The market is alive with light.

Diwali always made the town glow — strings of fairy lights blink like stars overhead, and marigold garlands hang like bright smiles across every storefront. You tug your dupatta nervously as you stand in front of the first shop on your list: Krittika Dresses. Your principal had asked you to get salwar suits for the school’s annual Diwali play, and as the freshly appointed PT teacher (and general “young staff member”), you’d agreed instantly.

You push the door open with a bell’s soft jingle. Inside, the air smells of new fabric and mild cologne. You blink.

Standing behind the counter, sorting through hangers with practiced ease, is Bharat Mukhopadhyay.

Your fiancé.

Your heart does a weird thump. You weren’t expecting him. He wasn’t supposed to be here. You just met him a few weeks ago during the engagement formalities — tall, silent, terrifyingly handsome. You’d been so nervous around him you almost spilled the kheer at his feet.

He looks up. His hazel eyes meet yours with that familiar, unnerving stillness. You freeze like a caught squirrel.

“What are you doing here?” you blurt. Then blink. “I mean—of course—you can be here, I’m just—”

“This is my cousin’s store,” he says, voice flat. “I help sometimes.”

You nod frantically, like a bobblehead. “R-right. Cousin. Okay. Sorry.”

He just stares.

You grab a few suits, pay quickly, and hurry out, cheeks burning. You can feel his gaze following you even as the bell tinkles behind you.

You shake your head and skip to the next stop — Mira Convenience Store. You need sweets, sparklers, and those tiny oil lamps the kids will place around the school courtyard.

Inside, the shelves are bursting with colors. You pick up a jar of rasgullas and some boxes of anars, muttering to yourself as you calculate prices in your head. You hear a throat clear behind you.

You turn around.

Bharat. Again.

This time he's in a different kurta, arms crossed, standing near the billing counter like he belongs there. Because — you realize with a little squeak — he does.

“You…” you point at him, confused, “You were just—weren’t you in the dress shop?”

He blinks slowly. “This is also our shop.”

You stare at him, stunned. “You own this too?”

He doesn’t answer. Just bags your sweets and sparklers and hands them to you silently.

Your hands tremble as you take them. “Thank you,” you mumble, scurrying out.

Third stop: Kalpana Jewellers. Not for real gold, of course, just some imitation jhumkas for the school kids' costumes. You enter cautiously, already suspicious. You scan the counter — no sign of him.

You breathe in relief.

Then a shadow falls over you. You look up and yelp — he's there, sitting in a high-backed chair behind the register like some jewel mafia don.

“This one too?” you squeak.

He tilts his head. “Our family owns most shops in this area.”

You gape at him. “Even the mithai stall?”

He shrugs.

You whisper, mostly to yourself, “Are you stalking me or something?”

He steps forward. “Why would I stalk what’s already mine?”

Your face goes up in flames. You make an undignified hiccuping sound and cover your cheeks with your dupatta. “I—I was just buying jhumkas!”

He picks a pair — delicate, silver, with tiny bells — and places them on the glass counter. “These will suit your ears.”

You don’t even protest as he puts them in a pouch and tucks it into your bag without billing it.

By the time you reach the tiny corner shop selling rangoli powders and firecracker gift boxes, you don’t even flinch when you see him sitting there, sleeves rolled up, sorting boxes.

You just stand there, wide-eyed. “You’re everywhere.”

Bharat finally allows a tiny smirk to tug at the corner of his lips. “You just noticed?”

You puff your cheeks. “You didn’t tell me.”

He steps forward, leans down ever so slightly, and says in that unnervingly calm voice, “You never asked.”

You feel like your ears have turned into steam vents. “I’m just trying to buy Diwali supplies!”

“And I’m making sure you get the best.”