Avni arrived at the hospital, parking her scooter in the corner of the lot. She pulled off her helmet and looked toward the tall, white building that loomed over her like a wall of unanswered questions.

“Would he still be here?” she whispered to herself while stepping off the scooter.

It had already been a week. If he survived, he might me in normal ward. If he died… She shook her head sharply. Subh subh bol Avni! she scolded herself.

(Don’t say such things)

“Andar jaa k hi pata chalega,” she thought, tightening the strap of her sling bag as she walked toward the glass entrance.

(Only by going inside will I find out.)

Her mind wandered back to the office. AK toh yeh officer wale bhi na, ek kaam khatam hota hai toh dusra thop dete hain. Abhi toh AK project complete hua tha, fir bhi itne jaldi kaun business trip plan karta hai? Avni muttered under her breath.

(These officers are something else—one task finishes and they immediately dump another. The AK project had just been completed, and yet who plans a business trip this quickly?)

It had been a week since she admitted Rudransh to the hospital. She had wanted to visit the very next day, but her company had suddenly called her for a collaboration project with the international team. She was forced to leave town the following morning and had only returned last night.

And now, the first thing she needed to know was simple—had the guy survived, or not?

As she headed toward the reception desk, her phone buzzed. She quickly answered.

“Avni, where did you go so early in the morning?” Pooja’s voice rang out from the other end.

“Visiting that guy,” Avni replied curtly.

“Tare sui usi pe atki hai, pyar-vyar ho gaya hai kya?” Pooja teased.

(Your mind is stuck on him, did you fall in love or what?)

Avni froze mid-step. “What nonsense are you saying, Pooja? I’m just visiting.”

“Yeah, yeah—visiting. But madam, you’ve been away for a week. He must have been discharged already,” Pooja said.

“Nah, I checked online. It said because the bleeding was excessive, recovery could take weeks. Poor guy…” Avni murmured.

“Tu kuch zyada hi tension nahi le rahi uski? Kahin sach mein koi gadbad toh nahi?” Pooja teased again, her tone almost sing-song.

(Aren’t you worrying a bit too much about him? Don’t tell me there’s really something going on here?)

“Shut up already, and cut the call!” Avni snapped.

“Okay, okay—sorry, sorry! I’ll call you later. You go and find out about your Mr. Handsome.” Pooja chuckled.

“Pooja!” Avni warned, but the call had already ended with Pooja’s laughter echoing in her ears.

Avni shook her head, sighing. I shouldn’t have described him as ‘Mr. Handsome’ while explaining the incident to her…

Finally, she reached the reception desk. “Excuse me,” she called out.

“Yes ma’am, how can I help you?” the receptionist, a girl around her own age, asked politely.

“Can you tell me about… Rudransh Vardhan?” Avni hesitated as she recalled the names—Vardhan, which the doctor had mentioned on the call, and Rudransh, the name his mother had spoken in the waiting room. “He was admitted with a gunshot wound emergency. Is he alright?”

The receptionist studied her for a moment.

“A week ago, I was the one who brought him in,” Avni explained quickly.

“Oh yes, I remember,” the receptionist said.

“How is he?” Avni asked, her voice tight.

“He’s fine, ma’am,” the receptionist replied with a small smile.

“Thank God,” Avni whispered in relief.

“He must be in a normal ward then?” she asked, before scolding herself silently. Why are you asking so many questions, Avni?

“No, ma’am. He has already been discharged,” the receptionist said.

“Discharged?” Avni blinked. But it was a major emergency… how could he recover so quickly?

“Ma’am, could you move aside?” the receptionist’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

Turning, she noticed other visitors waiting in line. “Sorry,” she muttered, stepping away.

Her brows furrowed. Strange… the doctor had said his blood loss was excessive, that he needed immediate surgery, that recovery would take time. And now, discharged in just a week? Where did the recovery period go? How he heal so fast?

The unanswered questions gnawed at her as she walked slowly down the corridor, her mind clouded with suspicion and worry.

