🌸 Meet the Characters

Sahir Singh (20)
A culinary student with dreams that taste like honey and cardamom. Standing at 5'9 with hazel eyes that seem to hold too many emotions at once, Sahir has always blurred the lines between soft and strong. His shoulder-length brown hair often falls into his face when he's lost in thought. Calm, gentle, and quietly resilient, he's learned to wear his tenderness like armor.

Arman Raizada (25)
The heir to Raizada Industries. polished, composed, and almost annoyingly perfect. At 6'2 with deep brown eyes and neatly kept black hair, Arman carries the weight of legacy on his shoulders. Beneath the businessman's calm exterior lies a man learning that love isn't something you control; it's something that unravels you beautifully.

Zara Singh (23)
Sahir's older sister impulsive, passionate, and charmingly flawed. With long brown hair and sharp eyes that miss nothing, she's a woman used to being adored. But when her choices backfire, she finds herself torn between envy and regret, realizing too late that some hearts are not hers to win.

Dev Raizada (21)
Arman's younger brother. spirited and sharp-tongued, but loyal to his core. He's often the first to notice the tension no one else will name.

Neelam Raizada (47)
Arman's mother. elegant, traditional, and fiercely protective of her family's image. Her love is complicated, threaded with expectations that sometimes wound more than they protect.

Rajveer Raizada (55)
Arman's father. calm and dignified, the voice of reason in the storm. He sees more than he says, especially when it comes to Sahir.

Anita Singh (45)
Sahir's mother. warm, emotional, and stubborn in her care. She loves her children deeply but struggles to balance that love between them.

Anuj Singh (50)
Sahir's father. calm, thoughtful, and quietly proud of his son. He's the grounding force in a house where emotions often run too high.

---

Hey everyone 🌸

This is my first ever book! and it's a little on the fast-paced side.

I'm still learning as I write, so things might feel a bit rough around the edges, but every chapter is written with love. it's about softness, healing, and finding love in unexpected places.

Also heads up - this is a BxB story (boy x boy). If that's not your thing, that's totally fine! Just scroll past instead of spreading weird energy ✨

Thank you for giving my story a chance. I hope it makes you feel something, Your support honestly means everything

Sahir POV

The wedding hall smelled of roses and rain, the kind of sweetness that hides the scent of panic. Gold drapes shimmered under crystal chandeliers, and laughter fluttered in pockets, too loud, too forced. Sahir could feel the tension in the air like static before a storm.

He stood near the edge of the hall, hands tucked into his sherwani pockets, eyes tracing the line of guests whispering behind jeweled smiles. His throat was dry. His mind, blank. And his heart....well, that had been pounding ever since someone screamed, “Zara’s gone.”

His sister. His bright, impulsive, impossible sister.

The bride.

Gone.

It didn’t make sense. One moment, she was sitting on the vanity, veil pinned and lipstick perfect, telling him she was nervous but fine. The next, her phone was missing, her reflection empty, her scent fading from the room like a dream that ended too soon.

Sahir could still see their mother crumbling in slow motion. her voice shaking, her gold bangles clinking against each other as she shouted Zara’s name. His father had gone quiet, the way he always did when he was thinking too much. And then the Raizadas started whispering. First confusion. Then anger. Then the kind of silence that makes you wish for noise.

Sahir had always hated luxury weddings. All that glitter and no warmth.

Now, he hated them more than ever.

The Raizada family stood at the center like a polished statue of wealth, unbothered but radiating power. And in front of them stood Arman, the groom. Tall. Composed. The kind of man who didn’t raise his voice because he didn’t have to. His mere gaze could silence a room.

That gaze was on Sahir now.

“Your sister ran away from our wedding,” Arman said, each word a quiet blade. “You think that’s funny?”

Sahir blinked, forcing his voice to work. “No. But maybe there’s—”

“Maybe nothing,” Arman’s mother cut in, her voice sharp as glass. “Do you have any idea what humiliation this brings to our family? The guests, the press, the—”

“Enough,” said Arman’s father. Calm, but deadly calm. The kind that meant something irreversible was about to happen.

He looked at Sahir’s parents. “This marriage was not just about your daughter and my son. It was an alliance of families. Names. Reputations. You understand what that means, Mr. Singh?”

