Chapter 25 #2
Vikram waited.
When the theater had nearly emptied, she finally spoke. "That was extraordinary."
"You loved it."
"More than I expected." She turned to him, eyes shimmering. "Thank you."
◆◆◆
Outside, Mumbai's evening chaos surrounded them. Traffic. Noise. Light.
"Hungry?" Vikram asked.
"A little."
"Good." He steered them away from the car. "Because we're not going home yet."
"What? Where?"
"Trust me."
He led her through narrow lanes into the kind of neighborhood tourists never found. Street vendors lined the walkway, pani puri, vada pav, pav bhaji, bhel puri.
"We're eating street food?" She looked at him incredulously. "You eat street food?"
"What do you think I lived on in college?" He stopped at a pani puri stall. "Two plates."
The vendor looked up, started to do a double-take, then clearly dismissed it. The disguise worked.
They stood at the small counter. Vikram popped the pani puri whole into his mouth.
"You have to commit," he said, preparing another. "Can't be tentative about it."
"Says the man who probably hasn't eaten street food in years."
"Says the man who used to eat here twice a week in college." He gestured around. "This was my spot."
She watched him eat with such casual enjoyment, such complete lack of self-consciousness. This was Vikram without cameras, without image, without the weight of fame.
"You're different right now," she said without thinking.
"Different how?"
"Less... performed." She struggled for words. "Like you're just being."
He considered this. "Maybe because nobody's watching. Except you."
"I'm watching."
"That's different." His eyes found hers. "With you, I don't need to perform."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning neither was ready to unpack.
They moved to the next vendor. Vada pav. Then bhel puri.
At the pav bhaji stall, music suddenly blared from a nearby shop. Bollywood remix. Loud enough that people stopped, looked around.
A group of college students burst into coordinated movement right there on the street. Flashmob. Dancing to the remix with abandon and joy.
More people joined, vendors, pedestrians, all jumping in with varying degrees of skill and absolute commitment to having fun.
Vikram's face lit up. "Oh, we're doing this."
"What? No!"
He'd already grabbed her hand, weaving them through the crowd toward the dancers. Not into the center, that would draw too much attention, but to the edge where people swayed and moved with less structure.
"I can't dance."
"Just move." He positioned himself beside her, not behind, giving her space but staying close. "Feel the rhythm."
"I can't."
"Stop thinking." His hand found hers again, squeezing once before releasing. "Just feel it."
The music pulsed. People around them laughed with complete lack of self-consciousness. And somehow, somehow, Divya's body started responding. Not gracefully. Not skillfully. But moving. Swaying.
Vikram's movements were easy, unselfconscious, nothing like his carefully choreographed film performances. This was just... dancing. For joy. For the hell of it.
He caught her hand, spun her gently. She stumbled slightly, laughed, found her balance. His other hand steadied her waist briefly before letting go.
"See?" His eyes sparkled. "You're dancing."
"I'm flailing to music."
"Same thing."
The song ended. The crowd dispersed with applause and laughter. Random strangers high-fiving, riding the high of spontaneous joy.
Divya stood there catching her breath, face flushed, wig slightly askew.
"That was insane."
"That was perfect." Vikram adjusted her wig, tucking a stray piece back into place carefully. "When's the last time you did something completely spontaneous?"
She thought about it. Couldn't remember.
"Exactly," he said, reading her expression. "Sometimes you just need to be ridiculous."
They returned to the car eventually, stuffed with street food, still laughing. The drive home started quiet. Comfortable.
Then Divya's head tilted against the window. Her breathing evened out. Sleep claimed her quickly. The exhaustion from the day, the food, the overwhelming emotion of the evening all catching up at once.
Vikram glanced over. Her face pressed against the glass, peaceful in a way that made his chest tighten. She trusted him enough to fall asleep. To be vulnerable. To let her guard down completely.
He drove carefully, avoiding potholes, taking turns gently.
At home, he parked in the garage and sat for a moment. She looked carefree like this. Softer. The wig and makeup made her someone else, but underneath, she was still Divya.
Still his.
He got out quietly, rounded the car, opened her door carefully. She didn't stir.
For a moment, he just stood there. He could wake her. Should wake her, let her walk inside on her own, maintain some boundary.
But when would he get another chance like this? Another excuse to hold her without questions, without her pulling away?
He'd carried her once before, unconscious and unaware. But this, this was different. This was after an entire evening of her laughing with him, dancing with him, letting him see her joy.
This was a gift he wasn't going to refuse.
"Come here," he murmured, sliding one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back.
She stirred as he lifted her, a soft sound of confusion. "Mm?"
"Shh. I've got you."
Her eyes didn't open, but her arms came up automatically, circling his neck. Not clutching. Just... holding. Trusting.
"Boss?" The word came out slurred with sleep.
There it was again. That word. Even now, even vulnerable and half-asleep, she used it. The barrier so ingrained she couldn't let it go even unconscious.
Something in his chest pulled tight. Not anger. Something more complicated. Something that hurt.
"Yeah," he said quietly, adjusting his grip as he shouldered the car door closed. "I've got you."
"Street food was good," she mumbled against his shoulder.
Despite everything, he found himself almost-smiling. "Best in Bandra."
"You're ridiculous."
"I know."
He carried her inside, up the stairs. She was lighter than expected. Or maybe adrenaline made it feel that way.
In their bedroom, he lowered her carefully onto the bed. She released his neck reluctantly, already seeking her pillow, curling onto her side.
The wig needed to come off. The makeup removed. But she looked so peaceful he couldn't bring himself to wake her fully.
Tomorrow. She could deal with it tomorrow.
He moved to the bathroom, changed quickly, removed his own disguise. When he returned, Divya hadn't moved. Still sleeping soundly.
He slid into bed on his side. The mattress shifted under his weight.
And unlike every night for the past week, she responded, unconscious but instinctive. Her body turned toward the dip he created, seeking warmth.
Maybe it was the evening they'd shared. Maybe it was exhaustion lowering her defenses completely. Maybe it was nothing more than chance.
But she didn't just turn toward him. She moved closer. Her arm stretched across the space between them, fingers finding his shirt, resting there. Claiming space against him in her sleep.
Her head settled near his shoulder, not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel her breath against his neck. Close enough that if he moved even slightly, she'd be tucked right against him.
He didn't move. Didn't want to break whatever this was. Didn't want her to wake and pull away.
So he just lay there, feeling the weight of her hand on his chest, the whisper of her breathing against his skin.
This woman, he realised, was his everything.
And someday, someday soon, her conscious mind would catch up to what her unconscious already knew.
He let his eyes close, hyperaware of every point where she touched him. Her hand. Her breath. Tomorrow, she'd wake and pull away. Would rebuild the walls. Would go back to calling him Boss like it didn't carve something out of him every time.
But tonight, she was here. Close. Trusting. His.
And that was enough.
For now.