The mehndi function was in full swing—music buzzing, aunties gossiping in clusters, and the air thick with the smell of marigolds and fresh henna.

In a corner, amidst all the colours and chaos, a small boy quietly trailed behind his older cousins. He was dressed in a neatly pressed kurta pajama, hair combed to the side by his mom before she disappeared into the crowd. He didn’t know anyone from the bride’s side, so he mostly stuck close to his cousins, nodding or half-smiling when someone asked his name.

He wasn’t the loud, running-around kind of kid. He liked observing. And that's when he noticed you.

You were sitting on a small chair near the food table, henna still drying on your small hands, the dark green swirls freshly done. You looked hungry. Determined, even.

With your hands held awkwardly in the air, you tried to grab a piece of samosa with your elbow and teeth. You almost had it—until your elbow slipped, the samosa dropped, and your mehndi-stained palm smudged against your dress. The design on your fingers was ruined.

And just like that, your lips trembled.

He didn't mean to walk up. He really didn’t. But something about the way your face crumpled—eyes glossy, trying not to cry in front of everyone—made his legs move before his mind could catch up.

He quietly bent down in front of you, eyes scanning your palm like it was a school project he had to fix.

“I can fix it,” he said softly, pulling a tissue from his pocket like a superhero would draw a sword. You blinked at him, surprised. He gently dabbed the smudge, careful not to rub, then looked around like a boy on a mission.

One of the mehndi artists had left a cone on a tray.

He picked it up, crouched beside your chair again, and began tracing over your smudged design with all the concentration in the world. His tongue stuck out just a little, eyes squinting. It wasn’t perfect, but it was cute—heart shapes and stars replacing the ruined paisleys.

You stared at him, completely stunned.

“There. Better?” he asked, not meeting your eyes. Then, with a quick glance around, he picked up a plate and started piling snacks on it.

“I’ll feed you. Just… don’t cry again.”

He fed you one bite of samosa, then one of laddoo, gently blowing on the hot parts, his tiny fingers careful not to drop anything. When he noticed you smiling, a small shy smile tugged at his own lips.

“I’m Krish,” he mumbled, still avoiding your gaze.