Chapter 10 Locked Doors and Some Strokes
Locked Doors and Some strokes
DHRUV
I have never been attacked by so many emotions at once.
I’m still staring at the door—now firmly closed, the faint echo of Yagini’s laughter still ringing in my ears—when it really sinks in.
One minute ago, she was standing there with that wicked glint in her eyes, the kind she’s perfected over years of being younger, sharper, and far too entertained by my misery.
Now?
We’re locked in.
Till morning.
I don’t know whether to laugh, yell, or march down the corridor and personally revoke her dessert privileges for the next decade.
My chest feels tight. Not in a bad way, but in a dangerous way.
I turn slowly, as if moving too fast might shatter something fragile in the air, and that’s when I see Sitara.
She’s standing near the bed, completely still, her eyes widened almost alarmingly as they lift to meet mine. There’s confusion there. Surprise. And something else I refuse to name because I don’t trust myself with it.
“What just happened?” she asks.
Her voice is soft. Too soft for what my heart is doing.
I chuckle before I can stop myself, the sound coming out slightly breathless, and then I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “We’re… locked in here till morning.”
I rub the back of my neck, suddenly very aware of my body, of the room, of her. “Before you panic—nothing has to happen. I promise. I intend to give you all the space and time you need. I know this is… a lot.”
What I don’t say: that I’ve waited years to be this close to her and still don’t trust myself to breathe properly in her presence.
What I don’t say: that this stupid, one-sided love I carry has been my quiet companion for so long that I don’t know who I am without it.
She doesn’t respond immediately.
Instead, she moves—slowly, cautiously—and sits on the edge of the bed. Her hands fold in her lap, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her saree, and my eyes betray me by following the movement.
“So what happens now?” she whispers.
The question isn’t just about tonight. I hear it in the way her voice trembles slightly, the way her shoulders rise and fall with a breath she doesn’t seem fully aware of.
And before I can overthink it—before fear convinces me to retreat into safe, boring silence—I blurt out, “Let’s play a game.”
The words surprise both of us.
Her eyebrows lift instantly. “A… game?”
I blink. Me? Suggesting a game? I don’t play games. I plan meetings. I solve problems. I negotiate crises. Games aren’t my territory.
“I—” I start, then stop, realizing I don’t actually have a plan. Brilliant, Dhruv. Absolutely brilliant.
She studies me for a second, suspicion and amusement warring on her face. Then, unexpectedly, her lips curve into a small, mischievous smile. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s play.”
Something in her expression tells me she’s already won.
“And what will that be?” I ask casually, even as I move to sit beside her on the bed—careful to leave a respectful distance, even though my heart doesn’t appreciate it.
Her scent hits me then.
Warm. Soft. Something like vanilla and cacao—comforting and intoxicating at the same time. I inhale without meaning to, and my heartbeat stumbles like it’s forgotten its rhythm.
She turns toward me slightly, the light catching her face, and for a moment I forget how to speak.
She’s still in her saree. The fabric drapes over her like it belongs there, rich and elegant, hugging her curves in a way that feels almost unfair.
Her hair is open, cascading down her back in dark waves, framing her face and brushing against her shoulders.
There’s a softness to her right now, unguarded and luminous, that makes my chest ache.
She looks… stunning. As always. But tonight, there’s something else too—vulnerability layered beneath grace, uncertainty beneath humor.
“How about we draw each other?” she says, raising an eyebrow, her smile widening into something playful.
I fake a frown instantly. “You could have just told me you want to win. I would have accepted my loss gracefully.”
She laughs, the sound light and genuine, and it does something dangerous to me. “What’s the fun in that?” she counters. “Besides, this way I can evaluate how bad you are, Mr. Perfectionist.”
I smile despite myself, leaning in slightly so I can look directly into her eyes. The proximity makes her breath hitch—I notice because I’ve memorized the way she breathes when she’s nervous.
“My strokes would never do justice to how beautiful you are, Sitara,” I say softly, honestly.
Her smile falters for just a second.
Her inhale is deeper this time, her chest rising as her cheeks flush pink, and I almost hate myself for noticing everything. For wanting to notice everything.
She recovers quickly, though—she always does—tilting her head and narrowing her eyes at me. “You… you are just a sore loser, Dhruv Singhania.”
I chuckle, leaning back slightly, giving her space before I cross a line neither of us is ready for.
You have no idea.
Because the truth is—I’ve been losing for years.
I lost the moment she walked into my life and turned it lighter without even trying. I lost the moment I decided that having her as a friend was better than risking losing her altogether. I lost every time I chose silence over confession, restraint over honesty.
And I would lose again.
Every single time.
If it meant she smiled like this. I open the drawer and take out a paper and pen, "Let's play," I whisper, because I fear if I don't busy myself with something else I may make this worse.