Aditya starts gathering the plates. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he says gently. “But I’m already here.”
I watch him for a moment before turning toward the hallway. “Is it okay if I bathe first? I have to open the shop.”
He nods. “I’ll finish cleaning up.”
When I come back outside later, dressed and ready for the day, I find him sitting on the sofa with a book open in his hands.
He looks up when he hears me. His eyes move over me for a second. “You look beautiful,” he says simply. The words land so unexpectedly that warmth rushes up my neck.
“Thank you,” I murmur. He smiles before closing the book. “I’ll get ready.”
“I’m heading downstairs,” I say quickly as he walks past me. I pad down the stairs and lift the shutter ofKhusboo Attar House.
The familiar scent greets me immediately—soft oils, glass bottles, the faint lingering sweetness of yesterday’s blends. This place has always been my refuge. My responsibility. My world.
I open the windows and begin arranging the bottles. But today something feels slightly different. Upstairs, I hear faint movement.
Aditya.
Still there. Living here. A quiet warmth spreads slowly through my chest. And the thought slips into my mind before I can stop it.
It’s strange.
How comfortable it already feels to have him around. Almost like—we’ve known each other much longer than we actually have.
Almost like—he was always meant to end up here.
6. LEGOS AND LISTS
ADITYA
Sunday mornings used to be predictable.
For years my Sundays had followed the same quiet rhythm—wake up late, make coffee, read something that had nothing to do with work, maybe wander through a bookstore or spend a few lazy hours at the press sorting manuscripts I pretended I wasn’t excited about.
Solitude had never bothered me.
In fact, I used to think I preferred it.
But now, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with a pile of brightly colored Lego pieces scattered between me and a seven-year-old who takes construction projects far more seriously than any architect I’ve ever met (I've met none), I realize something uncomfortable.
My Sundays have changed. And I don’t hate it. Neel leans forward, squinting at the instruction booklet like it contains the secrets of the universe.
“You’re doing it wrong,” he says firmly.
I pause with a tiny red piece in my hand. “I followed the instructions.”
“You skipped step four.”
I glance down at the booklet. “I did not.”
He flips the page toward me and taps the diagram with his finger. “This one.”
I stare at it for a moment.
Then sigh. “…Okay, maybe I skipped step four.”
