“Because I’m going to try to make it happen anyway.”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. We stand there for a moment longer under the dim streetlight.
Then he sighs lightly. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “this wasn’t the best first date.”
I stare at him. “What?”
He shrugs. “It was rushed. Poor planning. Minimal romantic atmosphere.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “I thought you said you were a detail-oriented person.”
“Exactly, I didn't get much time after my impromptu promise.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “I’ll do better next time.”
Something warm spreads quietly through my chest. Before I even think about what I’m doing, I step forward and wrap my arms around him. The movement surprises both of us. For a second he freezes. Then slowly, carefully, he hugs me back.
“You don’t have to try better,” I murmur against his shoulder. “This was… the best.” I pull back slightly and look up at him. “More than I deserve.”
Aditya’s expression softens again. That same gentle look. The one that makes my chest tighten every time. “Divya,” he says quietly. “You deserve much more than ice cream and cotton candy.”
Maybe he’s right. But as we start walking home again under the quiet glow of streetlights, he intertwines his fingers with mine and I realize something. For someone who never expected to go on a single date in her life—this one will be impossible to forget.
8. HELPING HAND
ADITYA
I come back home around noon because I forgot my notebook. That’s the excuse I give myself when I unlock the front door. The truth is a little less practical. I’ve been thinking about her all morning. The ice cream date, the way she hugged me under the streetlight like she forgot we were technically still strangers, the quiet smile she had when she thought I wasn’t looking.
It’s distracting.
Running a publishing house is easier than figuring out the strange pull I feel toward the woman who I now share a home with.
The house is quiet when I step inside. Neel is at school. Divya is supposed to be downstairs at the shop.
I drop my bag on the couch and head toward the kitchen for water. That’s when I hear the noise. A dull thump. Then another. Then a frustrated sigh.
I frown and walk toward the staircase leading down to the shop. When I reach the bottom step, the scene in front of me makes me pause.
Divya is standing behind the counter, half bent over a large wooden crate that looks far too heavy for someone her size. Afew smaller boxes are scattered across the floor. She’s clearly been trying to move them by herself.
Her hair has escaped the loose braid she tied this morning. Strands fall across her face as she struggles to lift one side of the crate.
“Okay,” she mutters to herself. “You are not winning today.”
She lifts again. The crate doesn’t move. I lean against the doorway and watch for a moment before speaking.
“You know,” I say casually, “most people use their hands to run a shop. Not declare war on furniture.”
She freezes. Then slowly turns around. Her eyes widen when she sees me standing there. “When did you come back?”
“A minute ago,” I say, pushing myself off the doorframe.
My gaze moves briefly over the scattered boxes. “What happened here?”
She exhales a breath and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Delivery.”
That explains the crates. “And you decided to move all of them yourself?”
“I always move them myself.” I step closer and crouch beside the crate.