Sahir’s father nodded slowly. His eyes darted toward his wife, then back at Sahir. “I do,” he said softly. “But this… this isn’t Sahir’s fault.”

“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is,” Arman’s father replied. “What matters is how we fix it.”

Sahir felt his pulse spike. “Fix it?” he repeated, almost laughing. “You can’t just....”

The older man turned, assessing him the way a jeweler examines a flawed diamond. “Your sister ran away,” he said. “You’re her brother. You carry her blood, her honor. The world won’t care about the details. They’ll only see that a Singh broke a promise.”

And that’s when it hit him, the storm he’d seen coming but couldn’t stop.

“You’re not suggesting,” he began, but his mother gasped before he could finish.

“Yes,” Arman’s father said. “Sahir will take his sister’s place.”

Time froze.

Sahir’s chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped out his heart and left him running on disbelief. “You want me to marry your son?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

His mother’s voice cracked. “No, that’s absurd! He’s just a boy....”

“I’m not a boy,” Sahir said, more to himself than to her. His voice trembled, but his spine straightened. “And this is insane. You can’t force—”

But Arman spoke then, quiet and deliberate. “If this is what it takes to protect both families, I’ll do it.”

The words felt like thunder rolling through Sahir’s bones. He turned to look at Arman, but the man’s expression gave nothing away. No anger. No fear. Just that same infuriating calm.

“Why would you-—”

“It’s a transaction,” Arman said simply. “You don’t have to pretend otherwise.”

Sahir wanted to shout, to walk out, to tear the gold-embroidered world around him apart. But one look at his mother, crying into her dupatta and his father, silent and defeated, told him he couldn’t. Not really.

Because this wasn’t about him anymore.

It was about Zara.

About family.

About everything he couldn’t afford to lose.

So when they asked him again, he said yes. The word barely left his lips before the room erupted into movement, priests rushing, guests whispering, cameras flashing. He felt like he was drowning in color and sound, everything too bright, too heavy.

The ceremony blurred. The holy fire burned. The priest chanted. The garlands fell around their necks. And Sahir stood beside Arman, numb, like he was watching someone else live his life.

When it was over, he didn’t remember walking out of the hall. Only the sound of the rain starting outside, soft and mocking.

In the car, Arman sat beside him, perfectly composed, his jawline catching flashes of lightning through the tinted glass. Neither of them spoke.

Sahir’s hands fidgeted in his lap, his mind spinning with everything he’d just lost. His career. His peace. His freedom. Even the scent of cardamom on his fingers felt wrong now, like it belonged to someone who still had choices.

Arman finally broke the silence. “You didn’t have to say yes.”

Sahir turned his head, his voice low. “Would you have let me say no?”

Arman’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t answer.

“Thought so,” Sahir muttered, looking back out the window.

The drive to the Raizada mansion felt endless. When they arrived, the gates opened like the mouth of a beast waiting to swallow him whole. Inside, servants lined up, whispering blessings that sounded like condolences. Everything gleamed marble floors, gold railings, chandeliers that looked too fragile for the world they lit.

Sahir felt out of place, small but stubbornly unbroken.

Arman led him upstairs without a word. Their room was massive, too clean, too curated. There were two cups of untouched coffee on the side table, probably placed there for the bride and groom. The irony almost made Sahir laugh.

He didn’t.

Arman loosened his collar and finally turned to face him. “You can use that side,” he said, gesturing toward the wardrobe. “We’ll figure out arrangements tomorrow.”

Sahir stared at him. “You talk like this is some business merger.”

Arman’s mouth twitched, half amusement, half warning. “Isn’t it?”

The air tightened between them, quiet but electric. Sahir hated the way his heart betrayed him, beating faster for a man he should despise. He hated that Arman’s calmness wasn’t arrogance. it was control, the kind Sahir envied and feared.

He took a step back, putting space between them. “You really think this fixes anything?”

Arman’s voice softened. “It keeps our families from being destroyed. That’s enough.”

Sahir swallowed, the words heavy in his chest. “Maybe for you.”

Arman’s eyes finally met his—dark, steady, impossible to read. “You’ll learn, Sahir. In our world, survival and peace aren’t the same thing.”

And then he turned away, leaving Sahir standing in the middle of the room, staring at the firelight flickering against the wall. He could still hear the rain outside, tapping against the glass like it was mocking him for staying silent.

