71
The drive back was quiet, but it was the kind of silence that had weight without being heavy.
Vaani hummed under her breath to some tune stuck in her head, tapping her fingers against the window.
Dhruv kept his eyes on the road, his posture as straight as ever, but his knuckles were loose on the steering wheel.
By the time they reached home, it was close to midnight. The house was quiet, only the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the living room clock filling the space.
"Chai?" Vaani asked the moment they entered, already slipping off her sandals.
"At this hour? It's almost dinner time." Dhruv raised an eyebrow, locking the door behind them.
"Yes," she said with full conviction. "Today was a long day. Chai is needed. Then dinner."
He didn't argue. He never really did when she decided on chai.
Soon enough, two steaming cups sat on the center table, and they both settled into the couch.
He flipped through the TV channels until he landed on some old cricket highlights.
She curled one leg beneath her, holding her cup in both hands, scrolling through her phone.
It was peaceful—two people in their own worlds, yet sharing the same one.
Suddenly, Vaani gasped softly, making him glance sideways.
"This is such a good photo," she said, her voice bright.
"Which?"
She turned her phone toward him, showing the group selfie they had taken before everyone left.
Everyone looked genuinely happy—Jaya's soft smile, Ramesh's grin, Sunita's warmth, her brothers' playful faces, even Geeta smiling faintly.
And in the middle, Vaani herself, eyes glowing, head tilted just slightly toward Dhruv, who, though straight-faced as usual, had the smallest ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
"You like it that much?" Dhruv asked, his tone even.
"Of course! It's proof, Dhruv. Proof that things are finally.
.. normal. Did you see? Aatya was actually nice to me today.
She smiled! And she even... talked. Like properly talked.
" Vaani was already rambling, setting her cup aside to gesture with her hands.
"I was so nervous when she walked in earlier, but it went so smoothly.
I think it's because of you. You must have said something.
But she was good today. And everyone was laughing.
And Papa's jacket comment—you were so dramatic with your 'over my dead body'—"
He hid his amusement behind his cup.
"—and Vihaan telling about Columbia, and how Kaki instantly went into advice mode—oh my god, that was classic. And Maa smiling at you when you made chai, you didn't see her face but it was adorable, Dhruv. She was literally glowing—"
She went on and on, her words flowing faster than the cricket commentary he'd muted earlier. At some point, he pressed the mute button on the remote, so the TV only showed moving players without sound. He leaned back, cup resting in his hand, just... listening.
She didn't notice at first. She kept yapping, her words hopping from the photo to her parents' drive home to whether she should try making that jacket idea for the next trip. Finally, though, she caught the way his eyes were steady on her.
Her words slowed, and she tilted her head. "Wait. Why do you always do that?"
"Do what?" His brows barely lifted.
"Why do you not hug properly?"
His lips parted, surprised at the sudden swerve in topic. "What?"
She repeated, her tone almost accusing. "Why do you never hug properly? Always side hugs, shoulder pats, or that distant 'I'll touch your arm and pretend it's a hug' thing."
He blinked. "Because they're efficient."
"Efficient?" She stared at him, scandalized. "Are we discussing software or human emotions?"
He kept his face neutral. "Efficient means no wasted movement. No awkwardness. It conveys the point."
She narrowed her eyes, setting her phone down. "Efficient. Wah. That's your answer."
He shrugged once. "It works."
"Efficient doesn't mean effective, mister. Hugging is about warmth, about making someone feel loved and safe. Your side hugs are... corporate hugs."
"Corporate?"
"Yes!" she shot back, pointing at him. "Like those stiff greetings you give someone at an office party. Half-body, no heart."
He let out the smallest chuckle, though it was barely audible. "Anyway. I do hug."
"Oh, really?" she challenged, crossing her arms. "You hug?"
"I've hugged you properly."
Vaani's jaw dropped. "Properly? Dhruv, please. For a total of three seconds once, maybe twice. That doesn't count as a hug. That's... contact. Not a hug."
He smirked faintly, sipping his chai.
"See? Look at that face. You know I'm right."
