Match Made in Heaven

for show

f o r
SHOW

chapter three — ❛ give him a chance ❜
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IT IS AS IF HER NIGHTS NO LONGER are hers because being at her cousin's mehndi ceremony certainly wasn't amongst her plans of the week. Kyda leans over the indoor balcony, sharp eyes staring, surveying the floor below where she could see the future bride getting decorated to the brim, whilst keeping the most docile smile ever.

"Oh how to be her," she hears Jannat dramatically sigh, resting her forearms against the railings.

Kyda sighs, purposely mimicking her, twirling a stray curl around her finger, resisting the urge to pull her free from the ridiculous tight up-do. Although she came to the event after getting pestered by her family, she mentally thanked her supervisor for understanding—being Indian herself, they share the same level of understanding.

"Nobody is stopping you from pursuing Abhishek," she playfully nudges her whilst dangling her heel in the gaps of the balcony, watching the height difference between the two floors. "Look, he's right there. Why don't you go talk to him instead of moping around?"

"Are you out of your mind?" Jannat whisper-yells, nearly knocking her hand against an old lady, who presumably is one of the bride's guests. Shooting her an apologetic look, Jannat rolls her eyes before slapping Kyda's arm.

"No? Besides, you've been in love with him since forever, I think it's time for you to pull a move before he gets into a relationship or better yet, gets a marriage proposal and actually accepts it."

"I'll never allow that to happen anyway, but you should also start looking, you know. You'll be twenty-five in two months." The smirk playing on her lips told Kyda that this topic is not going to shift away and she is not about to be grilled by her cousin.

Mindlessly, she watches her aunts waving to the both of them to come down. Eagerly gesturing to them to come to apply mehndi as well, but Kyda can't possibly go to work with it. Flicking her eyes away, she faces her loudmouth cousin, "There's no rush. And for the love of God, don't give me that look, our family has been giving me that look for the past month."

"Rightfully so! There's a perfect man picked for you and you refuse to give him a chance."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Fluttering her eyes shut, she furrows her brows, feigning annoyance whilst fiddling with the edge of the skirt of her lehenga, picking on the gems as a way to distract herself from being affected by Jannat's words.

"I may not know but Azhar Hossen certainly does since he can't stop staring at you."

"What are you—" Kyda couldn't even finish her sentence as her breath was caught in her throat, constricting her bloodstream because Jannat had been right. The deep caramel of his eyes are resplendent, near glowing in the warm flickering light surrounding us from the scented candles, and she can't take her eyes off of them as he looks up, not wavering his gaze—almost as if he was enthralled.

Kyda, bravely enough, raises an eyebrow, masking her sudden shock by tucking her hair behind her ears, showcasing her gold jhumkas. Her plump lips were coated in a tinted gloss, the same shade of mauve kissing her cheeks. Parting her lips softly, she protrudes her chin out, signalling for him to explain himself, but he simply shakes his head before glancing to his left.

"See! He clearly likes you."

Yet again, Kyda dismisses her cousin's lame words. It's pathetic. They were all imagining things. Surely. But her heart says otherwise because the moment he looks up again, only then does she realise how quickly she's breathing—how out of breath she truly is.

A rare smile appears, dents of his dimples sending a rush over her brown skin, warming Kyda from the inside out as he gestures to the dance floor.

"I think he's asking you for a dance," she felt the smallest brush of Jannat's lips against the shell of her ear.

Not looking back, she grips the weight of her skirt, pulling it up as she walks down the unfairly small steps. Carefully she goes towards Azhar, whose expression returns back to his bored one. Was it normal to have such a fast heartbeat? Or was it specifically reserved for him?

Definitely just for him.

With an already outstretched hand, Kyda glances around, eyes all on them—watching them, observing them, judging them like hawks.

His palm heats hers immediately, his touch igniting a sudden desire; for someone to hold her hand because this was a new feeling.

"You know, you don't have to do this right?" She whispers, flicking her eyes over the stage where the bride and the rest are before returning them to him.

He spins her once, twice and one final third time before she gasps at their new proximity. The gap between them is so minuscule that her free hand is now slotted on his shoulder. The expensive material of the waistcoat of his kurta felt cooler compared to his touch—the hand on her waist scorching her skin.

"Trust me, I know, but if they're going to talk about us, we should give them a good show, no?"

Kyda's eyes widened in mortification. "So you know? I'm so sorry! You must be so embarrassed. I—"

"I never said I was," he vocalises in a deadpanned tone.

He wants to entertain the idea? Azhar Hossen out of all people? The same man who barely spoke unless it's an absolute need? The Azhar Hossen?

Kyda tilts her head back, showing the expanse of her defined collar bones only to smile, blinding him with her pearly whites.

"Fine, you want to give them a show? Sure, let's give something worth talking about."