped the tube back into my bag and lifted my gaze to him.

Nothing more needed to be said. I picked up my bag, and together we left for the office.

🪔

There’s a strange discomfort in realizing you’ve forgotten something without knowing what it is.

It isn't enough to stop you in your tracks, but enough to trail behind you like a shadow, tugging at your awareness.

That feeling followed me into the lobby of my firm.

I waited for the elevator, replaying the morning in fragments, searching for the missing piece that refused to surface.

When the doors slid open, it was empty. I stepped inside, pressed the button for my floor, and let the doors close on the quiet.

The doors opened again almost immediately, interrupted before the elevator could move.

I shifted instinctively to make space, my eyes dropping to the panel of glowing numbers out of habit rather than interest.

Footsteps entered.

Then another figure stepped in, familiar even before my mind could name it. The shape of him, the way he occupied space, made my breath falter.

Veda— Mr. Malhotra.

He entered the elevator, and for a split second my thoughts refused to accept the image in front of me.

He never used the common lift. The realization struck hard and fast, sending a sharp ripple of panic through my chest.

Why is he here?

The elevator filled quickly after that. Bodies pressed in, voices lowering instinctively as greetings followed him in.

He acknowledged them with a brief nod, courteous and contained, then shifted back to make room.

When he stopped, he was beside me, at the rear of the lift.

My shoulders went still, posture straightening on instinct, every nerve suddenly aware of the space we were sharing.

I kept my gaze fixed ahead.

The doors slid shut and the lift started moving again, crowded now, the air subtly altered by his presence.

I felt him shift beside me, the soft whisper of fabric marking the movement. From the corner of my eye, I saw his hand disappear into his pocket.

Then something brushed against my fingers.

The touch was light, almost incidental, but deliberate enough to pull my attention downward.

I lowered my gaze slowly.

My identity card lay extended toward me, offered without a word, angled just enough for me to take it without drawing attention.

The realization hit instantly, followed by a rush of relief so sudden it almost made me dizzy.

That was it, that was what I’d been missing. My Identitiy card.

Quietly, I took it from him, our fingers brushing for the briefest second. The exchange seamless, easily lost in the closeness of the crowd.

He didn’t turn toward me. His gaze remained fixed ahead, distant and professional, like this was nothing more than a small correction made in passing.

The elevator slowed.

It was my floor.

The doors opened and I stepped out immediately, clipping the ID back into place as I walked. My pace was even, my expression neutral, professionalism settling over me like a second skin.

I didn’t look back.

The urge rose anyway, sharp and insistent, tugging at the back of my neck, asking for one last glance.

I resisted it, swallowing the impulse before it could surface.

Behind me, the doors closed with a soft, decisive sound. The elevator resumed its ascent, carrying him upward, away from my floor.

By the time I reached my floor, the rhythm of the office had already wrapped itself around me.

Keyboards clicked in familiar patterns, chairs scraped softly against the floor as people settled in.

The ordinary noise of work slid into place like a well worn habit, and with it came the version of me that knew exactly where to stand, what to do, and how to disappear into competence.

I took my seat and powered on my system.

The screen flickered to life.

Emails populated my inbox. Deadlines waited patiently, indifferent to anything that had happened inside an elevator a few minutes ago.

Soon enough, the moment in the elevator dulled at the edges, slipping into the background where it belonged.

My focus narrowed as I let myself sink into work.

Somewhere between one file and the next, it occurred to me how strangely time had been behaving lately.

The past two weeks had passed like two distracted days. Mornings bled into evenings, hours dissolving into one another as work kept asking for more, always more, until the asking itself became familiar.

Every hour had carried weight. Moments lingered too long, expanding until they pressed against my ribs, demanding to be felt.

Too much awareness, too much stillness, too much feeling with nowhere to set it down.

Work, it seemed, had compressed time again. Folded it into something manageable, small enough to hold without it spilling everywhere.

I was halfway through cross checking a report when a voice cut cleanly through my concentration.

