The final applause faded, leaving the amphitheater humming with the aftershock of her truth. She found Arv leaning against a quartz pillar backstage, his usual smirk softened by concern.
"Brilliant performance," he said, handing her a towel. But where's His Brooding Majesty? Didn't think he'd miss your grand 'screw you' symphony.
She dabbed sweat from her brow, avoiding his gaze. "We had an argument."
Arv's eyebrow arched. Argument? You two don't argue—you ice each other out for weeks, then pretend nothing happened. What'd he do? Forget your anniversary? Burn dinner?
Her laugh was brittle. Worse. He accused me of pitying him. I told him he killed her.
Arv's smile died. "Her?" You threw that in his face?
"He raised his hand, Arv. Not to hit me, but…" She trailed off, fingers brushing the quartz pendant at her throat. "It doesn't matter. He's at the farmhouse, drowning in wine and ghosts."
Arv whistled low. So you nuked the bridge. Classic.
He needed to hear it.
The Farmhouse—
The farmhouse groaned under the weight of Vihaan's presence, its walls whispering secrets he wasn't ready to hear. He stood in the studio, the unfinished portrait staring back—*her* eyes wide, lips parted mid-laugh, forever suspended in a moment he couldn't reclaim.
He sank to the floor, his back against the wall, the locket's broken chain coiled in his palm. The scent of lavender and turpentine wrapped around him, dragging him into a memory he'd buried but never escaped.
Vihaan's fingers tightened around the locket, the memory a blade twisting in his chest. One cup. That's all it had taken to change everything. And now, years later, he sat in the ruins of what they'd built, the farmhouse a monument to his failure.
The First Spark—
Two days after the alley, she saw him again. He was leaning against a lamp post, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, scanning the street like a predator. She hesitated, her ankle still tender from the fall, but something about him—his quiet strength, the way he'd stepped into danger without hesitation—drew her closer.
You're the one who saved me, she said, voice trembling. He turned, recognition flickering in his gaze. Vihaan, he said simply.
Oh! You're the one I saved that day. His lips quirked in a faint smile.
How's your leg?
Feeling better?
Did they bother you again?
She shook her head. After that day, they vanished. Like ghosts. Good.
A silence stretched, the city's hum filling the space between them. Then, shyly:
If you don't mind… can you join me for a cup of coffee? Consider it my thanks.
He raised an eyebrow. "No need for that."
Please, she insisted, her smile tentative but bright.
"I owe you more than I can say."
He hesitated, then nodded.
"One cup."
The café was a quiet corner of the city, tucked between a bookstore and a florist, its windows fogged with the warmth of brewing coffee and whispered conversations. She led him inside, her steps still tentative from the lingering ache in her ankle. The bell above the door chimed softly, a sound that would later become a refrain in his memory.
They chose a table by the window, the late afternoon sunlight spilling over the chipped wood surface. She ordered a cappuccino, he a black coffee—simple, unadorned, like the man himself. So, she began, stirring her drink, do you make a habit of saving strangers in alleys? He smirked, the first real expression she'd seen on his face.
Only when they're worth saving.
Her cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze. And how do you decide who's worth it? Instinct, he said simply, his eyes dark but not unkind.
A Tapestry of Trust—
The hours blurred as they talked—about books, about music, about the city's hidden corners. She learned he was an artist, though he brushed off the title. I paint, he said, shrugging.
It's not art. It's just… what I do.
She laughed, the sound bright and unexpected. Modesty doesn't suit you.
Neither does coffee, he admitted, grimacing at his now-cold cup. But here I am.
Here you are, she echoed, her smile softening.
As the sun dipped below the skyline, painting the café in hues of amber and rose, she reached across the table, her fingers brushing his.
Thank you, she said, her voice quiet but firm. For that day. For today.
He stilled, his gaze dropping to her hand. You don't owe me anything. I know, she said. But I want to.
The air between them shifted, charged with something unspoken. He turned his hand, his palm meeting hers, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the space between their shared breath.
They left the café as the streetlights flickered to life, the city's hum a backdrop to their quiet companionship. She walked beside him, her steps slower now, not just from her injury but from the weight of the moment.
"Where do you live?" he asked, his voice low.
Not far, she said, nodding toward a row of brownstones. But you don't have to..
I know, he interrupted. I want to.
They walked in silence, the distance between them shrinking with each step. At her door, she turned, her keys jingling in her hand.
This is me.
He nodded, his hands shoved into his pockets. Goodnight, then.
She hesitated, then stood on her toes, brushing a kiss to his cheek. Goodnight, Vihaan.
To be continued... 🙂🙂