“You’re doing well,” he says, glancing up at me, and for a moment the pride in his eyes makes my chest ache.
I smile before I can stop myself. “That’s because you’re here.”
The words slip out unguarded, and immediately I regret them. I look away, heat rising to my cheeks.
Silence follows, heavy and unspoken. Then, so quietly I almost don’t hear it, he says, “Good.”
My heart stumbles. I chance a look at him. His face is angled away, but there’s a softness there that wasn’t before.
We circle back toward the stable. I think it’s over, but just as I begin to dismount, I falter. My foot slips, and before panic can set in, his arms are around me, steady and sure, pulling me down against him.
For a second, we’re too close. His breath brushes against my temple, his chest firm against mine.
“You really like catching me whenever I fall, don’t you?” I whisper, trying to mask the thundering of my heart.
His lips curve, just barely. “Maybe I like the excuse to hold you.”
The words steal the air from my lungs. I look up at him, startled, but he doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers, burning, pulling.
And then, as if realizing he’s said too much, he lets go, stepping back. The distance feels colder than it should.
I smooth my dupatta, forcing a smile. “I think that’s enough riding for one day.”
He nods once, expression shuttered again. “As you wish.”
But I can’t shake the memory of his hands, his words, the almost-smile that makes my heart misbehave. Even in silence, Vihaan makes me feel too much.
And the worst part? I’m starting to wonder if falling—whether from a horse or into him—is something I’ll ever truly recover from.
CHAPTER 28
Flames and Silences
VIHAAN
The fragrance of sandalwood clings to the air, faint yet sharp, curling with the smoke of the incense sticks burning in front of the idol. The soft chanting of the pandit fills the hall, steady and rhythmic, as though time itself is bending to it.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, my back straight, the weight of tradition pressing on my shoulders in a way I haven’t felt in years. Maa-sa insisted we perform this puja together—Poorvi and I—and for reasons I didn’t voice aloud, I agreed.
I glance sideways.
She sits beside me, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her dupatta drawn modestly over her head. The golden light of the diyas flickers against her skin, painting her in hues warmer than fire. She looks nervous. Not because of the rituals themselves—she’s well-versed in them, I can tell—but because of the eyes she feels on her. Mine. Maa-sa’s. Perhaps even the gods’.
Her lashes lower as though to shield herself, and yet every tiny gesture of hers pulls my attention like a magnet. The tremor of her fingers when she adjusts the edge of her dupatta. The wayher lips part slightly as she exhales after each chant, almost in relief.
The pandit gestures for me to place my hand over hers, to offer the grains into the sacred fire. She hesitates, her eyes darting to mine, uncertain.
I cover her hand with mine, steady and firm.
Her skin is cold. Again.
I lower my voice, leaning closer so only she hears. “Relax.”
Her eyes flick to mine, wide, questioning.
“You’re trembling,” I add, softer this time.
“I’m not,” she whispers back. But the tiny quiver in her breath betrays her.
