CHAPTER 44
ADITI
The blindfold rests gently over his eyes, his jaw tight with suspicion as I tighten the knot behind his head.
"You trust me?" I ask softly, brushing a loose strand of his hair back, my fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
His lips twitch. "Not even a little."
I grin. “Perfect.”
His seatbelt clicks in place as I walk around to the driver’s side, my stomach doing cartwheels.
Not because of nerves. Because I want this to be perfect.
Because it’s the first time in his entire life, maybe, that someone is doing something just for him.
Not to earn his approval. Not to gain his favor.
Just because he deserves to feel like a boy.
A boy who didn’t get to scrape his knees or chase ice cream trucks or cheat at cricket without consequences.
I glance at him during the drive. He’s sitting too straight. Too aware. His hands resting on his thighs, clenched. Always in control. Always prepared for the worst. It breaks something in me, how deeply that instinct runs.
We reach it, and I park the car.
He tilts his head, trying to listen.
There’s a moment of quiet. The birds. The wind. A few soft sounds, I hope, are teasing his ears.
Then I walk over, unfasten his seatbelt, and whisper, “No talking. Just trust me, okay?”
His mouth opens to say something, but then he exhales and nods.
I guide him out, slow and careful. The air smells like roasted masala and candy sugar. It’s warm, a little humid, but the kind that makes you want to drink lemon soda under the sun.
The blindfold comes off.
He blinks against the light, his brows furrowed. And then he turns to me, his confusion clear.
“Where are we—?”
He doesn’t finish.
His eyes sweep over everything.
The cardboard signs were painted in messy strokes.
The stall with packets of Maggi stacked high, a kerosene stove already boiling water.
The balloon darts pinned haphazardly to a wooden board, half of them already popped by the breeze.
The gully cricket set was placed right in the middle, the bat stained, and the ball old and chipped.
Two bicycles—one his size, one mine. A cotton candy stand with a single machine spinning pink sugar clouds, manned by a kid I bribed with two hundred rupees and a promise to pay for any damages.
And above it all, my stupid nervous heart pounding in my chest.
He looks at me.
“What... what is this?”
I try to act casual, but my throat is tight. “This… is not for the CEO of Varuna. This is for the boy who never got to just be a boy.”
I don’t give him time to rethink, because he definitely is; I pull him towards the cotton candy counter.
The first ten minutes are awkward. He stands too stiffly.
Eats like someone might be watching. Looks at the swing like it’s made of knives.
I don’t push. I just start playing balloon darts myself and let him be.
And then I pretend I can’t hit a single one.
“God, this is rigged,” I mutter dramatically, and I know he’s watching.
He walks over. “Move.”
I raise a brow. “Excuse me?”
“You clearly suck at this.”
“Oh really? Go on, Mr. Bossman. Let’s see what you can do.”
His first dart hits the wall.
I burst out laughing.
He glares at me. “The angle’s off.”
“Sure,” I say, crossing my arms. “Blame the geometry.”
And just like that, the tension breaks. He gets competitive, I get petty, and somehow we end up running around the lot, arguing over who won, who cheated (he totally did), and how he has zero aim.
Then comes the cricket.
He insists on batting first.
I bowl the first ball. He misses.
“OUT!” I scream.
“That was a trial ball!”
“Trial my foot!”
He tries again. Hits it this time. The ball flies over the stall and into the bushes.
“Six!” He grins like a child.
“Lost ball,” I grumble. “Disqualified.”
He’s grinning so wide now, his dimples are showing; I didn’t know he had dimples. And they are so cute.
He walks toward the swing set like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to sit on it. I push him gently at first, then harder. He pretends to be terrified. “You’re going to kill me!”
“You’ve said that three times today. I haven’t even tried once.”
He tries the bicycle next.
Gets on.
Wobbles.
Falls. Dramatically. Arms flailing. Grass stains.
I laugh so hard. I nearly choke. Fall down next to him. Can’t stop giggling.
“Don’t laugh at my pain,” he mumbles, sprawled across the ground like a starfish. “You’re a cruel woman.”
I’m still breathless. “You fell like a sack of potatoes.”
“I thought this was supposed to be a good experience.”
“It is. For me.”
He groans, sitting up. Then he turns to look at me.
His expression shifts.
The amusement melts into something quieter. He looks… unsure. Like he doesn’t know what to do with the softness pressing against his chest.
“No one’s ever done something like this for me.”
I swallow. “You deserve it.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just look away for a moment. Then he walks towards me and cups my cheeks; his lips press on mine, and he kisses me breathless.
“When I was ten… I used to wish someone would come get me,” he whispers, “Save me from it all.” His eyes are watery now, and I feel a lump forming in my own throat.
“You came late…” His voice breaks, just a little.
“But you came,” he says, his arms wrapping around me, his chin resting on my head.
“Thank you, Aditi.” He kisses the top of my head, and I feel a lone tear escape my eyes, because everything coming out of his mouth is breaking my heart a bit.
“Thank you for coming into my life, thank you for being you, thank you for treating me like a human.” He raises my head, his eyes shining from unshed tears now.
“Thank you for today,” he smiles, but I can’t bring myself to smile because my heart feels like it’s tearing apart as I look at this beautiful man who deserves the world, but the world failed him.
So I make a silent promise I will never let him break again; I will never let him suffer ever again.
“You will always have me, Abhimaan,” I whisper. “You will never be alone now.”