“Diya.”

I looked up.

Neha stood there, impeccably put together as always, expression clipped and impatient in that way which suggested she’d already reached the end of this conversation before it began.

“This is Alisha,” she said, shifting just enough to reveal the girl standing slightly behind her. “She joined today.”

Alisha offered a tentative smile, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag as she adjusted it on her shoulder.

“Walk her through the basics,” Neha continued, eyes flicking briefly to me before drifting back to her phone screen. “System access, file structure, processes.”

Her eyes returned to me briefly, sharp and assessing, before losing interest just as quickly. “I don’t have time to babysit.”

I felt a brief pause inside me.

It was her responsibility. She was supposed to handle onboarding. That was the structure, the way things were meant to work.

But I also remembered my own first day. The quiet panic of not knowing where to sit, what to touch, who to ask. How overwhelming everything had felt before anyone bothered to slow down for me.

I closed the file on my screen and stood.

“Hi,” I said to Alisha, keeping my tone even. “Come, I’ll show you around.”

Neha didn’t wait for a response. She was already walking away, heels clicking sharply against the floor, attention diverted elsewhere.

Alisha let out a small breath she’d clearly been holding. Relief softened her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

I nodded once, gesturing for her to follow.

As I spoke, something inside me settled.

Helping her didn’t feel like extra work. It felt necessary and familiar. A small act of kindness in a place that often forgot how intimidating beginnings could be.

After settling Alisha at her desk and walking her through the last of the basics, I returned to my own.

My screen woke up again, inbox repopulating like it had been waiting for me. Among the usual internal threads sat a system generated mail, flagged as new.

Policy Update | Compliance Circular

I opened it without much thought.

The text was standard, carefully neutral in the way corporate wording always was.

I skimmed through clauses and revisions, my eyes moving automatically, until they reached the end.

Vedant Malhotra

MD & CEO

My cursor hovered there.

It was strange how I had existed in this firm for days without ever really knowing who stood at the top of it.

How abstract he had been to me then. A designation, a distant authority, a name I never noticed.

And now, even his signature felt different.

I closed the mail and returned to my work before the thought could stretch any further.

The afternoon passed quietly.

Hours slipped by in steady increments. Lunch came and went almost unnoticed, marked only by the thinning of desks and the muted return of voices.

That was when Neha appeared again.

She stopped beside my desk, a file already tucked under her arm, posture relaxed in a way that suggested the decision had already been made.

“Can you take this up as well?” she asked, her tone light enough to sound optional, practiced enough to ensure it wasn’t.

I glanced at the file, then back at my screen, where my own work sat open. Deadlines stacked neatly in my mind, timelines already stretched thin.

“I won’t be able to,” I replied evenly. “I have submissions due.”

A flicker crossed her expression. The impatience surfaced for just a moment before she smoothed it away, lips pressing together as though recalibrating her response.

“Everyone’s busy,” she replied curtly.

“I know,” I said calmly. “That’s why I’m letting you know now.”

For a moment, it felt like she might push. But instead, she picked the file back up with a sharp movement.

She walked a few desks down and handed it to another article without hesitation, already issuing instructions, already done with the moment.

I watched only long enough to register it, then looked back at my screen.

By the time I wrapped up the last of my pending work, the office had begun to thin out. Chairs slid back, bags were slung over shoulders, conversations softened into goodbyes.

I shut my system down and stayed seated for a moment longer, letting the hum of the floor thin out around me.

“Diya?”

I looked up to see Alisha standing near my desk, bag already on her shoulder.

“You’re not leaving yet?” she asked, genuine curiosity softening her voice.

For a split second, my thoughts stalled.

Because how does one explain that they were about to conserve fuel, time, and several other resources by leaving with the person who happened to own this building?

“I’m waiting for someone,” I said, keeping my tone easy. “You should go. It’s already late.”

She nodded and turned away.

Once she disappeared down the aisle, I stood, slipped my bag onto my shoulder, and headed out.

