Divya sits up quickly, pushing her hair back. "Neel,” she says weakly, “why are you home already?”
“The party finished.” He looks down at the blanket.
Then the food containers. Then us.
His grin gets wider. “Were you two having a secret picnic without me?”
I sit up slowly and glance at Divya. She’s trying very hard not to laugh. I lean closer to her and mutter under my breath. “That was extremely poor timing.”
She bites her lip. Then whispers back, “Your timing was the problem.”
Neel drops down onto the blanket between us triumphantly.
“I want pasta.” Divya finally gives up and starts laughing.
And despite the interruption—despite the ruined almost-kiss—I find myself laughing too.
12. WAITING NOODLES
DIVYA
The almost-kiss refuses to leave my head.
It’s ridiculous, really. Days have passed since that evening on the terrace, yet the memory keeps circling back when I least expect it. The sky had been deepening into that soft indigo, the kind that makes everything feel quieter than usual. His hand had been warm in mine, our fingers fitting together in a way that felt strangely natural. Then we had turned toward each other, slowly, like neither of us wanted to scare the moment away.
And then Neel had burst through the door like a hurricane.
I thought that after that night things would become awkward between us. I expected to start avoiding him without even meaning to—taking longer at the shop, disappearing into chores, pretending to be busy whenever he walked into the room.
Except… that never happened.
Which is the part I don’t know what to do with.
Because if anything, the opposite is happening. I still find myself gravitating toward wherever he is in the house. Stillcatching myself noticing when he laughs. Still watching his hands when he’s cooking like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
I don’t know what that means.
And apparently, neither does he.
Tonight the house feels unusually quiet.
Aditya texted earlier in the evening saying he would be late. Something about a launch tomorrow at the publishing house and the team needing extra time to fix things before the release.
You should sleep, he had written. Order something from outside.
I probably should have listened. But for some reason I didn’t. Instead, I cooked. Which might be the most reckless decision I’ve made all week. I glance at the clock on the wall again.
It’s past tweleve. The living room lamp casts a soft pool of light over the sofa where I’ve been sitting for the past half hour pretending to read. The book is open in my lap, but I haven’t turned the page in a long time. My eyes keep drifting back to the clock instead.
Waiting. That realization makes me shift uncomfortably.
Neel finally fell asleep two hours ago after an exhausting negotiation about bedtime. Apparently he had very strong opinions about whether ten-thirty or eleven was a more reasonable hour for someone his age.
Eventually I won. Barely.
Before going to sleep he had tasted the noodles I made and declared them a “solid seven out of ten.”
I still don’t know if that’s encouraging. He has grown up eating my cooking after all. His standards might simply be low.
