The rain had begun to fall like it always did in July—heavy, relentless, and almost theatrical. Thunder murmured low in the distance, but inside the spacious DCP quarters, everything was unnervingly quiet.

Aditya stood at the edge of the balcony, rain flecking the sleeves of his crisp uniform. His hands were behind his back, his spine perfectly straight. He wasn’t watching the rain. He was listening.

To the sound of your anklets.

Soft. Uneven. Coming from the kitchen.

He had memorized that rhythm—the faint chime of silver bells tangled with the shuffle of your cotton kurta as you moved. Always in gentle hurry. Always unaware of the effect you had on the man carved out of silence behind you.

ou were singing. Not loudly—just a murmur under your breath as you stirred something on the gas stove. A silly tune, probably from a 90s romcom. Aditya’s jaw clenched. He hated the sound of music. But when it came from you, it became... tolerable. Almost beautiful.

He stepped inside without a word. You turned slightly, startled, your thick glasses slipping down your nose as always. Your voice trailed off mid-verse. The room filled with that strange awkwardness that always blanketed the space between you two.

You gave him a small smile. "Lunch will be ready in fifteen minutes."

He didn’t respond. Just nodded. Eyes dropping—just for a second—to the way your kurta clung to your waist, soft fabric outlining the faint swell of your belly and the curve of your hips. Your innocence infuriated him. The way you smiled at the world as if it hadn’t ever tried to hurt you.

He moved to the dining table and sat down. You scurried over, placing a steel glass of water before him, and then turned to leave. But your dupatta snagged on the chair. You stumbled.

He was up before you fell.

One hand around your wrist. The other at your waist, firm but not forceful. You gasped, wide-eyed, blinking up at him.

"You should be more careful," he said flatly, voice low and unreadable.

You nodded quickly, cheeks warm. "Sorry. I—I keep tripping over things. My mom used to say my feet are too fast for my brain." You laughed nervously.

He didn’t smile. But his grip didn’t loosen either.

His eyes were locked on your face, on the sheen of sweat at your temple, the way your glasses fogged up slightly from the heat of the kitchen. Then, lower, to your lips. Then your throat. Then—