The ride home was quick, the roads unusually forgiving for once. With his work ending earlier than usual, we were home by six, daylight still lingering in the windows.

The house greeted us with quiet— right up until it didn’t. The moment we stepped inside, a tiny explosion of joy barreled straight toward us.

“E-DANT!”

Misha’s voice burst through the living room the moment she saw him.

Her toys were discarded without a second thought as she wriggled out of Kavita aunty’s arms, little feet carrying her toward us with unsteady determination.

He bent instantly, scooping her up before she could stumble.

She squealed, the sound high and delighted, arms flinging around his neck as if she’d been waiting all day just for this moment.

Her laughter bubbled out of her, unfiltered and infectious, filling the room with something light and alive.

We moved inside and sank onto the couch, Misha still snug in his arms, perfectly at ease.

And then, just like every time, the realization caught up to her. Her head lifted and her gaze flicked to me.

In the next second, she wriggled out of his hold and launched herself straight into mine, tiny limbs wrapping around me with practiced ease.

“E-yaa,” she sighed happily, burying her face in my neck, warm and trusting and entirely unbothered by the effort it took to get here.

I had once said, with all the certainty in the world, that after marriage work would be my religion. That ambition would be enough to sustain me.

Somewhere along the way, without warning, that changed.

Now, I found myself wanting to finish work early, wanting the drive back to be quick. Wanting this moment, this couch, this small person who greeted us like we were the best part of her day.

The way she erased tension without trying, the happy sounds she made as she existed. Her giggles, her sudden laughter, the soft hum of joy she carried with her, it was strangely therapeutic.

It became the part of the day I cherished the most.

Dadu joined us first, easing into the living room with a fond look that said he’d already taken in the scene.

Then the rest followed, Meera Maa, Vivaan, Tanya. One by one, the house gathered itself around us, voices overlapping, warmth layering upon warmth.

Just when the room felt full to the brim, Misha’s voice cut through it all.

“Papa!”

She slipped from my arms, toddling toward the door with urgency. Atharv bhaiya scooped her up in one smooth motion, lifting her high and spinning her around.

Her laughter burst free again, bright and ringing.

He stepped further inside and gently handed Misha back to Mr. Malhotra, the exchange practiced and familiar.

Then, without hesitation, he crossed the room and settled beside his wife. His hand came to rest on Tanya’s shoulder, before he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

He murmured something meant only for her. Whatever it was made color bloom across her cheeks, her smile turning shy and helpless in a way that belonged only to him.

The affection between them moved through the room quietly, unannounced yet unmistakable. It softened the space, settled into the corners, made everyone else smile without realizing why.

Everyone except Vivaan, who immediately seized the moment to tease them both, though it only ever worked on Tanya. She smiled fondly, while Atharv bhaiya looked entirely unapologetic.

I found myself grateful, deeply so, that my father in law wasn’t present.

Something in me recoiled at the thought of his presence. Especially after that day.

I had learned quietly that Meera maa and he slept in separate rooms. No one had told me why, and I hadn’t asked.

I didn’t know what had broken enough for that to happen. But I knew one thing with certainty: I didn’t like that man at all.

I liked Tanya’s father in law.

There was an ease to him, a quiet decency. He spoke kindly to him and to everyone else, listened without interrupting, carried a gentleness that felt deliberate rather than accidental.

At the very least, he never blamed his son for things that were never his fault. That alone made him good in my eyes.

I hadn’t spoken to him much yet. The brothers were usually caught up in work, coming and going at odd hours, but in the little I had seen, he seemed like a good man.

A sudden burst of laughter snapped me out of my thoughts.

The room had erupted because Atharv bhaiya still hadn’t stopped kissing his wife’s forehead, each one making Tanya laugh harder, half embarrassed, half glowing.

The affection had turned playful now, exaggerated enough to draw commentary from everyone around.

Tanya tried to protest, but she failed miserably, her cheeks flushed as Vivaan seized the opportunity to tease her relentlessly.