He pressed his palm to his chest. The thudding there was steady, but it didn’t feel like his heart anymore. It felt like someone else’s, someone trapped in a story that had already been written.

Sahir closed his eyes and let the rain’s rhythm fill the silence.

Tonight, the world had tied him to a stranger.
Tomorrow, he’d learn how to live with it.

——————————————————

First chapter done, hope you enjoyed it.

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Sahir's outfit ^^

Sahir's pov

The first morning as a Raizada began with silence.

Sahir woke to the faint hum of rain fading outside, a gray light leaking through sheer curtains. His head ached—not from the ceremony, but from the weight of too many stares, too many whispered prayers, too many eyes that didn’t see him, only the space he had been forced to fill.

He prepared himself for the day ahead, fingers brushing the soft silk of his outfit. It was a pale lavender, gentle and clean, the color of calm skies after a storm. The neckline dipped modestly, the fabric light enough to breathe but tailored close enough to move with him. He’d chosen it himself from the trunk his mother had packed, the one thing he could control in this strange new home.

He tied his hair loosely at the back, slipping in a silver stud into both his ears—small, almost invisible unless you looked closely. He liked that. He liked being seen by those who wanted to see.

Sahir had always been… different — soft in ways boys weren’t expected to be.

When he was little, neighbors would often mistake him for a girl, with his long lashes, gentle voice, and the way he used to tie ribbons in his hair because he liked how they shimmered in the sun. But no one really minded. His parents laughed it off, and his sister Zara would proudly say, “He’s just prettier than all the boys.”

He grew up comfortable in his skin — moving with an easy grace, speaking with warmth instead of force, expressing joy without shame. It wasn’t until much later that he realized the world sometimes expected men to hide softness. But by then, Sahir had already decided he wouldn’t.

The room was still. Arman’s side of the bed was already empty. Of course it was. Sahir hadn’t expected warmth, or words, or even a good morning. The man had barely spoken after the ceremony. He’d stood beside him like a statue all night, perfect and unreadable, while Sahir learned how to fake a smile without cracking.

He exhaled slowly and stood. The marble floor was cold under his bare feet, grounding him in the only truth that mattered: he was still here. Still breathing. Still himself.

When he stepped out of the room, the corridor stretched ahead like a painting—portraits of ancestors, chandeliers dripping gold, walls that didn’t echo back when he breathed. He followed the faint clatter of dishes down to the dining hall.

The Raizadas were already seated.

Arman sat at the head of the long glass table, phone in hand, posture perfect. His father, Mr. Raizada, was reading a newspaper as though the world had not shifted last night. His mother sat across from him, a rigid portrait of grace, her bangles glinting in the morning light. The servants moved quietly, pouring tea and arranging silverware.

Every conversation stopped the moment Sahir entered.

He could feel their eyes sweep over him, his soft outfit, his earrings, his light perfume that smelled faintly of cardamom and citrus. The whispers behind teacups said enough. He didn’t lower his gaze.

“Good morning,” he said, voice steady, smooth.

No one replied immediately. Only the faint rustle of paper broke the silence.

Arman looked up first. His eyes moved over Sahir once, deliberate but unreadable. Then he gestured toward the chair beside him. “Sit.”

Sahir did, ignoring the stiffness in the room. A servant placed a plate before him—idli, chutney, fruit cut into perfect cubes. He picked up his fork, his hand steady despite how his pulse trembled.

Mrs. Raizada finally spoke. “You’re… up early.”

Sahir smiled lightly. “I always am. The mornings are kinder when you meet them first.”

Her brows pinched, just slightly. “You’ll have a lot to learn here, Sahir. We keep a certain discipline in this household. Routine. Respectability.”

“I understand.” His tone was polite, not submissive.

“Zara never had any trouble adjusting,” she added, her voice soft but pointed.

The name sliced through the air like a blade. Sahir’s hand tightened on his fork, then relaxed. “Zara adjusts to whatever suits her,” he said quietly. “She always has.”

Across the table, Arman’s father folded the newspaper. “Let’s not turn breakfast into gossip. What’s done is done.”

Neelam's lips pressed into a line. “I’m simply saying, people talk. The press is already spinning stories. We’ll need to decide what version of the truth they’ll hear.”

Arman spoke without looking up from his phone. “That’s my concern. I’ll handle it.”