***

Rudransh stood in front of the tall mirror. His reflection showed a man still recovering—bandages wrapped tightly across his chest, just above his heart, the fabric of his shirt stretched carefully over the wound. Each breath reminded him of the bullet that had nearly ended him, yet his hands moved with stubborn determination as he adjusted the crisp collar of his shirt. The pain still lingered but he ignored it the way he ignored every wound life threw at him.

“Yes, you are not healed yet,”  His mother said, her soft but firm tone cutting through his thoughts.

Rudransh stilled, glancing at her in the mirror. She folded her arms, eyes sharp with both worry and affection.

“Tu sun bhi raha hai?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

(Are you even listening to me?)

“Hmm sun raha hoon, par ab main bilkul theek ho,” Rudransh said, turning slightly, adjusting his collar with a stubborn pride.

(Yes, I’m listening, but I’m absolutely fine now.)

His mother’s face softened for a second, but worry quickly replaced it again. She stepped closer, her saree pallu brushing against the floor.

“Kal hi toh tu ghar aaya hai. Pehle ghar jaane ki jaldi thi aur ab office ke liye bhi tayaar ho gaya hai, Rudransh. It’s not good. Doctor ne kaha tha tumhe rest ki zarurat hai.”

(You came home just yesterday. First you were in such a hurry to leave the hospital, and now you’re already getting ready for office, Rudransh. It’s not good. The doctor said you need rest.)

Rudransh let out a faint chuckle, shaking his head.

“Toh main konsa jaa kar majduri karne wala hoon? Bas baithne-baithne jana hai. Waha jaakar bhi baithna hai, aur ghar par bhi toh baith kar hi rest karni hai.”

(It’s not like I’m going there to do hard labor. I’ll just be sitting anyway. Whether I sit there or here at home, it’s the same thing.)

His mother just looked at him, her lips pressed into a thin line, her silence heavier than her words.

A knock came on the door.

“Good morning, sir,” Laksh greeted politely, standing at the entrance.

His mother turned "I told you, Laksh, he isn’t going.”

“Maa, zid mat karo,” Rudransh said, his voice firm now. “Jana padega. Media ko bhi jawab dena hai. Ab Vardhan heir sari umar bistar par lag kar toh nahi baith sakta.”

(Mother, don’t be stubborn. I have to go. I need to answer the media too. The heir of Vardhan can’t spend his whole life lying in bed.)

His mother’s eyes welled with unshed tears, but she blinked them back, refusing to show weakness in front of him. After a moment, she nodded reluctantly.

“Acha, theek hai phir. Par zyada movements mat karna.”

(Fine then. But don’t make too many movements.)

“Ji, mataji,” Rudransh said, bringing his palms together in a respectful gesture of Namaste.

(Yes, mother.)

“Aur haldi wala doodh pi kar jaana.”

(And drink turmeric milk before leaving.)

“Chii,” Rudransh grimaced.

(Yuck.)

“Pina padega agar jana hai toh.” She didn’t wait for his reply, already turning to leave.

(You’ll have to drink it if you want to go.)

Rudransh exhaled slowly once she was gone. He moved to the sofa, unbuttoning his coat and sat down beside A black panther already rested on the sofa, its golden eyes following him with quiet intensity.

Rudransh smiled faintly and ran his hand through the smooth fur of Blaze ( panther name ) the creature who was once sent to kill him but now stayed loyally by his side.

“Mom worries too much, isn’t it, buddy?” Rudransh said softly, his fingers gliding over Blaze’s sleek head.

(Mom worries too much, don’t you think, buddy?)

Blaze lowered his head onto Rudransh’s lap, closing his eyes with a quiet purr.

Laksh entered properly now, carrying a file. His steps were careful, respectful.

“Did you get the info?” Rudransh asked, his tone turning businesslike.

“Yes, sir,” Laksh said, handing over the file. Rudransh gestured for him to sit.

“Take a seat.”

“Thank you, sir,” Laksh replied, lowering himself into the chair.

Rudransh opened the file. His sharp eyes scanned through the pages, reading every detail. Laksh’s voice followed the rhythm of the pages.

