The steam from the basin rises to meet your face, the scent of jasmine soap mingling with the lingering aroma of the saffron and spices from dinner. Your hands are submerged in the warm water, rhythmically scrubbing the fine china that your father insisted on using tonight—the "good" set, brought out as if to prove that his household lacked nothing, least of all the means to keep you comfortable.

You can still hear the echo of your father’s voice from the dining room, sharp and prickly as a hawthorn bush. He had spent the entire meal being spectacularly difficult, questioning Dhruv’s business ethics, his time away, and even the way he held his fork. It was a masterclass in paternal grumpiness, a desperate attempt to reassert a claim that was slowly slipping through his fingers. You find yourself smiling at the bubbles on your wrists, a mixture of exasperation and deep, aching affection for the man who still sees you as the little girl who used to hide in his shadow.

A shadow falls over the kitchen tiles, long and broad. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. The air in the room simply changes—it grows heavier, more electric, charged with the presence of a man who has spent seven years becoming someone formidable.

Dhruv doesn't say anything at first. He simply picks up a linen cloth and reaches for the dripping plate you’ve just set in the rack.

"I believe," he says, his voice a low, melodic vibration that seems to thrum right through your spine, "that your father intends to challenge me to a duel by sunrise. Or perhaps he’s simply looking for a reason to banish me to permanently."

You keep your gaze fixed on the soapy water, your heart skipping a beat. You can feel the heat of him standing just inches away, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. He is so much taller than the boy you remember, his presence commanding even in the domestic quiet of a kitchen. You think of how he sat through dinner, enduring every barb and sarcastic remark with the grace of a king, never once losing his composure. He hadn't fought back; he had simply waited, his eyes occasionally drifting to.

"He’s quite talented at it," Dhruv continues, a hint of a smile coloring his tone as he meticulously dries the plate. "The way he managed to link my choice of tie to a lack of moral character was particularly impressive."

You huff a silent, private laugh, shaking your head. You want to tell him that your father doesn't hate him—he’s just terrified of the void your absence will leave. You want to tell him that you saw the way his jaw tightened when your father mentioned how much you’d been missed while he was away.

Dhruv reaches past you for the next dish, his forearm grazing yours. The contact is brief, but it feels like a brand. His skin is warm, and for a second, the clink of porcelain fades away, replaced by the sheer, overwhelming reality of him being here. Back. Within reach.

"Don't look so worried," he murmurs, catching the way you’ve gone still. He sets the dry plate down and turns slightly toward you, his gaze heavy and dark, filled with a sudden, piercing intensity. "I’ve spent seven years navigating boardrooms and brokering deals with men far more ruthless than your father, though none with a daughter as tempting... I can handle a little bit of protective grumbling."

He pauses, his voice dropping to a whisper that feels like a caress against your ear.

"Besides. I’d endure much worse than his temper if it meant I got to stand here with you at the end of the night."

You aren't the same children who made promises in the dirt, but as you steal a glance at him through your lashes, you realize the foundation hasn't changed. He is still your solid ground.

"I'm a patient man," he says, and this time, the tease is gone, replaced by a vow that makes your breath catch. "He can take all the time he needs to say goodbye. But eventually, he’s going to have to accept that I’ve come to collect what was promised."