He didn't reply, just let the smirk linger.
She groaned dramatically, standing up. "Fine. You stick to your efficient corporate hugs. I'll go make more chai."
But as she turned, he stood too, quick and quiet. "Wait."
She looked back at him. "What?"
"I'll make it. You sit." His tone left no space for debate.
Her expression softened instantly, her irritation dissolving into something gentler. "Really?"
He nodded once.
Her smile spread, bright and easy. "Thanks." She sank back onto the couch, watching as he picked up their empty cups and walked to the kitchen. His gait was unhurried, steady, yet there was something in the way he did things—without fuss, without noise—that made it clear. He cared.
From the couch, she called out, teasing, "But chai better be as good as mine!"
Without turning, he replied dryly, "We'll see."
She laughed, leaning back, scrolling through her phone again—but now, her eyes flicked up often toward the kitchen, where the man of few words moved around like it was second nature. And in her chest, something warm settled, deeper than the chai ever could.
The evening stretched slow and comfortable, the way evenings at home often do when the day has been heavy. After the chai and the teasing about hugs, Dhruv disappeared into the kitchen, and this time, instead of brewing tea, he reached for the pasta jar from the shelf.
Vaani noticed immediately, of course. "Wait, you're making pasta?" she called from the couch, half sprawled with her phone in hand.
"Yes." His voice floated back, calm and clipped, like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.
She bounded up from the sofa and padded barefoot into the kitchen. "Okay, first of all, you didn't tell me. Second of all, I would've helped. Third, why pasta? Not that I'm complaining."
"Because it's quick." He set the pan on the stove, poured in a little oil, and began chopping garlic.
"And because you secretly like it," she added, hopping up onto the counter, swinging her feet. "Admit it, Dhruv. You like it when I make pasta. You finish your plate first, every single time."
He gave her a side glance but didn't dignify it with words.
She grinned. "Exactly. Silent admission. Got it."
And then, as always, she launched into one of her rambly monologues.
She talked about how Rita had called her earlier to finalize her sangeet playlist, about how Vedant was still struggling to decide on whether he wanted to take that internship in Pune or not, about how the weather in Georgia had been so crisp compared to Mumbai's humidity, and oh, had he noticed that her mom's hair was now more salt than pepper?
Dhruv chopped, stirred, boiled, tasted. Every so often, his mouth curved almost imperceptibly, the way it did when he was trying not to outright laugh.
At one point, he set the pasta to boil, leaned against the counter beside her, arms crossed, listening while she waved her hands about the story of her colleague who had nearly set fire to a toaster oven in the office pantry.
And then, with the faintest smirk, he said, "You know... Aatya was right about one thing."
She froze mid-gesture, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "What?"
He angled his head at her, eyes glinting. "You are a nonstop talking machine."
Her jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"
He didn't even blink. Just smirked again.
"You—" she sputtered, pressing a hand to her chest in mock-offense. "You dare. You dare, Dhruv."
He arched a brow. "Am I wrong?"
"Yes! I mean—okay, fine, I talk. But you love it. You'd be bored out of your skull without me. Admit it."
He turned back to drain the pasta, voice dry. "I'm aware."
She blinked, caught off guard by how casually he admitted it. "Oh? Ohhh. You're aware, huh?"
"Hm."
"Well then, mister, let me remind you—" She leaned forward dramatically, her eyes sparkling, "—you have to deal with it with a smile."
He placed the strainer down, his lips twitching, then deadpanned, "Sure."
That was all. Just one word. But the way he said it—flat yet amused, indulgent in his own way—made her laugh out loud. She swatted his arm lightly, and he just shook his head, fighting a smile of his own.
By the time he plated the pasta, her chatter hadn't stopped once.
She'd moved on to talking about how Sunita aunty always asked for her recipe but never really followed it, and how Vihaan was secretly terrible at card games though he pretended otherwise, and how she was thinking of reorganizing the wardrobe tomorrow because the saris needed more space.
He slid a plate toward her on the dining table. "Eat."
She gasped dramatically. "Served with no ceremony at all? No 'bon appétit'? No 'made with love'?"