His voice was calm, steady, and something in it made everyone else fall silent. Sahir glanced sideways at him, surprised by the quiet authority he carried. It wasn’t loud, but it filled the room like gravity.

Still, the silence afterward burned.

Sahir took a small bite of fruit, forcing himself to eat, to stay grounded. He could feel the weight of his mother’s absence like a ghost beside him. She would have told him to sit tall, to breathe, to remember who he was. He did.

“Do you cook?” Rajveer  asked suddenly, as though testing him.

Sahir blinked. “Yes. It’s what I study. Culinary arts.”

“Hmm.” The older man sipped his tea. “Then perhaps you can bring something new to our table.”

Neelam shot her husband a look that could have frozen fire. “This isn’t a restaurant.”

He ignored her. “What better way to know a person than through what they create?”

Arman’s gaze flickered between them, unreadable again. Sahir thought he saw the corner of his mouth twitch, something like quiet amusement, but it vanished before he could be sure.

After breakfast, the family dispersed, leaving only the faint echo of footsteps and the lingering scent of coffee. Arman stood, sliding his phone into his pocket. “You handled that better than I expected,” he said without turning around.

Sahir set down his napkin. “You expected me to run?”

“I expected you to break.”

He rose slowly. “I don’t break, Arman. I bend, maybe. But I don’t break.”

Arman turned to face him then, his expression calm but his eyes sharper. “Good. Because this house isn’t kind to fragile things.”

The words might have stung if Sahir hadn’t already known them to be true. He stepped closer, not enough to challenge, just enough to be seen. “Neither am I.”

For the first time since the wedding, something flickered across Arman’s face...respect, maybe, or curiosity. It was gone too quickly to name.

He nodded once. “We’ll see.”

As Arman walked away, Sahir stood alone in the dining hall, the morning light brushing his cheek like an unspoken promise. He could still hear their voices in his head. the judgment, the rules, the careful cruelty, but beneath it all, something else stirred.

He had been forced into this house. Into this life. Into a marriage that had no room for choice. But if he was going to stay here, he would stay on his own terms.

He reached up, adjusted his earring, and smiled faintly at his reflection in the silver teapot beside him.

Let them stare.
He’d give them something worth staring at.

Chapter 2 done,

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Sahir's pov

Three days had passed since the wedding, and the Raizada mansion still didn’t feel like home.
It didn’t even feel like a house most of the time, more like a museum of quiet stares and polished surfaces.

Sahir had started to measure his days by sound.
The morning clink of teacups. The dull thud of Arman’s shoes in the hallway. The whisper of his mother-in-law’s bangles before she spoke. Every sound had a rhythm, a rule. Everything except him.

The only place that breathed was the kitchen.

It wasn’t empty. servants moved like shadows between the counters, but they let him work. Maybe it was respect. Maybe pity. Maybe they just didn’t know how to tell the new “Raizada” to stay out. Either way, Sahir was grateful.

He stood by the counter now, sleeves rolled to his elbows, grinding fresh coriander into paste. The smell filled the air bright, green, alive. so unlike the rest of the mansion. He liked how food answered back. When he cooked, he didn’t have to explain himself. Salt and spice always understood balance better than people did.

“Too much cumin.”

The voice cut through his thoughts like a blade through soft butter.

Sahir didn’t need to turn to know it was Arman.That deep, deliberate calm. he could pick it out from a hundred rooms away. Over the days sahir had realized Arman wasn't the cold person people put him out to be and was actually trying to make this marriage work.

He kept stirring. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Arman said, walking closer. The faint scent of his cologne,  sandalwood and something darker  blended with the steam in the air. “Cumin’s loud. It drowns the subtler flavors.”

Sahir finally looked up, a small smile playing on his lips. “You cook now?”

“I eat,” Arman replied. “That counts.”

Sahir chuckled under his breath. “Barely.”

He tasted the curry with the edge of a spoon, pretending not to notice the way Arman was watching him. That was the strange thing about him, his silence wasn’t cold. It was… observant. Like he was cataloguing every reaction, every movement.

Arman leaned a shoulder against the counter. “You’ve been down here every day.”

“It’s quiet,” Sahir said simply. “And food doesn’t gossip.”

Arman hummed in response, half amusement, half curiosity. “People might think you’re trying too hard.”

