My hand freezes mid-stir. The words slip out of him so easily, like breathing. And my heart—it skips, stutters, then races ahead as if it heard a promise hidden in those simple syllables.
I quickly busy myself, pretending not to hear. “You shouldn’t be here anyway. Go sit. I’ll bring it out once it’s ready.”
“Oh no,” he says, and suddenly his voice is closer, much closer. “I’m not leaving you here alone with knives and boiling pans. You might start a war with the stove next.”
Before I can retort, his hands are suddenly at my waist.
“Vihaan—!”
With one smooth motion, he lifts me, and I shriek, the sound bouncing off the walls of the kitchen. My stomach flips, my hands flail, but in the next second, I’m perched on the counter, breathless and wide-eyed, staring at him.
He’s grinning like he’s won something. Like he’s placed me exactly where I belong.
“Better,” he murmurs, brushing his hands casually against his trousers as if lifting me was the easiest thing in the world.
“Vihaan!” I whisper-shout, clutching the edge of the counter. “You can’t just—just—”
“Just what?” His grin turns boyish, teasing. His eyes, though—his eyes pin me in place. Dark, intent, but softened by a smile that makes my chest ache.
I shake my head, trying to hide my own smile. “You can’t just pick me up like that without asking.”
“Next time I’ll ask,” he promises, not sounding sorry at all. “But I can’t promise I’ll wait for the answer.”
My lips part, but no words come out. My heart is racing so fast I’m certain he can hear it.
He steps closer, still smiling, still pinning me with that gaze. “Let me,” he says softly. Not a command. Not exactly a request either. Just… a simple plea wrapped in certainty.
Something in me melts. My shoulders drop, the tension easing. And I nod, a small, fragile nod, my throat too tight for words.
The way his smile grows—it’s almost blinding. For a moment, I forget to breathe.
He turns to the stove, taking the spoon from my hand, and I watch him stir the pan like he’s been doing this forever. The kitchen smells warmer now, richer, not because of the food but because of the way he fills the space, the way he makes it feel alive.
I let myself watch him—his easy confidence, the slight furrow of his brows as he tastes the curry, the curve of his lips when he approves. And something stirs in me, something I don’t recognize. Something I’ve never allowed myself to want.
It will never be possible to forget Ranbir’s touch. That’s the truth I can’t escape. His shadow clings to me, and I hate it. But with Vihaan beside me—with his steady hands, his unshakable patience, his effortless warmth—I feel the faintest glimmer of possibility. The possibility that maybe, just maybe, I can move forward.
But then again, doubt curls in my chest. He still thinks he was played by my family. That marriage with me was nothing but politics, duty, manipulation. If he truly saw me as a mistake, then what was all of this? His raw anger that day, his desperate defense, his tenderness now—it doesn’t match the picture of a man who regrets me.
Should I ask him? Should I really risk it? The thought lodges in my throat like a thorn.
I will. Tonight. No matter what the answer is, I’ll ask. I need to know. I can’t keep drowning in these questions.
But for now…for now, I want to live in this moment. His chuckle still echoing in my ears, his smile still warming the air around me, the faint tremor in my own chest reminding me I’m still alive.
Just for now, I want to forget the heaviness and let myself enjoy the sweetness of this fleeting, fragile thing.
Because with him standing here, stirring my half-cooked curry like it’s the most important thing in the world… this feels like home. And I am getting used to the idea of home.
CHAPTER 40
My home too
POORVI
The room is quiet except for the faint rustle of fabric as I shift under the covers. The lamps have been dimmed, throwing soft amber shadows across the walls. I can hear the faint sounds of crickets outside, but here, it feels as though time has slowed, folded itself into this single space where just the two of us exist.
Dinner had been… strange in its simplicity. I had expected awkwardness, maybe silence, but Vihaan had teased me through every bite, exaggerating his praise for the curry until I nearly choked on my laughter. He’d insisted on serving me more, scolding me lightly when I tried to brush him off. And when dessert arrived—a small sweet he had somehow managed to arrange—I’d caught myself watching the way his eyes lit up when I finally smiled. It had been years since I’d laughed like that, unguarded, without rehearsing it first in my head.