“According to the sketch you gave, this is all the information about the guy. He was indeed sent by Aarav. But… he is also involved with someone else.”

Rudransh’s hand froze mid-turn. His eyes lifted to Laksh’s, searching for confirmation. Laksh gave a small nod.

“Next page, sir,” Laksh said quietly.

Rudransh turned the page. The air in the room shifted. His gaze fell on a photograph clipped neatly into the file. His jaw tightened, his breath stilled. He leaned back against the sofa, the file resting loosely in his hands.

Blaze stirred, sensing the sudden tension.

“Would you confront him?” Laksh asked carefully.

Rudransh closed the file with a sharp motion, tossing it onto the table carelessly. “Leave it. I’m fine.”

Laksh frowned. “So you’re going to leave it?”

Rudransh didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he let his hand slide back to Blaze’s head, stroking the panther as if it alone understood him. His lips curved into a cold, almost ironic smile.

“Of course. I can’t go against someone of my own.”

Laksh’s brows furrowed. His loyalty battled with his conscience. He leaned forward, unable to hold back. “For how long are you going to ignore it, sir?”

Rudransh’s sharp gaze shot up, pinning him to his chair.

Laksh swallowed but continued, his voice quiet. “I’m sorry to speak like this, but this isn’t the first time. Why don’t you ever do anything about it?”

Rudransh’s face softened only slightly. “He is family, Laksh.”

Laksh lowered his eyes, his frustration evident. He shook his head slowly, helplessly. He had seen Rudransh bleed, fight, and almost die, yet he refused to retaliate when family was involved. That restraint was both his greatest strength and his deepest wound.

Silence stretched in the room, broken only by Blaze’s steady breathing.

Finally, Laksh asked, “What were you doing in the park that day, sir?”

Rudransh’s hand stilled on Blaze’s head. His fingers curled slightly into the fur. His eyes darkened, but then a small smile tugged at his lips, unexpected, fragile.

“You’re smiling?” Laksh asked, surprised.

Rudransh leaned back, his eyes flickering with memory. “Baat hi aisi hai.”

(The matter itself is such.)

And then, unbidden, the flashback came rushing in.

Flashback

He checked his watch, tapping the steering wheel impatiently. For how long is this traffic going to last? Just turn the damn signal green already, Rudransh muttered in his head.

The noise around him was growing louder—people honking, shouting, cursing at the never-ending red light.

I should have taken the other route, he cursed under his breath, jaw tightening.

“Aree Bhai, kardu bhi! Kitna time ho gaya signal ko!” (Brother, do it already! How long has this signal been red?) one man shouted from the crowd.

Rudransh exhaled heavily, eyes fixed on the motionless traffic light.

“Ab tu barish bhi aane vali hai…” (And now the rain is about to start too…) someone nearby said, their voice carrying through the restless crowd.

Rudransh tilted his head back, peering out of the car window. The sky was smeared with heavy black clouds.

Not darker than my life, he thought bitterly.

Almost unconsciously, his hand stretched out of the half-open window. A single raindrop landed on his palm—icy cold, yet strangely grounding. For a moment, he just sat with it.

Always busy with work, always sharp, executing plans flawlessly—it hadn’t broken him physically, but mentally, he was fraying. Deep inside, I’m still that same boy… no matter how much I pretend otherwise, he admitted to himself. The thought pierced him like a blade.

And then, as if the sky had been waiting for his confession, the rain came crashing down in sheets.

“Chalo, jaha se koi dusra rasta lete hain… yeh rasta khulne wala nahi ab toh!” (Come on, let’s take another way… this road isn’t going to open now!) someone from the crowd declared.

Voices of agreement rippled around. One by one, bikes and cars started turning back.

Rudransh decided to do the same. He had been trying earlier too, but with cars blocking him from behind, he had been trapped. Now the road was clearing.

He put the car in reverse, but his foot slammed the brakes abruptly—the car behind had backed into him, and his bumper tapped the one in front.

“Arre, andhe ho kya?!” (Hey, are you blind or what?!) the man in front yelled, storming out of his car.