Sahir’s hand paused mid-stir. “To do what?”

“To fit in.”

The words landed heavier than they should’ve. Sahir met his gaze — steady, defiant, but not unkind. “I’m not trying to fit in,” he said softly. “I’m trying to survive.”

Something flickered in Arman’s expression. Not pity. Not quite guilt either. Just… understanding, maybe. A crack in the armor. It lasted all of two seconds before he straightened again.

“That's a tad bit dramatic you don’t need to impress anyone,” he said.

“I’m not,” Sahir replied. “I’m just cooking.”

The faintest smirk touched Arman’s lips, almost invisible. “You’re stubborn.”

Sahir returned it. “You sound surprised.”

Arman didn’t answer. He moved around the counter instead, picking up a slice of cucumber from the chopping board. He popped it into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then frowned. “Too much salt.”

Sahir’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“I said—”

“I heard you.” He folded his arms, mock-offended. “That’s the perfect amount of salt.”

“For what? Dehydration?”

Sahir laughed before he could stop himself. The sound came out light, unexpected even to him. Arman blinked, almost startled, as if he wasn’t used to seeing Sahir smile for real.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was soft. A truce disguised as stillness.

“You don’t laugh much,” Arman said quietly.

Sahir shrugged, turning back to the stove. “Maybe no one’s given me a reason to.”

Arman didn’t reply, but his gaze lingered. It was strange, Sahir thought, this man who’d barely said a word during the wedding, who lived behind his own calm like a wall, now standing in his kitchen, watching him cook like it meant something.

He stirred the curry one last time and switched off the flame. “Taste,” he said, offering the spoon.

Arman hesitated, then leaned in, just close enough that Sahir could feel the warmth of his breath against his wrist. The moment stretched, fragile, full of invisible noise.

Arman tasted. Then nodded once. “Better.”

Sahir smiled faintly. “So you admit I was right?”

“I admit nothing,” Arman said, turning away, but there was a ghost of a grin there, brief but real.

Sahir’s heartbeat betrayed him. He looked down quickly, pretending to wipe the counter. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” Arman said, already walking toward the door. “But at least I’m honest.”

When he was gone, the silence rushed back in, but it didn’t feel as heavy anymore. It was… charged. Like the air after a stormbclean, uncertain, waiting for something.

Sahir leaned against the counter, staring at the half-empty pot. His reflection shimmered faintly in the steel softer, calmer, maybe even content for a moment.

He hadn’t expected companionship here. He hadn’t expected anything. And yet, in that short exchange, something had shifted, quiet, unspoken, but real.

He sighed, picking up the ladle again. “Too much salt,” he muttered under his breath, smiling to himself.

Outside, thunder rolled in the distance.
And somewhere upstairs, Arman paused mid-step, the taste of coriander and something else he couldn’t name still lingering on his tongue.

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Arman's pov

A week slipped by, soundless but heavy.
The mansion had its rhythm again, servants whispering, the faint ticking of antique clocks, Zara’s name spoken in hushed tones like an echo that wouldn’t fade.
And yet, something in the air had shifted.

He wasn’t supposed to notice.
He told himself that every morning. Every time he walked past the kitchen and caught that faint smell of coriander and jasmine, Sahir’s signature, unintentional but impossible to ignore.

Arman had always lived in control.
His days were schedules, spreadsheets, quiet efficiency. But now there was noise in the quiet. The soft scrape of a ladle, a laugh he didn’t mean to hear, the steady rhythm of someone learning how to belong.

Sahir didn’t talk much around him.
That was what got to him most, not the words, but the restraint. Everyone in this house wanted something from Arman. A favor, approval, money, forgiveness. Sahir didn’t ask for any of it. He just existed quietly, stubbornly, like he’d decided that silence was his rebellion.

Arman had started finding excuses to be near the kitchen.
At first, it was about breakfast. Then coffee. Then nothing at all.

Today, he stopped by because the house felt too large. Too empty.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, and watched Sahir tie his apron — loose yellow cotton, soft against his skin. His hair was pinned half-up, strands falling over his temple. He was humming — off-key, distracted — as he stirred a pot on the stove.

There was peace there, and it annoyed Arman.
He wanted to understand it.

“Does cooking calm you?” he asked finally.

Sahir jumped a little, glancing back over his shoulder. “You walk too quietly.”

