I stand before the mirror, tugging at my sherwani. The embroidery sits well, the cut is sharp, but one stubborn button has betrayed me. With a quiet snap, it gives way and dangles by a thread before falling into my palm. I stare at it, my jaw tightening.
Perfect. Just perfect.
“I’ll have to change again,” I mutter, already reaching for the closet. I don’t have time for this—not when the meeting with the council is in less than half an hour.
The door creaks softly before I can take another step. I glance up, button in hand, and see her. Poorvi. Standing there in her soft blue lehenga, her hair loosely braided, glasses slipping slightly down her nose. She holds herself carefully, as if unsure if she’s intruding.
“What happened?” she asks quietly, her gaze falling on my sherwani.
“The button,” I sigh, lifting it slightly between my fingers. “It broke. I’ll just change.”
Her brows furrow. “No, wait… I can sew that for you.”
I blink, caught off guard. “You can?”
She nods once, a little shy, but her voice steadies. “Of course. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
Something warm settles in my chest at her offer. Rationally, I know I could call the staff, or simply wear another sherwani. But she’s standing there, offering. And if it gives me a chance—even a sliver of a chance—to be close to her, I’m not letting that go.
“Then I suppose,” I murmur, my lips tugging into a grin, “being late might just be worth it.”
She blinks at me, puzzled, but I don’t clarify. Instead, I reach with my foot and push a small stool toward her. It scrapes lightly against the marble floor. “Here,” I say, “stand on this. You’ll reach me easier.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but she obeys. Carefully, she steps onto the stool, balancing with the grace of someone who’s nervous of falling yet determined not to show it. Now we’re face-to-face, her head almost level with mine.
She focuses on the sherwani, threading a needle with practiced fingers. Her brows knit together in concentration, and I find myself watching her more than the task. The way her lips press into a thin line when she concentrates. The faint crease on her forehead. The way her glasses slide lower with each movement.
When they slip too far down her nose, I lift my hand instinctively and nudge them back up with the tip of my finger.
She startles slightly, her eyes flicking to mine before darting back to the button. “I could’ve done that myself,” she mutters.
“I know,” I say lightly, “but then I’d lose the excuse.”
Her brows draw tighter. “Excuse?”
“To touch you,” I admit, soft enough for her alone.
Her hands still for a fraction of a second before resuming the careful sewing. “You’re distracting me,” she whispers, voice almost a scold.
“Good,” I reply, tugging her a little closer by the edge of the sherwani. “You won’t be able to sew the button properly from one arm’s distance anyway.”
She gasps softly, swatting at my hand with hers. “Don’t do that. I’ll mess it up.”
I chuckle, low and unbothered. “Then mess it up. I don’t care, as long as you’re the one doing it.”
Her cheeks flush pink, and she refuses to look at me. I watch the tips of her ears turning red, and it’s the most endearing thing I’ve ever seen.
“Vihaan,” she says finally, her voice hushed but firm, “stop talking or I won’t finish this.”
I raise my brows, lips twitching. “Threatening me now, are you?”
Her lips curve slightly, though she tries to hide it. “If that’s what it takes.”
I laugh softly, the sound echoing in the quiet of the room. And for a moment, I forget entirely about the meeting, the council,the sherwani. All I see is her, standing on a stool, sewing a button onto my chest as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The warmth of her hand occasionally brushes my sherwani, her breath grazing my collarbone when she leans in too close. I swear the air between us thickens with each passing second.
“There,” she whispers finally, tying the last knot. She smooths the fabric lightly, her fingers grazing my chest before she realizes and snatches her hand back. “Done.”