The man walked up to Rudransh, pointing angrily at the small dent. Rudransh, however, was staring past him, lost in something else.

“Sun bhi raha hai?!” (Are you even listening?!) the man demanded.

Without blinking, without breaking his gaze, Rudransh reached into his wallet, pulled out a wad of notes, and handed it over.

The man stopped mid-rant, snatched the money, and backed off quickly. With the area emptying, he drove away.

But Rudransh stayed. His eyes were locked on her.

“Pastel girl…” The words slipped out like a prayer.

There she was—drenched, sitting on her scooty, her face tilted toward the sky, eyes closed, lips curled in the faintest smile. She wasn’t fighting the rain. She was embracing it.

She’s going, Rudransh thought, when he saw her start the scooter. But his brows furrowed as she stopped midway, parking it under a tree instead.

Marna hai kya isne? (Does she want to get herself killed?) he muttered, watching the branches sway dangerously as thunder cracked above.

His phone buzzed. Laksh’s name flashed on the screen.

“I’m coming, wait,” Rudransh said curtly, ending the call before Laksh could reply.

He turned back toward her for one last glance before leaving. But she wasn’t there.

Where did she go? His chest tightened. Her scooter was still parked, but she had vanished.

Unease prickled at him. He reversed the car slowly, scanning the side of the street—his foot slammed the brake again.

There she was.

Not under the tree, not on the scooter. She was inside the park, drenched, barefoot in the mud—laughing, jumping, twirling with a group of kids as the rain poured down on them.

She wasn’t just standing in the rain. She belonged to it.

Rudransh  pov

My eyebrows narrowed when it looked like she and the kids had decided on something.

I saw her coming back.

Even from across the road, not too far, I could see her clearly. Her presence had a way of pulling my gaze, as if the rain and the chaos around had no weight compared to her.

She typed something on her phone, and then music began to play. The kids suddenly erupted into clumsy little moves, their laughter mixing with the rain.

And then—her.

She stepped forward, hesitant at first, as if shy. But then, like a flame finding air, she lit up. The kids moved aside, giving her space, as though they too recognized she wasn’t one of them—she was something beyond.

I leaned back in my seat, adjusting myself like a man about to watch a performance he never knew he needed.

And it was a performance. She wasn’t just dancing—she was becoming. Her hands moved gracefully, her body flowed with rhythm, her lips sync’d with the lyrics in perfect abandon. This wasn’t the usual carefree swaying people do when music plays; these were steps refined, precise, mastered.

Is she a dancer? The thought escaped me in awe.

Her expressions killed me—the playfulness, the drama, the innocence, the intensity. She wasn’t just dancing to music, she was telling a story through every twirl and every glance.

The rain didn’t spare her, but somehow that only made her divine. Her red anarkali spun in elegant circles, fabric catching the water, clinging to her shape, then bursting free as she twirled again.

Her hair, open and damp, stuck in strands against her face and neck, yet it made her look all the more raw, all the more real.

In the hush of evening, every droplet shimmered against her arms and cheekbones, as if she carried a quiet glow of her own.

Her face wasn’t the face of some naïve bubbly girl. No—her features carried maturity, wisdom, the subtle strength of someone who had lived and learned. Yet, in this moment, she was alive like a schoolgirl dancing on her first stage, carefree, unburdened.

My heart clenched. So this is what you must have been like back then.

She twirled again, turning her back toward me, moving further away. The kids followed her, giggling, their tiny feet splashing in puddles.

I wanted to call out. I want to see you more… The thought throbbed in me, desperate.

But she didn’t turn back. Not for one whole song. Not even after three endless minutes.

Something inside me gave in. My patience snapped like a bowstring. My hand went to the door lock before I could think, my feet already stepping out into the rain.

I told myself I’d stand a little far, just watch from a safer distance. But my body betrayed me—step after step, closer and closer, until the space between us vanished into mere inches.

Stop here, I scolded myself. Take a step back. Don’t do this.

But before I could retreat—she did. She spun, laughing, stepping back, until her damp back collided against my chest.

