CHAPTER 23
Between Clouds and Silences
POORVI
The hum of the engines is steady, almost too steady, like a low lullaby that I cannot surrender myself to. I sit here, in this leather seat softer than any bed I’ve ever known, and yet my spine feels stiff, my palms restless. Maybe it’s not the seat. Maybe it’s the weight in my chest.
I glance out the oval window, watching the endless expanse of blue stretching and folding like silk. Somewhere beneath those clouds lies the city I left behind, and ahead—his mother, the woman I’ve only ever known through whispers and rumors.
My throat tightens. Everyone spoke about her with awe, fear, or some odd mixture of both.
The stories about how she treated Meher.
.. about how strong one had to be to withstand her sharp words, her tests, her silent expectations.
And I—well, I am not Meher. I am not strong like her.
My walls crack too easily. My heart wears itself on my sleeve even when I beg it not to.
What if she sees that and crushes it in one sweep?
“What are you thinking about?”
His voice pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts. I turn my head, and Vihaan’s eyes are already on me. Searching. Demanding answers I don’t want to give.
I shake my head quickly, almost too quickly. “Nothing.”
His gaze lingers, skeptical, heavy. Then his brows knit. “You’re cold.”
It’s only then that I notice my fingers trembling where they rest on my lap. He reaches across the small space between us and covers my hand with his. Warm. Steady. Too steady.
I offer him a small, polite smile. “I’m fine, Vihaan.
” Gently, I slip my hand from under his, like sliding out of a promise I don’t know how to keep.
Before he can say anything else, I reach for the book resting on the seat beside me.
I don’t even register its title, just that it’s something to hold, something to hide behind.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his jaw tighten, his chest expand with a deep inhale. Then without a word, he pushes himself up from his seat and walks down the aisle, disappearing behind a half-closed partition.
The silence he leaves behind weighs heavier than his presence. Did I go too far? Was pulling away from his hand too much? Or was it the smile—that shallow, rehearsed thing? I don’t know anymore.
One moment, he’s the man who tucks warmth into my frozen palms, who sees through me like I’m made of glass. The next, I’m just the girl whose family deceived him, the wrong bride sitting in a seat meant for another. Which version of me does he see now? Which version does he want?
I press my thumb against the edge of the book, flipping pages I don’t read. I don’t understand him. I don’t understand us.
The sound of footsteps breaks the storm in my thoughts. I look up, and there he is again, walking back down the aisle. Two cups in his hands, steam curling up in soft spirals, and that smile—the one that always tugs at my heart no matter how much I fight it—is playing on his lips.
He stops before me, holding out one of the cups. “Here. Thought you could use hot chocolate.”
Hot chocolate. Not coffee. Not tea. Something warm, sweet, and oddly childlike. Something that feels like comfort rather than caution. My chest tightens again, but this time in a different way.
I take the cup carefully, our fingers brushing for the briefest second. “Thank you.”
His smile deepens, just enough to make me wonder if he knows the effect it has on me. “Don’t thank me yet. It might be terrible. I had to bribe the attendant into letting me make it myself.”
My lips twitch despite myself. “You? Making hot chocolate?”
He shrugs, settling back into the seat beside me with his own cup. “What can I say? I have hidden talents.”
I glance at the cup, then back at him. “And dangerous levels of confidence.”
“Confidence is half the recipe,” he says smoothly, taking a slow sip of his own drink, eyes glinting at me over the rim.
I lower my gaze to my cup, fighting the small smile that threatens to escape. The heat seeps into my palms, thawing some of the chill inside me. Carefully, I take a sip. Sweet. A little too sweet. The chocolate clings thick on my tongue, and yet... it’s good. Comforting.
“Well?” he prompts, tilting his head at me.
I roll my eyes lightly, pretending to focus on the drink. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” He feigns mock offence. “That’s all I get?”
I risk a glance at him, and he’s watching me with a half-smirk. Something inside me softens. “Okay,” I admit quietly, “it’s good.”
His smirk shifts into a real smile, brighter, softer. “Knew it.”
I sip again, hiding behind the cup, because if I don’t, I might betray too much. This is how it always is with him—small moments that sneak past my defenses, that make me forget the storm outside, the storm inside.
He leans back, stretching his legs out, as if the tension from earlier never happened. His ease only unsettles me more. How does he do that—slip so easily between distant and tender, guarded and giving?
The jet continues to cut through the clouds, steady and relentless, carrying us toward his mother. My stomach knots again, but when I glance at him, he’s watching me in a way that almost makes me believe I can face it.
Almost.
And maybe—for tonight, for this small stretch of sky between where I was and where I am going—that’s enough.