“That’s confidence,” he corrects. “And patience.”
I huff, torn between irritation and something dangerously close to flustered laughter. “You’re unbelievable.”
“yeah,” he murmurs, closing the last inch between us, “you are stuck with me though.”
Before I can respond, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my cheek.
My breath stutters. His hand finds mine again as he smiles at me and begins to walk. The realization settles quietly, undeniably in my chest.
I may have been wrong about my own feelings.
Because this— this tightness, this want, this sharp flare of jealousy I don’t bother denying anymore—
It feels an awful lot like liking Dhruv more than I ever meant to.
The shape of joy
DHRUV
We have finally done it.
The thought hits me somewhere between relief and disbelief as I stand in the corridor outside the dining room, hands clasped behind my back like I’m waiting for a verdict instead of dinner. Four months. Four months of failed batches, ruined textures, awkward silences, and Kartik, our head chef, staring at me like I’d finally lost my mind.
PCOD-friendly Kinder Joy, he had repeated the first time, slow and careful, as if saying it wrong might summon bad luck.
“You want… kinder joy?”
“Yes,” I had said. “I want kinder joy.”
Not sugar-bomb joy. Not guilt-laced joy. Not joy that comes with a lecture or a consequence. I wanted something she could eat without wincing afterward. Something she wouldn’t have to negotiate with her body for. Something that didn’t make her sigh and saymaybe laterwhen what she really meant wasI miss this.
I had watched her pout that day—soft, disappointed, trying to pretend she didn’t care—and something in me had snapped quietly into place.
So I learned.
I learned words I had never cared about before. Glycemic index. Insulin resistance. Hormonal spikes. Balance. I sat with Kartik like an apprentice instead of a king, sleeves rolled up, tasting, rejecting, trying again. I burned my tongue more than once. Kartik threatened to resign twice.
And today—finally—we have something.
Not identical, obviously. But close enough that when I tasted it this afternoon, standing alone in the kitchen while Kartik watched my face like a hawk, I felt hope instead of compromise.
Hope is dangerous.
That’s why my stomach has been twisted into knots since morning.
I didn’t listen in meetings today. I nodded at the right times, signed what needed signing, dismissed what could wait. Every thought circled back to one thing:What if she hates it?What if the idea overwhelms her? What if she feels watched, pressured, like this is yet another thing she has to react to perfectly?
I don’t want gratitude.
I don’t want praise.
I just want her smile.
Dinner barely exists for me.
The plates arrive, silver lids lifted, conversations overlapping—but all of it fades into background noise the moment Sitara starts talking. She’s telling me something Yagini said earlier, and she’s sointo itthat she doesn’t notice I’ve stopped eating altogether.
Her hands move as she speaks—quick, expressive, like they’re trying to keep up with her thoughts. One moment she’s mimicking Yagini’s dramatic tone, the next she’s rolling her eyesso hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck that way. Her fork is forgotten, abandoned at the edge of her plate, because the story clearly matters more than food right now.