Her scent—God, her scent—hit me before the rain could drown it.

Before I could take a full breath of her, she turned, startled, her wide eyes locking with mine. Fear flashed in them, sudden and raw.

She tried to step back, but her foot slipped .

In that heartbeat, I didn’t think.

My hand shot out, catching her arm, yanking her safely toward me.

And in the pull, I stole more than balance—I stole her waist, anchoring her against me.

Time froze.

The world went silent.

It was just her eyes, her breath mingling with mine, her wet hair sticking to my cheek, her skin gleaming under the storm, pressed against me as though she belonged there.

We stood there, looking at each other. I could hear her heartbeat—fast, racing—matching the frantic thud in my own chest. Hers was probably from fear, from being saved just in time; mine was from a thousand things I couldn’t name.

Let me see you closely, I thought. I loosened my grip on her arm but kept her waist anchored with one hand. With my free hand I brushed a wet strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

Up close, the face I’d carried in my head for nearly a year was suddenly real and impossibly near. The pastel girl—how had I never been able to forget her? The rain hammered around us but it felt like the world had shrunk to the space between our breaths. All I saw were her eyes, the delicate slope of her nose, the soft curve of her lips, the way she swallowed when she realized how close we were.

Her skin—dusky, sun-kissed—glowed as if someone had brushed light across her cheekbones. There was no trace of makeup, only that natural luster that seemed to rise from within her. It wasn’t just her color, it was her warmth—bronze with a honeyed undertone the streetlight made sacred. Each raindrop sliding along her collarbone shimmered like a tiny promise.

And then there was her scent. Jasmine—faint, stubborn, impossible to mistake. It wasn’t the sharpness of perfume but something softer, as if it belonged to her, clinging even through the rain. A memory made living, one I could breathe in forever.

I might have stayed there, stealing that impossible moment, memorizing the line of her jaw and the tiny hollow beneath her throat, when everything changed in a single, violent crack.

A bullet came—sudden, indiscriminate. It tore the air beside her ear so close I felt the rush of it. It grazed her shoulder and then slammed into my chest.

Pain detonated through me, more fierce than anything I’d ever expected. The world seemed to tilt; my legs failed as the impact shoved the breath out of me. For an instant I thought it would steady me, then the force made me stumble backwards. Still, even as my body betrayed me, my eyes stayed on her.

She bent down toward me, panic carving her face raw and honest. The kids were already shrieking and running, small feet pounding wet earth in every direction, but she didn’t flee.

She spun around, searching, her eyes wide and fierce, but she found nothing—just empty road, wet trees, and the pounding rain.

Through the haze of pain, I forced myself to look too, and that’s when I saw him—a lone figure breaking into a run in the distance, his footsteps splashing against the flooded ground. He thought he was hidden, but he wasn’t.

He looked back. I wanted to laugh—nervous, stupid—but it came out as a choked sound.

“Ambulance!” she cried, voice cracking.Her words felt too small for the chaos, but she was moving, ready to do something, to fix this.

I tried to stand, to tell her I was fine, but the taste of iron and the heat at my chest told me otherwise. Blood soaked through my shirt, hot and terrifying. Every heartbeat felt like a hammer striking the wound and then a silence—then another strike.

“Pastel girl,” the name slipped out of me before I could stop it. I’d seen her at Abhimanyu’s wedding, close to his bride.

She crouched closer, fingers trembling as she reached to press at the wound. Her hands were warm despite the rain;

I kept watching her until the edges of the world blurred. Passing out wasn’t like in movies; it felt slow, like being untied from the inside. I was not sure whether I was fading or being pulled toward some quiet place, but one thought clung to me with ridiculous clarity: if this was the last thing, let it be her face I carry with me. Let me say her name once more. Let me remember  the way she was laugh and grief and light all at once.

I held on to that—her eyes, her breath, the small, steady press of her palm—and the rain kept falling, relentless and indifferent, as everything else slipped away.

End of Rudransh’s Pov

End of Flashback

Rudransh was still seated on the sofa, one hand resting lazily on Blaze’s head, when Laksh’s voice broke the silence.