I smiled without realizing it.

When I turned to my right, I noticed Mr. Malhotra wasn’t watching them at all. His attention was entirely on Misha.

She, on the other hand, was grinning unabashedly, eyes bright as she watched her parents with complete delight, clapping softly like this was the best show she’d ever seen.

Something warm stirred in my chest at the sight.

I was glad she got to see this.

Parents who laughed together, who touched each other gently, who showed love without lowering their voices or hardening their faces.

Not raised voices cutting through rooms, not anger spilling where it didn’t belong, not words sharp enough to bruise.

Almost unconsciously, I crossed my fingers.

I hoped this was what she would always know. That moments like these would be her normal. That whatever was ugly and loud and cruel in the world would stay far away from her.

As the room slowly softened, laughter easing into murmurs, Misha shifted in his arms.

She reached out, tugging at his tie with curious little fingers, as if trying to understand this new shining feeling around her.

“E-dant,” she said, peering up at him with expectation bright in her eyes.

He looked down at her, a faint smile touching his mouth, and nodded once, encouraging her to continue, patient as ever with her half formed thoughts and borrowed words.

She glanced at her parents first, studying them like she was connecting pieces of a puzzle only she could see. Then her gaze returned to him.

“Ki…shh,” she attempted, lips puckering into a serious little pout.

He obliged immediately, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, brushing her soft curls away from her face with his thumb.

She beamed, delighted for exactly half a second. Then she shook her head, quick and insistent, curls wobbling with the motion.

She lifted her finger toward me with absolute clarity. “Kishh e-yaa.”

My soul left my body so abruptly I barely felt it go.

The living room, which had been alive with low conversation just moments ago, slipped into a silence so complete it felt staged.

Every sound drained away, leaving only the weight of that tiny command hanging in the air.

She waited.

When no one moved, she huffed softly, disappointed with our collective incompetence.

Then she slid off his lap with the determination of someone who had places to be, climbed onto mine and pressed a quick, clumsy kiss to my forehead.

Then she turned to him, eyes wide and expectant, like she’d just demonstrated the solution to a very obvious problem.

I froze.

God.

I knew toddlers mimicked what they saw. I knew they absorbed the world around them with terrifying efficiency. I just hadn’t expected this particular lesson to surface so publicly.

“Kishh,” she said again, settling neatly between the two of us, small hands resting where they pleased.

Slowly, I lifted my gaze to him. For a moment, we were mirrors of each other.

He looked just as undone as I felt. The same hesitation, the same quiet panic flickering beneath the surface. He simply wore it better, held it behind steadier eyes.

I didn't know what to do. And judging by the way his gaze flicked to Misha and then back to me, neither did he.

The worst part was the audience.

Because no one laughed it off, no one redirected her attention, no one said her name or offered a distraction the way adults usually do when a child asks for something too honest

The silence swelled, stretching and pressing in from all sides.

Then he slowly moved.

He leaned closer, inch by careful inch, his eyes holding a question he didn’t know how to ask. A question I didn’t know how to answer.

I swallowed, breath stalling somewhere between my chest and my throat as the space between us thinned.

It didn’t happen as slowly as my mind tried to stretch it into. In truth, it took only seconds.

His lips brushed my forehead first, barely there, a hesitant graze as if he was asking permission from the moment itself.  They were warm, impossibly warm, against my skin that had gone cold.

And then he kissed me.

A soft, deliberate press of his lips to my forehead.

For a breathless instant, everything stilled.

Then a sharp and delighted sound broke the spell as Misha clapped.

She slid off the couch and took off around the living room, tiny feet pattering, hands clapping wildly as if she’d just witnessed the greatest victory of her life.

She laughed, bright and triumphant, spinning in uneven circles, utterly pleased with herself.

I didn’t have the courage to look at anyone else’s face.

Heat rushed up my neck and settled into my cheeks so fast that staying still felt impossible. Escape became the only sensible option.

