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Author

After few days,

The house felt oddly quiet.

Aaravika stepped inside, the soft jingle of her anklet the only sound accompanying her. The chatter and chaos that had filled the mansion for the last few days had vanished, replaced by an eerie stillness. Vayran's family along with cousins had just left, and while she wouldn't admit it out loud, a part of her already missed his cousins—especially the way they gossiped and teased her like she was one of their own, even if she technically wasn't... not yet, not officially.

Her feet moved on their own as she headed toward the kitchen, the scent of cardamom, ghee, and something faintly sweet calling to her like a childhood memory. Mrs. Murali stood at the stove, her hands moving with precision and care, and a few of the other staff were busy chopping vegetables and arranging dinner trays.

Dressed in a soft blue kurta, Aaravika had twisted her hair into a messy bun, flyaways escaping to frame her face. She didn't feel like dressing up today—not when the air around the house felt so strangely hollow.

"Mrs. Murali," she said softly, leaning against the kitchen counter. "What are you making? Smells like sugar heaven in here."

The older woman turned with a warm smile. "Kheer," she said. "Your favorite."

Aaravika blinked, caught off guard. "You remembered?"

"How can I not?" Mrs. Murali chuckled, stirring the pot gently. "You light up like a bulb every time I mention it." Aaravika smiled, a genuine one this time. Her eyes briefly scanned the pot, watching the milk bubble gently as the aroma of saffron and rice thickened in the air. But then, like a switch flicking, a mischievous memory snuck up behind her and smacked her across the mind.

The Kheer Incident. How could she forget?

Aaravika shook her head at herself now, laughing silently.

"I'm insane, girl." she muttered under her breath.

Mrs. Murali caught her expression. "Remembering something?"

Aaravika waved a hand. "Nothing. Just... stupid old thoughts."

But her mind had already wandered.

She glanced at the clock. It was nearly 8 p.m. Still no sign of him. Not that she cared. 

But he hadn't even come down to see his family off. Not even Dadasa—the only one from that family Vayran didn't seem to absolutely loathe. She turned toward the hallway, her brows furrowing. What is he even doing up there?

Locked in his room like always. Brooding. Avoiding. Avoiding her. Avoiding everyone. She hated how that irked her.

She didn't want to miss him. Not after all the ways he made her feel like an outsider in her own life. Not after how cold and unreadable he could be. Not after the way his voice could cut without ever raising in volume.

But still...

He could've come.

Just once. Just for a moment. For Dadasa.

But Vayran Singh Chandravansh didn't do emotional. He didn't do "moments." He didn't do people.

And yet... he let her sit in his chair.

Aaravika frowned deeper, an unfamiliar knot forming in her chest.

"Would you like to take some kheer up for sir?" Mrs. Murali asked, gently pulling her out of her thoughts.

Aaravika blinked. "What?"

Mrs. Murali nodded toward a silver bowl being filled. "He hasn't eaten either. And... he may not ask, but he always eats when you send it."

Aaravika paused. The very idea of her voluntarily bringing him food made her stomach twist.

But the quiet part of her—the part that remembered his silence instead of rage when she spiced up his kheer—the part that noticed his subtle glances, the way he let her get away with things no one else could... that part wanted to go.

Even if it was just to see his face. Even if it was just to prove to herself that she didn't feel anything.

She reached forward and picked up the bowl. "I'll take it," she said casually, as though her heart wasn't beating strangely for no reason.

As she left the kitchen, her fingers brushed the edge of the bowl, and she muttered to herself:

"Let's hope this time it's only sweet."

But in the back of her mind... she already knew things were never just sweet with Vayran.

And maybe... maybe she didn't want them to be. Not anymore.

The corridor outside Vayran's room was dimly lit, shadows stretching across the rich wooden floor as Aaravika walked, bowl of kheer in her hands. Her heart was doing that annoying fluttery thing again—something she blamed entirely on the silence of the house.

She hesitated for a moment in front of his door, then took a deep breath and pushed it open. And there he was.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, fingers digging into his temples. His coat was discarded somewhere, shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing veins that danced along his forearms as he rubbed his temples. Files were strewn across the bed. His phone buzzed beside him, but he ignored it.

He looked... tired. Too tired for someone who ruled the business and underworld both like a god.

Aaravika frowned. The irritation she'd felt earlier melted into something softer, though she quickly masked it with casual sarcasm.

"Headache?" she asked, stepping inside.

He didn't respond immediately. Just slowly tilted his head toward her, his eyes still closed, and reached for the file on his lap to shut it.

When his gaze finally met hers—there it was. That pause. That one second of stillness that hung between them like a pulled string.

He froze.

Not because he wasn't expecting her. But because she looked like home even when he didn't know what home meant anymore.

She blinked, confused by his unreadable stare. "I said... do you want a head massage?"

That got him to react. A dangerous glint flickered in his eyes as his lips curled ever so slightly.

"How about a full-body massage instead?" he said, voice low and sinful.

Aaravika's jaw dropped, eyes widening. "Nesharam!" she gasped, glaring at him as her cheeks turned an immediate shade of pink.

He rolled his eyes, clearly amused. "You asked."

"I asked out of concern," she huffed, marching past him to place the bowl of kheer on the side table. "I should've known better than to be nice to you."

He chuckled—soft, low, almost like it surprised even him. But then his gaze shifted to the bowl and narrowed.

"Pichhli baar mirch daal di thi... is baar zeher milaya hai kya?" (Last time you added chilli... this time did you mix poison?)

Aaravika turned to him, arms crossed. "Please, if I wanted to kill you, you think I'd waste perfectly good kheer?"