“Are you going to tell, or just smile?” Laksh asked, studying his expression with curiosity.

Rudransh’s lips twitched as if caught, but he brushed it off. “Leave it,” he said, standing up slowly, adjusting his coat  preparing to walk out.

He checked his wristwatch. “We should go. We’re late.”

Laksh gave a small nod, but his eyes gleamed with something unspoken. “The girl was smart… she guessed your lock.”

A sudden laugh echoed from the doorway. “No, Bhai was dumb. Must have put some easy one.” Yuvraaj entered the room, his grin wide, mischief flashing in his eyes.

Rudransh turned his head toward him, giving him a sharp look— that made Yuvraaj instantly raise his hands in mock surrender.

“Badi Maa is calling you. Come already,” Yuvraaj added, his voice softening out of respect.

Rudransh nodded once. “Let’s go.”

But Yuvraaj wasn’t finished. He walked alongside them, eyes twinkling. “By the way, did anyone send that girl a thank you gift or something?”

“I’ll send one today,” Laksh replied dutifully.

Rudransh didn’t speak. He was lost in his own thoughts, the memory of her surfacing again. Should I personally thank her?  he wondered silently, a rare warmth stirring in his chest. Ise bahaane usse mil bhi loonga… He couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at his lips—the kind of smile born not out of excitement, of a desire to meet her again.

(This way, I’ll also get a chance to meet her…)

Yuvraaj and Laksh both slowed their steps, glancing at each other in silent communication.

“Something going on?” Yuvraaj asked Laksh under his breath.

“Don’t know,” Laksh replied quietly, though his tone betrayed suspicion.

“But it looks like it,” Yuvraaj and Laksh said together, their voices overlapping as they exchanged knowing glances.

***

Rudransh was in the living room.

"Mom, I’m getting late," Rudransh said, glancing at his watch, the silver hands ticking away relentlessly.

"Ruk jaa,Ruk jaa. Last time achhi tarah se nazar nahi utri thi, tabhi yeh sab hua," his mother said, her voice stern but tinged with worry.

(Stop, don’t rush. Last time the evil eye wasn’t fully warded off, that’s why all this happened.)

Rudransh rolled his eyes slightly, trying to hide the small grin forming on his lips. "Maa, modern hoke kaise baatein karti hai aap."

(Mom, how come you speak like a modern woman?)

"Chup kar, mujhe karne dai," his mother said, waving her hand in a small protective gesture, performing her ritual to ward off the evil eye from Rudransh once again.

(Quiet, let me do it.)

Just then, the maid arrived hurriedly. "Mam, Nirmala kaki is here," she informed.

(Madam, Nirmala auntie is here.)

Both Rudransh and his mother turned their heads toward the older lady. Nirmala, a woman in her sixties, had a sharp eye for marriage proposals, bringing forward the best potential matches for eligible boys and girls.

“Kab tak khud nazar utaro gi, Devika? Bahu ko kab muka dena hai,” Nirmala stated, her voice commanding, already starting her influence to set the stage for marriage proposals.

(Devika, how long will you keep performing the ritual to lift the evil eye? When will you give your daughter-in-law a chance?)

"Main toh kab se tayyar hoon, kaki, par yeh kaha manta hai," Devika said, smoothing her saree, finishing the ritual, a hint of playful exasperation in her tone.

(I’ve been ready, auntie, but he isn’t agreeing.)

"Is baar maan jayega. Aise-aisey rishtay laaye huye na—" Nirmala began.

(This time he’ll agree, I’ve brought these proposals—)

Before she could finish, Rudransh interjected smoothly, "K apne bag main pack karke hi wapas laa jaogi, haina, kaki?"

(You’ll pack them in your bag and bring them back, right, auntie?)

"Chup kar," his mother said, giving him a light slap on his arm.

(Quiet!)

"Ayi, kaki, baithiye," Devika said, motioning her to take a seat.

(Come, auntie, sit down.)

