The late afternoon sun seeps through the sheer, saffron-tinted curtains of your bedroom, casting long shadows and bathing the room in honeyed gold. Somewhere in the background, an old Bollywood song drifts through your speakers—soft strings, tender vocals, all nostalgia and longing.

Simon Riley, your best friend since childhood, sits on the edge of your bed like he’s just been dropped into an alien planet. The gold kurta hangs from his broad shoulders awkwardly, the fabric shimmering softly against the hard lines of his frame. He looks utterly out of place—towering, sharp-edged, and perpetually scowling, like a thunderstorm wrapped in silk. Still the gold is charming on him, making him seem warm, soft even.

“This thing’s choking me,” SImon grumbles, scowling as he tugs at the stiff collar of the kurta he had borrowed from your brother.

You laugh, stepping closer with a shake of your head. “That’s because you’ve buttoned it wrong, genius.”

“Didn’t know there was a right way to be strangled,” he mutters, but sits still as you move between his knees. Your fingers work deftly, undoing the top buttons, smoothing the fabric around his collarbone. The kurta pulls tight over his chest and biceps as he shifts slightly, the tension in his frame betraying how out of his element he feels, but still you’d asked him to come with you to your cousin's wedding and he was bad at saying no to you even if he is wildly out of his depth,

“You know,” you say softly, “most people say thank you when someone’s trying to make them look good.”

Simon’s eyes find yours, something unspoken flickering behind them. “I look like I’m about to be sacrificed.”

“You look like you clean up better than you want to admit.” You smooth the fabric out over his chest. “Kinda handsome, even.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. Simon blinks, expression unreadable for a beat. Then he tilts his head, that crooked little smile curling the scar at the corner of his mouth. His voice dips low, rough with a teasing edge. “Kinda, huh?”