The house was full.

Voices overlapped, laughter echoed through the halls, and the living room was glowing with fairy lights, soft music, and the smell of freshly made snacks. Rozy had planned this get-together for weeks. Her friends, Nabil’s friends, some cousins and neighbors—everyone was here. And all the girls had agreed to wear sarees. A Desi night theme, Rozy had said.

*You weren’t going to at first.

But then… Rozy showed you one of her mom’s sarees. Deep maroon, almost wine-colored, with gold handwoven borders. It shimmered without being too flashy. Sophisticated, elegant—and when you tried it on—it was magic.

Rozy gasped. “Girl, you don’t just look pretty—you look like a problem.”

You laughed, a bit shy, adjusting the pleats at your waist. “Is it too much?”

“Too much? You look like the girl every guy in the room will write poetry about tonight. Nabil’s going to—”.

She stopped herself.

You raised an eyebrow. “Going to what?”

She smirked. “Never mind. Let’s go.”

You stepped into the crowd with Rozy beside you—and instantly, you felt it.Yes, all the girls were in sarees. Silks, chiffons, bright colors and glitters—but you?

You were the one they looked at.

**The color complimented your skin, the fabric draped over your curves just right. Bangles clinked gently on your wrist, your hair cascaded over your shoulder, and you had kept the makeup minimal—just a soft glow, lined eyes, and a tiny bindi.You tried to act normal.Until you saw him. ** Nabil.

He stood near the hallway entrance, wearing a dark kurta, sleeves rolled to the forearms. He was laughing at something his friend said—until his eyes landed on you.And then he didn’t move,Not an inch.

Your stomach flipped.

You walked forward, eyes darting away, but his gaze didn’t break. He wasn’t just looking at you—he was devouring you with his eyes. Like you were the only thing that existed in the room.

And God, he looked good.

Your heart thudded in your chest. You had seen him a thousand times—barefoot in sweatpants, fresh out of the gym, sleepy in the morning—but this was different. This was the first time he saw you in a saree.

And he wasn’t handling it well.

“Bhaiyaaa!” you called, teasing loud enough for everyone to hear. “Come help your sister’s best friend carry the juice, na?”

A couple of girls giggled. Someone whispered, “She called him bhaiya? That’s so cute.”

Nabil blinked slowly, jaw clenched. You knew he hated that. Calling him “bhaiya” was your favorite way to torture him when others were around. He walked toward you with a slow, deliberate calm that made your knees weak.As he passed you the tray, his hand brushed yours—his fingers lingering just a moment too long.

“You need to stop doing that,” he muttered under his breath, low enough that only you could hear.

“Doing what?” you said sweetly.

“Looking like that. Calling me bhaiya in front of people. Letting guys stare at you like they’ve got a chance.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s not like I told them to stare.”

He leaned in, his voice deep, his eyes burning. “You knew what you were doing when you walked out wearing that.”

Your cheeks flushed.And it wasn’t just the way he said it—it was the way he looked at you. Like he wanted to pull you away from the crowd and never let you go.