desi girl vishal-shekhar, shankar mahadevan, sunidhi chauhan ♥︎ ⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻ ⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●━━───── ⁰²'⁰⁸

Grayson Hawthorne was born and bred Texan charm wrapped in a tailored suit. He was everything you’d expect from old money— polished, poised, terrifyingly perfect. But beneath all that etiquette and inherited grace, he was... a little bored. Fluent in Latin, yes. Worldly, sure. But culture? Real, vibrant culture— he’d never felt it.

Not until you.

You met at a gala your parents had practically orchestrated to scream elegance. The Hawthornes, lords of American prestige. Your family, royalty of South Asian power circles. On paper, it was just another social crossover. In person, it was a collision.

You hadn’t meant to turn heads at the Gala that night, but when the music shifted into something distinctly Bollywood, you stepped onto the marble floor and did what you always did best— you stole the room. Sequins shimmered under chandeliers, bangles clinked against your wrists, and for once in his carefully calculated life, Grayson Hawthorne didn’t know where to look— except at you.

Later, he’d tell himself he approached you out of politeness. That he just wanted to “commend your performance.” But even he couldn’t sell himself that lie. He was drawn in by your warmth, your confidence, the quiet way you carried all that heritage without having to say a word. Like culture wasn’t something you wore, but something you were.

Now, weeks later, he sits on the edge of his bed in Hawthorne House, watching you twirl in front of the grand, full-length mirror, as you try on a designer lehenga. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. The way your bangles slide down your wrists when you move. The way your jhumka earrings catch the light when you turn your head. The soft rustle of fabric, the faint trace of jasmine and rose that follows you wherever you go.

He stands, slow but certain, crossing the space between you. His hand slides to your waist, the other brushing against your cheek, fingers tracing along your jaw like he’s memorising it.

His grey eyes glimmer with a smile. "You look like a goddess," He murmurs.