When you turned 24, the questions began piling in. Every wedding you attended came with a side of “Beta, you're next, right?” Tired of the constant speculation and subtle guilt-tripping, you finally told your parents they could go ahead and look for a match. It wasn’t desperation. It was practicality. And maybe, a part of you was curious.

That’s when Advik Parekh entered the picture.

An IIM grad turned investment banker, he was the only son of a well-established Gujarati family based in South Mumbai. Your families arranged for a meeting at a minimalist, members-only café in Bandra with polished wood interiors, organic teas, the kind of place where everyone’s wearing linen and whispering.

He walked in, tall and sharply dressed in a navy linen shirt and beige chinos. His presence was magnetic. Clean-cut jawline, eyes sharp and unreadable. But his manner was distant. Polite, yes, but clinical. His responses were precise. No small talk. No unnecessary flattery. You left that meeting wondering how a man so attractive could feel so cold.

Yet something in his stillness intrigued you. You agreed to meet again.

The second meeting was a casual brunch at a rooftop bistro. This time, his guard loosened. He asked about your work, your favourite books, your dream travel list. You caught him smiling, not politely but genuinely, when you spoke about your childhood dog or your obsession with interior design reels on Instagram. That afternoon, he surprised you by offering to drop you home, his car filled with soft indie music, his playlist shockingly similar to yours.

Soon, the dates became frequent. Private film screenings, dinners at BKC’s swankiest restaurants, a spontaneous weekend trip to Udaipur under the pretense of “just showing you where I grew up.” He never said much, but he always listened. You started to see how his care showed in actions, not words. From remembering how you like your filter coffee to ordering your favorite cheesecake before you asked.

You fell for him. Not just for his chiselled looks or the way he wore his suits, but for the quiet strength behind his silences. For the way he placed his hand gently on your lower back when crossing the street. For how his eyes softened every time he looked at you, even if he didn’t always say it aloud.

So when you got married, it felt less like a compromise and more like a calm, solid beginning.

You moved into a high-rise apartment in Lower Parel with floor-to-ceiling windows and a tiny balcony that caught the golden hour just right. Advik left for work early. You freelanced from home, filling the space with scented candles, fresh flowers, and playlists that shifted with your moods. You took charge of your shared space with pride. Curating bookshelves, organising wine glasses, cooking elaborate meals even when no one asked.

One evening, you were cooking pasta in a loose cotton kurti, music playing through the speakers. You didn’t hear him come in. Lost in the rhythm, you were swaying gently at the stove when you suddenly felt his arms wrap around your waist. His lips brushed your neck, his scent earthy vetiver and something unmistakably him wrapped around you.

“I’m starving,” he murmured, voice low.

You turned with a smile. “Dinner’s almost done. Go freshen up.”

But he had other plans. Wordlessly, he turned off the flame, then lifted you into his arms, effortlessly.

“Advik—what are you—”

He smirked. “My dinner’s right here.”

You laughed, burying your face in his shoulder, fingers trailing through the hair at the nape of his neck. He carried you into the bedroom, the city lights dancing across the floor-to-ceiling glass. The clinking of cutlery could wait. For now, there was only the warmth of his touch, the sound of your laughter echoing through the apartment, and the slow, growing intimacy of a love that had started with hesitation but was now yours. Fully. Richly. Undeniably.