"Hmm, baithiye aur chai piyein, kyun ki shadi toh hone se rahi," Rudransh said, passing by her casually, a teasing smile on his lips.

(Yes, sit down and have some tea, because the wedding isn’t happening yet.)

"Arre ruko, tu sahi," Nirmala said, standing directly in front of him, stopping him from leaving.

(Wait, you’re not going anywhere.)

"Dekh to liya karo, kya pata koi ladki pasand hi aa jaye," she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

(You should at least look, who knows if you’ll like a girl?)

"Mere paas time nahi hai, Nirmala kaki," he said, pulling her gently by the cheek. "Apna business kahi aur jaa kar karo, main apne business mein bahut busy hoon."

(I don’t have time, auntie. Do your work elsewhere, I’m very busy with my own business.)

As she was about to protest, her bag fell to the floor, spilling photographs and documents. Rudransh bent down, trying to control his laugh as he picked them up carefully.

"Tyari puri karke aayi hai aap," Rudransh said, handing her the bag while keeping his composure.

(You’ve come fully prepared.)

He bent down to grab the fallen photographs.

"Aur nahi to kya, kya pata kab muka mil jaye," she said with a small laugh, teasing him.

(Otherwise, who knows, maybe a chance will come.)

Rudransh stood, handing her the bag carefully. "Smart move," he said with a small grin.

Everyone laughed, including Nirmala, the tension dissolving into lightheartedness.

"Yeh lo," he said, giving her the photographs.

(Here, take them.)

"Lao," she said, holding the photographs from the other end. But Rudransh didn’t let go completely , suddenly his hold get tighter, still holding the other end and looking at a picture above.

(Give it to me)

"Kya hua? Pasand aa gayi kya?" Nirmala asked, teasing him as he studied the photograph closely.

(What happened? Do you like her?)

"Huh, what?" Rudransh asked, surprised, trying to hide his reaction.

Nirmala only smiled knowingly, enjoying the playful moment.

"Chalo, Laksh late ho rahe hain," Rudransh said immediately, making an excuse and excusing himself from the teasing circle.

(Come on, Laksh is getting late.)

Nirmala only looked at him, still smiling, as he left.

"Who was he looking at?" Devika asked, curiosity sparkling in her eyes.

"This girl," Nirmala said, showing the photograph to Devika.

"Yeh toh wahi ladki hai!" Devika exclaimed, recognition lighting up her face.

"Avni," Devika and Nirmala said together.

***

The car moved steadily along the quiet streets, the low hum of the engine filling the space. Rudransh sat in the back seat, his posture relaxed but his mind racing. He stared out the window, watching the city blur past, lost in thought. The soft morning light fell across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the intensity in his eyes.

"Laksh " Rudransh called.

Laksh, driving with his usual calm efficiency, stole a quick glance at his boss through the rearview mirror. “Yes, sir?” he asked, sensing the shift in Rudransh’s mood.

Rudransh’s eyes followed a passing tree for a moment before meeting Laksh’s reflection in the mirror. “Prepare a thank-you gift for her,” he said quietly, his voice calm but carrying a subtle note of purpose.

“Sure, sir. I will send it today,” Laksh replied without hesitation, already planning the next steps in his mind.

Rudransh leaned back slightly, his fingers brushing against the seat, and shook his head just faintly. “No. I will thank her myself. And do one more thing.” His eyes didn’t leave the mirror.

Laksh’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “What?” he asked, curious about the sudden change.

Rudransh’s gaze locked onto Laksh’s in the mirror, his eyes sharp and unwavering. “I want her details.” There was no hesitation in his voice, no second thought—only determination.

Laksh nodded slowly, recognizing the rare intensity in Rudransh’s tone. “Sure, sir,” he said, already reaching for his phone to start gathering the information.

Rudransh turned back to the window, his expression softening just slightly as he let the sunlight touch his face. He didn’t speak again, but his mind replayed her smile, the spark that had quietly unsettled him. After a long time, he wasn’t thinking about strategies, threats, or the endless responsibilities—he was thinking about her.

And this was just the beginning.

*******

How was it?