“I’ll go change my clothes,” I said, already rising, voice steadier than I felt, body moving on instinct while my mind scrambled to remember how to walk normally and not flee.

I didn’t wait for a response, didn’t wait for laughter or commentary or mercy. I turned and headed toward the staircase, each step carefully measured, dignity clinging by a thread.

Behind me, I heard the couch shift. He stood the moment I passed him. I was barely on the second step when his voice followed me.

“I’ll go change her clothes—”

The disastrous words hung there. Just as mortification threatened to swallow me whole, he cleared his throat.

“My… my clothes,” he corrected, stumbling over the syllables.

Whatever fragile composure I’d been clinging to dissolved instantly. I didn’t bother pretending anymore. I picked up my pace and fled upstairs.

I went straight to our room, closing the door behind me with more force than necessary.

My mind replayed the moment downstairs on a merciless loop.

It felt like mosquitoes had taken residence in my stomach, a restless, buzzing flutter of embarrassment that refused to settle.

A knock rang at the door, light and tentative, before it opened.

Panic surged through me all over again.

I rushed to the wardrobe immediately, the movement fueled entirely by instinct.

I didn’t want to face him. Didn’t want to acknowledge the shared embarassment still crackling in the air. Talking felt impossible, eye contact worse

I pulled the wardrobe doors open and pretended to search, fingers moving aimlessly through hangers, mind thoroughly elsewhere.

Behind me, I heard the bed shift. He stood near it, fussing with the pillows, straightening them into neat, unnecessary alignment.

He smoothed the duvet once, then again.

Silence stretched.

Then I felt him move closer, the space behind me changing before I heard him speak.

“What are you doing?” he asked. His voice lower than usual.

“Looking… for my clothes,” I replied, still not turning, still very committed to the performance. I rummaged harder, as if effort might make the lie convincing.

“You can take anything,” he said slowly, gently even. “But… that’s my wardrobe.”

I froze.

My fingers stilled mid motion. Heat climbed straight up my spine as reality caught up with me.

I finally lifted my gaze and actually looked at what I was touching.

T-shirts. Shirts. Clothes that were very much not mine.

Oh God.

Could this get any worse.

I closed my eyes for half a second, mortification blooming fully now.

I shut the wardrobe a little too quickly and pivoted toward the bathroom, already planning my escape. If I could make it there in three seconds, maybe the moment would dissolve on its own.

I didn’t make it far.

His palm closed around my wrist, light enough that I felt it more as permission than intrusion.

That stopped me.

When I finally looked at him, his ears were flushed. Not with confidence or control, but unmistakably red in the way only embarrassment could cause.

“I shouldn’t have—” he started, then broke off, breath faltering.

“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I’m so—” he tried again, the apology catching on itself, his voice aiming for steady and missing by a mile.

“It’s… it’s not a big deal,” I said cutting him quickly, eyes carefully avoiding his.

Inside me, an entire zoo of mosquitoes burst into life again, buzzing and frantic, because it was absolutely a big deal. For me, for him, for... us.

I knew he hadn’t meant to put either of us on the spot. But when a one year old makes a demand like that in the middle of a living room full of witnesses, choice quietly excuses itself from the room.

He let go of my wrist then.

The absence of his touch sent me moving. I hurried toward the bathroom, shut the door behind me, and leaned back against it, breath uneven, heart far too loud for such a small, harmless thing.

It’s just a forehead kiss, I reminded myself as I walked further in and stepped closer to the mirror.

The girl staring back at me was a traitor.

My cheeks were flushed a deep shade of red, eyes bright, lips parted.

There was no world where this face belonged to someone who had just claimed it wasn’t a big deal.

Slowly, almost without permission, my hand lifted to my forehead. My fingers brushed the exact spot where his lips had rested, and the memory followed instantly.

I hid my face in my palm, mortified all over again. How could a forehead kiss affect me this much?

🪔

At dinner, we were greeted with knowing smiles the moment we took our seats.