He tilted his head at her, one brow raised. "So it's safe?"

She shrugged. "Depends on your karma."

He smirked. "Then I'm doomed. Am I right, Mrs. Chandravansh?"

Their eyes locked for a beat too long. And in that small moment, with the scent of saffron in the air and tension between them crackling like static...

Something softened.

Something unspoken.

But Aaravika quickly looked away, brushing her hands on her kurta.

"Eat before it gets cold. Or before I change my mind and actually do add poison."

He let out a low sarcastic laugh, still watching her as if trying to read a language only she spoke.

"Stay," he said suddenly.

She looked over her shoulder. "Why?"

He looked back at the file but didn't open it. "Just... stay."

Aaravika hesitated. Her fingers curled at her side, the air between them thick with unspoken things. But then... She pulled a chair and sat across from him without saying a word.

Aaravika was watching him quietly as he finished the last spoon of the kheer. He didn't speak a word, didn't praise it either. But the way he scraped the bowl clean was proof enough.

She smirked. "So... no poison this time?"

Vayran looked up, licking the spoon deliberately slowly before setting it down. "Haan... lagta hai aaj jaan baksh di gayi." (Yeah... seems my life has been spared today.)

She rolled her eyes, but it came with a soft exhale. Then her eyes dropped to his posture—he was still pressing his fingers into his temples now and then, his shoulders slightly hunched, the powerful presence he usually carried now laced with quiet fatigue.

She stood up without a word and walked toward his drawer.

He raised an eyebrow, watching her. "Planning to shoot me with my own gun?"

"Tempting," she muttered under her breath as she opened the drawer and pulled out a small brass bottle of ayurvedic hair oil.

He blinked. "What are you—"

"Turn around," she said, cutting him off. Vayran narrowed his eyes but didn't move. "Why?"

"Because I'm giving you a head massage. Or do you want me to chloroform you first?" she replied, already grabbing a towel and placing it over the back of the chair.

His brows shot up in amusement. "Are you trying to be Bossy?"

"Try me," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "You look like your brain's about to short-circuit."

That made him pause.

No one—not his guards, not his assistant, not even his family—ever told him things like that.

And here she was, barefoot, in a crumpled kurta, bun threatening to fall apart, scolding the mafia lord like he was a sleep-deprived schoolboy.

Strange... how he didn't mind it. 

As Vayran finally sat down, Aaravika unfolded the towel and carefully draped it over his shoulders.

She was just about to pour the oil into her hands again when—

He tilted his head back slightly, voice dripping with sarcastic drawl.

"Waise hi tumne mere wardrobe ki aarti utaar di thi... pura closet jala diya, bina ijazat mere office mein ghus gayi thi—woh bhi jab main ek international meeting mein tha. Sirf tumhare stupid revenge ke liye. Aur ab towel rakha hai thaaki mera shirt stain na ho. Wah, biwi ho ya tabahi ka doosra naam?" (As it is, you already gave my wardrobe a farewell—burned the whole closet, barged into my office without permission while I was in an international meeting. All for your stupid revenge. And now you are concerned that this shirt might get stained by the oil. Bravo, are you a wife or the second name of destruction?)

(KYUKI FIRST NAME TOH VAYRAN KA HAI NA)

Aaravika froze, her hands mid-air, eyes widening.

"Uh... woh toh—" she began, searching for an excuse.

"Woh toh kya?" he asked, lips twitching as if waiting for her to embarrass herself further.

She promptly shut her mouth.

Smart move.

Vayran chuckled under his breath, clearly enjoying the fact that she didn't have a comeback for once.

She huffed, trying to pretend her ears weren't turning pink from the memory of her revenge. Okay, maybe setting fire to half his imported blazers wasn't her smartest move—but he had deserved it. ...Kind of.

As she resumed rubbing oil into his scalp. A sudden memory hit her. Didn't he once say something about...?

"Tumne kaha tha ki wo hyena iss penthouse mein hai," she said slowly, eyes narrowing. (You said once that the hyena lives in this penthouse.)

"Haan," he said, nonchalantly. "Dekhogi, jab waqt aayega." (Yes. You'll see it when the time comes.)

Aaravika blinked. "Kya main usi ke saath room share kar rahi hoon?" (Am I sharing a room with that now?)

Vayran grinned lazily, not opening his eyes. "Kya pata?" (Who knows?) She groaned, pressing her fingers harder into his scalp out of mock frustration.

"Zyada koshish mat karo mujhe ganja banane ki," he grumbled. "Sirf massage karo. Bald hone ka plan nahi hai mera." (Hey—don't try too hard to make me bald. Just massage. I'm not planning to go bald anytime soon.)

Aaravika rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath. "Shayad thoda ganja ho jaaye toh attitude bhi halka ho jaaye."

(Maybe if you go a little bald, your attitude might lighten too.)

He smirked, eyes still closed. "Stop murmuring and say it louder, Patrani-Sa. I charge extra for backtalk."

"You don't sleep much, do you?" she asked ignoring his words though she felt a knot in her stomach called her Patrani sa.

"No rest for monsters," he murmured, his voice low and unusually honest. Her hands paused for half a second... then resumed.

"You're not a monster, Vayran," she whispered.

He opened one eye lazily. "No?"

She shrugged. "Maybe an emotionally constipated jerk. But not a monster."

He let out a low laugh, and Aaravika couldn't help but smile, her fingers moving slower now, as if trying to ease away something even she didn't understand.

A strange silence followed—one that didn't need words. His breathing slowed, and her touch gentled further, as if she was afraid to break the moment.

"Your hands..." he muttered, eyes closed again.

"Hm?"

"They're warm." She blinked.

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