“Habit,” Arman said.

“I can tell,” Sahir replied, turning back to his pot. “You move like someone who’s always listening.”

That made him pause. “Is that a bad thing?”

Sahir shrugged, shoulders shifting under the thin fabric. “Depends on why you’re listening.”

Arman’s jaw tightened. “And what do you think I’m listening for?”

Sahir smiled faintly. “That’s what I can’t figure out.”

There it was again. The push and pull, soft as breath, sharp as a blade. Arman told himself to walk away, but he didn’t. He stayed, watching Sahir reach for salt, wrist brushing against the counter, movements fluid and unhurried.

He didn’t realize how long he’d been staring until Sahir said, without looking up,
“If you’re going to stand there, you might as well help.”

Arman blinked. “Help?”

“Yes. Taste this.”

He crossed the room, taking the spoon from Sahir’s hand. The warmth of it lingered on his fingers, stupid detail, too intimate to admit even to himself. He tasted, swallowed, and nodded once. “Needs lime.”

Sahir smirked. “You’re learning.”

“Or maybe you’re predictable.”

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll stop letting you taste anything.”

Arman almost smiled. Almost.

For a moment, the silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was… charged. He could hear the faint hum of the ceiling fan, the hiss of the stove, the quiet rhythm of breathing that wasn’t his.

Then the lights flickered.

It started with a buzz soft, fading and then the mansion sank into darkness. Only the glow of the gas stove remained, painting the room in blue light.

“Power cut,” Sahir murmured. “Happens when it rains.”

Arman frowned. “I’ll check the backup.”

“You won’t find it before the thunder does,” Sahir said. “Stay.”

And for reasons he didn’t understand, he did.

The rain started softly, then harder, hitting the windows in rhythmic bursts. Sahir lit a candle from the stove flame and set it on the counter between them. The wax glowed gold, casting shadows over his face.

Arman’s throat tightened. He’d seen beauty before, expensive, curated, intentional. But this was different. Sahir looked real in that light. Human. Unarmored.

“You don’t seem afraid of the dark,” Arman said, just to say something.

Sahir chuckled softly. “Darkness is easy. People are harder.”

That earned him silence but not the cold kind. Arman leaned a little closer without meaning to. “You talk like someone who’s lost faith in people.”

Sahir didn’t meet his eyes. “Maybe I’ve just learned where to stop expecting.”

Arman wanted to ask, expecting what? From whom? But he didn’t. Some truths were meant to stay folded.

Instead, he said quietly, “You don’t make it easy for people to know you.”

“Neither do you.”

“Fair,” Arman admitted.

Outside, lightning flashed. The candle flickered. For a second, the world went still.

Sahir looked up then, not by accident, not by chance and their eyes met. It wasn’t romantic, not yet. Just the silent recognition of two people realizing they’d become each other’s habit without meaning to.

Something cracked open in Arman’s chest, something he didn’t want to name. He looked away first.

When the lights came back on, the moment ended like it never happened. Sahir turned off the stove, collected the candle, and said quietly, “Dinner’s almost ready.”

Arman nodded, his voice a little lower than usual. “Okay.”

He left the kitchen before he could look back, before he could do something reckless like stay.

Sahir's pov

He watched Arman’s back as he walked away, the silence after him feeling heavier than thunder.
For the first time since he’d entered this house, Sahir didn’t feel invisible and that scared him more than being ignored ever had.

He leaned against the counter, tracing circles into the condensation on a steel pot. His reflection looked softer, uncertain.

What was this thing between them? Not affection, not yet. But it hummed under his skin like static. Every look, every word, every almost-smile Arman gave him felt like it meant something bigger. Something dangerous.

He should’ve hated him. He should’ve resented the situation, the marriage, the silence that came with it. And yet—

He reached for the candle, fingers brushing the melted wax, replaying the way Arman’s eyes had changed in that brief glow — from steel to something close to warmth.

He sighed. “Get a grip, Sahir.”

The curry simmered quietly on the stove. Outside, the rain softened, the storm giving way to calm.

He plated the food carefully, hands steady even when his thoughts weren’t. For a fleeting second, he wondered if Arman would notice the lime, the tiny correction that said I listened too.

As he carried the tray toward the dining hall, the candlelight still flickered behind his eye, a reminder of a silence that wasn’t empty anymore.

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