It was Sunday morning, the kind where sunlight came soft and yellow through the slatted blinds, pooling like spilled haldi on the cool mosaic floor.

You stood by the window, your hazel kurta catching the breeze, hair tied loosely at the nape. The soft fabric of your personalised shawl billowed gently behind you, like it remembered how to dance. The air was thick with the scent of fresh-cut lemongrass from the neighbour’s balcony and the faint aroma of agarbatti — sandalwood, your favourite. You didn’t light it. Kiran had.

You didn’t say anything.

Kiran sat on the floor, legs folded beneath him, the Sunday newspaper splayed out but ignored. He was focused on folding the laundry you’d half-finished — your dupattas, his undershirts, the old kitchen towels with fading embroidery. His fingers moved clumsily but carefully, matching corners, smoothing wrinkles, like the act itself was sacred.

He placed your neatly folded pastel blue kurta on the arm of the sofa. Next to it, he laid your notebook. The new one, with the hazel cover and rounded-cornered pages.

He didn’t speak.

But his movements were deliberate, almost reverent — as if folding laundry and remembering your favourite incense was his love letter to you.

From the kitchen, the pressure cooker gave its final hiss. You didn’t move to turn it off. Neither did he.

Instead, you turned slightly, just enough to catch him in the soft edge of your vision. His hair was damp from the bath, combed back neatly, the scent of his mild cologne rising with the warmth of the morning. He wore a simple beige T-shirt and track pants — not handsome, not flashy, but him. Comfortable. Yours.

He looked up for a second, met your eyes. Just for a breath.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But something passed between you — not quite a moment, not quite a thought. Just... knowing.

Kiran stood, walked past you, paused. His hand, calloused and warm, brushed lightly against your back. Not a caress. Just enough pressure to ground you. Then he was in the kitchen, pouring tea — you could hear the tap of the steel spoon against the glass cups. Two cardamom pods in yours. One in his.

You went to him, the floor cool under your feet.

He handed you the cup. You took it, and your fingers touched.

Not by accident.

You sat across each other at the tiny table. There was no conversation. The fan hummed softly above. A crow cawed outside. Distantly, some child was learning to sing — a scratchy rendition of Raag Yaman, uncertain but earnest.

He reached across the table, tugged your shawl higher over your shoulder. You let him.

A drop of tea clung to your lower lip. He didn’t wipe it.

But he noticed.

And he smiled, faintly, like a secret kept between your breaths.

You didn’t need more. You never really did.

Later, when you sat curled against him on the divan, your long legs draped over his, your head resting lightly on his shoulder — he reached into the folds of the blanket and pulled out something small. A wrapped packet.

“Open,” he said simply.

Inside was a handcrafted pendant. Nothing showy. Just a smooth piece of reclaimed wood, carved into a rounded triangle. On its back, etched in tiny script — You still smell like sunshine.

You had once said that, half asleep, forehead pressed to his neck.

You clutched it in your palm now.

Tight.

No words. No thank you. Just your hand slipping quietly into his, your thumb tracing slow circles over his knuckles.

And Kiran, who once only knew how to stay, stayed still — not out of duty, but devotion.

You breathed in — turmeric, rain, sandalwood, him.

Outside, life pressed on. Loud. Busy. Messy.

But in your small, sun-warmed flat, love bloomed in the silence.

And it smelled faintly of cardamom, cotton, and coming home.