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"What are you doing here?" he asks me, his eyes raking over my drenched body and widening. Instantly, he opens the door further, allowing me to slip inside and grab a towel from somewhere, handing it to me.
My sobs may have taken a backseat f...
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It’s been over a month since that pav bhaji and milkshake evening — the day Aayansh showed up at the door like a knight armed with carbohydrates. And somehow, since then, we’ve just… settled into something warm. Effortless.
Most mornings begin with lazy laughter in the kitchen, him pretending to know how to flip parathas, me yelling when he adds jeera to pancakes “just to experiment.” By afternoon, we both scatter into our own little orbits — him to his glass-and-tie universe, and me to the chaotic smells of espresso and burnt banana bread at my new café.
It’s hectic. Wedding planning is insane. Our flower vendor yelled at me for wanting yellow instead of blush pink, then Aayansh fired him and now we’re looking for another florist, my lehenga designer is emotionally unavailable, and we still haven’t finalized the sangeet playlist. Ma is excited, nervous, panicking most of the time and it’s rubbing off on me too.
And yet… through it all, Aayansh has been there.
Calm. Steady. Maddeningly kind. Never once flinching when I spiral. Never once treating me like I’m too much.
When I got my driver’s license yesterday, he made me take an oath on a tub of cookie dough to never text and drive. And this morning, as I nervously climbed into the driver’s seat alone for the first time, he handed me a tiny chocolate bar and said, “For bravery. Also, don’t crash.”
Now, I’m on my way to surprise him at work. The sky’s unusually clear for a Wednesday, and there’s a thrill buzzing under my skin — part freedom, part nerves.
On the way, I spot a tiny flower shop with wild, messy bouquets bursting out of rusty buckets. Something about it makes me slow down and park.
Ten minutes later, I’m back in the car with a bouquet of bright marigolds and yellow daisies — his favorite colors, not that he’s ever said it out loud. But I notice.
I always notice him.
And that’s the terrifying part.
Because somewhere between morning chai, late-night ice cream theft, and listening to him calmly explain GST billing (while looking disgustingly hot in pajamas), I think I’ve started to fall for him.
Really fall.
Like the kind that’s not butterflies and violins — but steady earthquakes in the chest. The kind that whispers, “This one won’t leave.”
And that voice… is a lot louder than my memory of Neil when I thought I was falling for him.
God, I think, gripping the bouquet tighter as I reach his office building, how did I get here?
Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I step into the sleek marble lobby, nerves bouncing inside me like a ping pong ball. The receptionist, Sammy, recognizes me with a smile. “Hello, Ms. Rai! Are you here for Mr. Singhania?”
