The nights in Jaipur were quieter in your flat than in the marble halls of the Goenka villa. No servants whispering, no father’s voice drilling into his skull, no glass chandeliers reminding him of a lineage he never truly felt a part of. Just the creak of the ceiling fan, the faint hum of traffic outside, and you — bent over your sewing kit again, copper bangles glinting in the dim yellow lamp.

Amanveer sat on the edge of the bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes locked on you. His heart thudded with the same urgency it had the first night he saw you stand in that Pune conference hall, unflinching, dismantling his calculations with calm authority.

She ruined me the moment she spoke. And gods help me, she still ruins me every single day.

You muttered to yourself about a misplaced thread, sharp little frown denting your brow. He smiled faintly — no one else saw this side of you. To the world you were a poised engineer, punctual, conventional, untouchable. But to him, you were maddeningly real. You hated when pens ran out. You cursed softly when your horse tried to bite the neighbor’s laundry. You prayed every morning before coffee. You lived with the kind of discipline he had never known, and he was addicted to it.

He leaned back on his elbows, eyes never leaving you.

“Do you ever think,” he asked suddenly, voice low, “what would’ve happened if I hadn’t come back to you that day in Pune?”

You didn’t look up. “I would have gone home.”

“And married someone your parents chose?” His jaw clenched. “Some dull Brahmin boy with perfect posture and no mind of his own?”

You threaded the needle, not rising to the bait. “Maybe.”

The calmness in your tone burned him. He rose in an instant, towering over you, his shadow spilling across your lap as he caught your wrist. The needle clattered to the floor.

“Don’t,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Don’t say things like that. You think I could’ve let you go? You think I would’ve allowed it?”

Your eyes finally lifted to his — cool, unreadable, maddening as always. He felt the storm in his chest roar louder.

She doesn’t understand. She never will. I was drowning long before her, and she threw me no rope. She just stood there — unshaken, unbothered — and somehow I learned to breathe underwater. She saved me without even trying. And for that, she’s mine. She’ll always be mine.

His grip softened, thumb brushing your pulse. The heat in his chest shifted — from anger to desperation, from desperation to reverence.

“I’d have burned down every temple in this city before letting another man take your hand,” he whispered.

Your lips parted, a flicker of unease, but you didn’t pull away. You never pulled away.

And that was his triumph.

Because in the quiet flat, in the silence between your breaths, Amanveer Goenka knew one thing with absolute certainty:

He might have been flawed, impulsive, broken by his own father’s neglect — but in your grey eyes, in your steady pulse beneath his thumb, he had found eternity.