This time there’s no hesitation. I pull her closer, my other hand settling at her waist, grounding her, grounding myself. Her fingers curl into my jacket, unsure at first, then gripping like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
The kiss deepens—not rushed, not desperate—but full. Intentional. Her lips soften against mine, responding instead of resisting, and I feel the exact moment she stops thinking and startsfeeling.
When we finally part, it’s slow, almost reluctant. Her forehead rests against my chest, breath uneven. I smile, brushing my thumb along her cheek. “Still not shy?”
She exhales, then mutters, “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” I say quietly. “But I got to kiss you, so I am also very happy.”
She looks up, eyes bright, a little dazed. “You deserved it.”
That—that right there—does something irreversible to me. I lean in once more, pressing a kiss to her temple this time, steadying us both because I don’t want to start something she doesn’t want or isn’t ready for.
“Come on,” I murmur. “We’ll be late.”
She nods, slipping her hand into mine. God, I don’t think I can keep my hands to myself anymore, but I will as long as necessary. But it doesn’t make it easier.
What He Took From Her
DHRUV
The event is everything it’s supposed to be—perfect in the way perfection is rehearsed.
Crystal chandeliers hang low from the ceiling, scattering light across polished marble floors. Soft instrumental music drifts through the hall, never loud enough to interrupt conversation, always present enough to fill silences before they turn awkward. Laughter rises and falls in controlled waves. Men in tailored suits stand with their shoulders squared, women glide past in silk and confidence, power wrapped neatly in elegance. Hands shake. Cards are exchanged. Names are spoken with just the right amount of interest, just enough emphasis to signal importance.
It’s a language I’ve been fluent in for years.
I’ve done this my whole life—moved from one conversation to another, smiled at the right moments, nodded when expected. I know when to speak, when to listen, when to step in and when to fade into the background. I know how to read the room, how to make people feel heard without ever revealing too much of myself.
I know how to be present without reallybeinghere.
My body moves on instinct. My mouth forms polite replies about infrastructure projects, educational funding, cultural initiatives meant to preserve heritage while appearing progressive. I listen closely enough to respond intelligently, store names and faces in neat mental files, remember who prefers praise and who prefers deference. It’s effortless. Automatic. Like muscle memory.
And yet, I’m only half here.
Sitara stands beside me, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm as though it belongs there—natural, unquestioned, which it does obviously. Even through the fabric of my jacket, I can feel her warmth, the quiet reassurance of her presence. Every now and then, her thumb shifts slightly, a small unconscious movement, grounding me more effectively than any practiced breath ever could.
I glance down at her between exchanges, just for a second, just enough to remind myself why I’m standing here at all. Her posture is composed, her expression attentive, but there’s a softness to her that doesn’t belong to this room. It never has. And yet, she fits beside me as if she always has.
I nod along to a comment about policy reform, my response measured and calm, but somewhere beneath all that polished control, I’m acutely aware of the way her fingers curl ever so slightly tighter around my arm—as if she knows when the room begins to drain me.
And for the first time in years, I don’t mind being here, because she’s here.
Because even in a room full of people, she makes it feel less empty.
My eyes scan around the room, I spot Devraj talking to the education minister, Aadhya trying to sneak the rose in his pant’s pocket, and before I could chuckle, my eyes land on him.
Ayush Chauhan.
For a fraction of a second, my mind refuses to place him. Not because I don’t recognize him, but because he doesn’t belong here. He looks wrong in this room, like a glitch you notice only after staring too long. Like someone pasted an old memory into a present that has already moved on without it.
He’s standing near the far end of the hall, half-turned toward a group of men, laughter easy on his lips. His body language hasn’t changed at all. The same loose shoulders. The same unbothered tilt of his head. The same careless comfort of a man who has never had to carry the weight of consequences.
The same face that once stood beneath a mandap, garlands waiting, rituals paused—and chose absence over honesty. Chose silence over responsibility. Chose to disappear rather than look at the woman waiting for him and saynoto her face.
Something sharp twists in my chest.
My heart stutters—not in fear, not in surprise.
