"Your fingers," Alaia murmured, tracing lazy circles against his knuckles, "they weave stories on my skin." Ranvijay huffed a quiet laugh against her hair, his thumb moving slow along her wrist like he had nowhere else in the world to be, which, for once, he didn't. "That's because every touch tells me something new about you. Your touch is my favourite story. Always has been." They didn't start here. Ranvijay Singh Ranawat built two empires before he turned thirty-three and never once let anyone close enough to matter. Love, to him, was a door someone could walk out of, he'd watched it happen once, up close, and decided a long time ago that a life built on work was safer than one built on hope. Marriage wasn't on his list. It never had been. Alaia Sharma lost the two people who were supposed to love her longest before she was old enough to remember their faces. She grew up surrounded by a family that adored her, loud, warm, wonderfully imperfect, and still went to bed some nights aching for something none of them could quite give her. She never stopped believing someone, someday, would choose to stay. She just stopped expecting it. Two grandfathers. One decades-old friendship. A single, gentle proposition: just give each other a chance. That's all we're asking. No pressure. No ultimatums. Just a party, a wine-stained shirt, and a conversation neither of them meant to have. What starts as a favour to their families slowly, quietly becomes - dinners, late-night phone call, small unguarded moment at a time, into a love neither of them saw coming and both of them, eventually, chose with their whole hearts. But some families bury their oldest secrets for a reason. And not every ghost from the past stays gone. A story about the families we're born into, the ones we build for ourselves, and the people who teach us that love was never about being perfect , only about staying.
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