He was the enemy in a pressed uniform. She was the girl with ink on her fingers and fire in her voice. They were never supposed to meet - let alone fall in love. He first saw her in the courtyard of an old temple - seated beneath a banyan tree, barefoot, steady, repairing the torn verses of a fading prayer with her fingers stained in ink and sandalwood. She didn't glance up. He hasn't stopped seeing her since. She's supposed to hate men like him - British, uniformed, powerful. And she does. Until he keeps showing up. At the well. At the tea stall. At the fabric shop. At the fence. At the exact moment her heart starts acting like it doesn't know better. He sketches her when no one's watching. She dreams of him and wakes up annoyed. She's everything bright and soft. He's everything quiet and aching. And every glance, every brush of fingertips, every stolen moment is making it harder to pretend they're not falling. It was supposed to be war. Not this. Not him. Not love. But how do you stop your heart from choosing the one person it's never supposed to want?
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