BEDIL SHERGILL || ✔ ||

[24]: Shelter Of Arms

Drishti emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a deep maroon saree that clung to her damp skin, her hair still wet and cascading down her back. She made her way to the vanity, her movements graceful and deliberate. Sitting down on the chair in front of the mirror, she began to style herself for the day, carefully combing through her hair, the strands slipping like silk through her fingers.

As she concentrated on her routine, she heard the soft rustle of movement behind her. Rakshit, now shirtless, approached with his usual confidence, his presence filling the room. His gaze lingered on her reflection, a teasing glint in his eyes that she could sense even without looking directly at him.

“Good morning again, Mrs. Shergill” he said, his voice low and playful, laced with a familiar mischief.

Drishti’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her focus on the mirror, trying to ignore the flutter in her chest. She took a deep breath, her mind racing as she tried to suppress the embarrassment threatening to colour her cheeks.

She could still picture the way he had looked at her, amused yet tender, as she had demanded one silly thing after another in her intoxicated state. The memory of her asking for a kiss on the cheek made her stomach flip, and she could feel her pulse quickening just thinking about it.

“Good morning, Mr. Shergill” she replied, her tone attempting to be casual, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.

Rakshit’s eyes wandered over her as he moved closer, noticing a detail that caught his attention. Her jhumki, delicate and gold, was slightly tangled in the fabric of her saree, the tiny bells catching the morning light. Without saying a word, he leaned in, his hands reaching for the earring.

Drishti stiffened as she felt his fingers brush against her skin, the unexpected touch sending a shiver down her spine. She watched in the mirror as he carefully untangled the jhumki from the saree, his focus entirely on the task. The moment was intimate, almost tender, and for a brief second, Drishti allowed herself to close her eyes, savouring the warmth of his proximity.

When she opened them again, her gaze immediately met his in the mirror. His eyes were dark, intense, and for a moment, everything else faded away. It was just the two of them, suspended in this shared moment. She could feel her pulse quicken, the air around them charged with an unspoken tension.

Her breath hitched as she finally found her voice. “Y-yeh kya tha!” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, the question more an attempt to break the spell than anything else.

Rakshit, his fingers still lingering near her ear, smiled—a small, knowing curve of his lips. “Tum na... mujhe kisiki yaad dilati ho...” he replied, his tone softer now, tinged with a hint of nostalgia.

Drishti, still caught in the web of his gaze, tilted her head slightly, curiosity flaring within her. “Kiski?” she questioned, her voice holding a mix of intrigue and hesitation.

Rakshit seemed to pause, as if considering his words carefully. “Bachpan me jab mai gaon jata tha udhar mujhe koi dikhti thi, har waqt bas usi se baatein karta rehta tha, nadi kinare baith kar” he said, his eyes distant for a moment, lost in the memory.

Drishti smiled softly, imagining a young Rakshit by the riverside, his carefree laughter echoing in the open air. “Acha...” she murmured, her smile deepening as she envisioned the scene.

But then, his expression shifted, the teasing glint returning to his eyes. “Yahi kuch 70-80 saal ki hogi woh...” He added, his voice laced with playful mischief.

Drishti’s smile faltered, her brows knitting together in confusion before realization dawned. She turned to him, a mock frown on her face. “Mai aapko 70-80 saal ki lagti hoon?!” she exclaimed, her voice rising in faux outrage.