“Divya.” She folds her arms immediately.
“That tone suggests you are about to say something annoying.”
“I’m about to say something obvious.” I grip the edge of the crate and lift it easily. It’s heavier than it looks but manageable.
“Which is?”
“That you could ask for help.”
She points toward the back shelf. “Put it there.”
I carry the crate across the room and set it down where she indicated. When I turn back she’s already dragging another box across the floor. “You know,” I say slowly, “this is not a one-woman competition.”
She shrugs. “I used to ask for help.” Something in the way she says it makes me pause. “But I never got it,” she adds quietly. “So I stopped asking.” She states like it’s a fact and I hate that.
I walk over and pick up the box she’s trying to move. “You never asked me.” The words slip out before I think about them. Divya looks up. Really looks. For a second neither of us says anything. Then she gestures toward the shelves again.
“Second row.”
“Yes, boss.” I stack the box where she wants it. We fall into a quiet rhythm after that. She points. I lift. She directs. I move. Every few minutes our hands brush when we both reach for the same thing. The first time it happens she pulls her hand back quickly. The second time she doesn’t. By the time we’re halfway through the crates the air in the small shop feels warmer.
Not physically. Something else. Something charged. Divya wipes her hands on the edge of her kurta and surveys the shelves.
“That should be the last one.” I lift the final box onto the counter and stretch my arms slightly.
“You run this entire operation alone?”
“Yes.”
“You’re stubborn.”
She tilts her head. “That’s a compliment.”
“I’m not sure it is.” She laughs softly. The sound fills the room in a way that makes the space feel smaller. Closer.
She turns toward one of the wooden cabinets lining the wall. Rows of tiny glass bottles sit inside. Golden liquid. Amber. Deep brown. The scent in the air changes slightly as she opens one. Warmer. Richer. Divya picks up a small bottle and walks back toward me. Her movements are slower now. Almost hesitant.
“I’ve been meaning to give you this,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “What is it?”
“Attar.” I glance at the bottle.
“You’re giving me perfume?”
“It’s not perfume,” she says automatically.
“It’s attar.”
I smile slightly. “My mistake.”
She twists the cap open carefully. A faint scent drifts into the air. Something warm. Deep. Not overly sweet. It suits her shop perfectly. “I think this one would suit you,” she says quietly.
I study her face. The way she avoids direct eye contact. The way her fingers move slowly around the glass bottle. She’s nervous. That realization does something strange to my chest.
“Why don’t you apply it on me?” I say lightly. Her head snaps up.
“What?”