I had been starving since morning. There had been nothing at the office I’d wanted to eat, so I’d skipped lunch entirely.

Now, surrounded by familiar food and familiar faces, hunger pressed in sharply.

I tried to eat normally.

I kept my eyes lowered, occasionally flicking toward his plate before quickly looking away, unsure of where else to rest my gaze.

I didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to meet anyone’s eyes and see the memory reflected back at me.

“E-yaa!”

Misha’s voice rang out from across the table, bright in the way only hers ever was.

Cutlery paused mid motion, almost comically. The table seemed to hold its breath, everyone waiting to see what she would ask for now.

“Yes, Misha?” Vivaan tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Do you want your e-yaa and e-dant to kiss again?” he asked, far too innocently.

Laughter rippled around the table, soft and indulgent, while embarrassment radiated through me in a hot wave.

I didn’t dare look at her right away.

One wide eyed pause from her usually meant another unexpected demand, and I wasn’t sure my dignity could survive a second round.

When I finally lifted my gaze, relief washed over me.

She wasn’t plotting anything at all.

She was simply holding out a small piece of broccoli toward me, arm stretched as far as it could go, offering it with solemn generosity.

I reached across the table and took it from her tiny fingers, careful and grateful.

It had become almost a ritual by now. At every meal, without fail, she shared something from her plate with everyone at the table, as if it was her quiet way of including us all, of making sure no one was left out.

Yesterday, she had offered her e-dant a squished strawberry, sticky and misshapen but presented like a treasure. The day before that, dadu had received a careful piece of banana, peeled and slightly warm from her grip. And the day before that, Vivaan had been gifted an already licked biscuit.

She shared her love the only way she knew how — in pieces of food, freely given, wholeheartedly.

“Mishki,” Atharv bhaiya called, just loud enough to draw her attention.

She turned toward him immediately, wide, curious eyes lifting to his face.

Without saying a word, he leaned in and kissed Tanya on the cheek, slow and deliberate, his expression carrying a mischief we usually only ever saw on Vivaan.

Misha watched them in silence.

For a heartbeat, her face went completely blank, tiny brows knitting together as her mind worked through what she had just witnessed.

Then a grin split her face, bright and triumphant.

She smiled at Mr. Malhotra and called out brightly, “E-dant!”

The room broke instantly. Laughter spilled across the dining table, warm and bubbling, teasing voices overlapping as the moment dissolved into delighted chaos.

Everyone was enjoying it far more than we were.

Beside him, I kept my head down, focused very intently on my plate. He did the same, shoulders stiff, eating with the kind of concentration that suggested survival instinct rather than hunger.

Vivaan laughed the loudest, of course. “Bhabhi,” he added cheerfully, pointing with his spoon, “you’re redder than the tomato on Misha’s plate.”

Vivaan, traitor... I thought we were friends now.

Misha burst into laughter at the sound of her name, clapping her hands, completely unaware that she was in fact laughing at my misery.

And then, beside me, I felt it.

For the first time since the laughter began, he looked up.

He didn’t glance around the table. Didn’t acknowledge the teasing or the noise or the audience.

He just turned his face toward me.

And there it was again, that small, traitorous flutter low in my stomach, light and uninvited.

His gaze lingered on my face, quiet and searching, as if he was checking something.

Mine followed suit, drifting briefly over the familiar lines of his face before self preservation kicked in.

We looked away almost at the same time, attention returning to our plates like obedient children.

“Stop teasing them already,” Kavita aunty said then, cutting gently through the laughter. Her voice carrying affection. “Let them eat properly.”

When dinner finally ended, I slipped away quietly and went straight to our room.

I didn’t stop to do anything else. Didn’t give myself time to think.

I turned off the lights and slid beneath the covers, the bed accepting me without question.

I lay there still and hopeful, eyes closed a little too tightly, silently praying that sleep would take me quickly.

He was still in dadu’s room. And I knew that if he returned while I was awake, my heart would start behaving like it had no sense at all.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