He sat across from her, twirling his fork. "You got a plate. That's enough ceremony."
She laughed again, shaking her head, but dug in eagerly. "Mmm. Okay, fine, this is actually really good. You should cook more often."
He took a bite, shrugged. "I already do enough."
"Enough? Please, I've made more dinners in this house than you have."
"I don't count chai or Maggi as dinner."
She gasped. "How dare you slander Maggi like that? Maggi is the soul of midnight hunger."
His smirk returned. "Efficient, maybe. Not dinner."
"Ugh. You and your efficient." She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling the whole time.
For a while, the only sounds were forks clinking and her occasional exclamations of delight over the food. And then Dhruv asked, almost casually, "When is Ria's wedding?"
Her fork paused. "End of this month. Why?"
"I'll need to clear my schedule then."
She blinked at him, eyes widening. "Wait. You'll come? You'll actually come?"
He looked up, meeting her astonished gaze. "Should I not?"
"No, of course you should!" she said quickly, leaning forward. "I just... I didn't think you'd be interested. You're not exactly the wedding-dance-sangeet type."
"It would be rude not to go," he said simply, "when she clearly asked for me."
Her lips parted into a grin. "You're right. Yes, it would."
"Hm."
She beamed at him, warmth bubbling in her chest. The thought of him there, with her friends, at her cousin's wedding—present, visible, supportive—lit her up from within.
The conversation drifted easily after that.
She teased him about what he'd wear, whether she could drag him onto the dance floor, whether he'd survive an entire weekend surrounded by her loud, nosy extended family.
He answered in his usual clipped style, each word measured, but his smirks and side glances gave him away.
He was amused, even entertained, and he wasn't hiding it as much anymore.
By the time their plates were empty, she was still talking, still waving her hands, still brimming with energy.
He leaned back in his chair, his elbow on the armrest, just..
. watching. Every so often, he'd insert one dry line, a counterpoint to her flood of words, and she'd light up at even that tiny contribution.
For Vaani, it felt like home.
For Dhruv, it felt like peace.
And somewhere between the pasta and the playful jabs, a quiet truth settled into the room—that this, this odd balance of nonstop chatter and quiet listening, was exactly how they fit together.
The plates clinked softly as Vaani stacked them in the sink, her sleeves pushed up while she rinsed.
Dhruv, beside her, was wordlessly wiping down the dining table, his movements methodical as always.
It was a quiet routine they'd fallen into—her chattering about random things while he worked in silence, slipping in the occasional dry remark that made her laugh.
She was mid-story about how Vedant once lost an entire suitcase at the airport ("like, how do you even forget your suitcase, Dhruv? It's literally your bag, your whole luggage!") when Dhruv's phone buzzed on the counter. He wiped his hands on the towel, picked it up, and glanced at the screen.
A message.
Aarav: Down. Come to meet. I'm down.
Dhruv stared at it for a moment, then shrugged in that way he always did when something wasn't a big deal to him. He typed a short reply: Okay. Coming. Then slipped the phone back into his pocket.
He turned to her. "Vaani."
She looked up from where she was drying her hands. "Haan?"
"I'm going down. Aarav is here."
Her face lit up briefly. "Oh! Okay!" She tilted her head. "Late-night catching up?"
"Maybe." He adjusted his watch, already heading toward the door. "I might be late. Sleep."
She blinked at him. "Hmm. Okay." Then, almost instinctively, she followed him out, trailing behind as he walked toward the elevator.
By the time he reached the lift, she was standing a few steps away, almost like a silent send-off. He pressed the button, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable as always.
The elevator arrived with a soft ding. He stepped forward, one foot already inside when something made him pause. He turned slightly, his gaze flicking to where she stood with her head tilted.
"Vaani."
She blinked, surprised by the way he said her name—low, certain. "Yeah?"
And then, without another word, he crossed the small space between them.
His arm slid around her shoulders as he pulled her in—an embrace, not his usual quick, efficient side-hug, not the fleeting brushes of contact she'd come to expect.
This was different. He held her properly, solid and warm, his chest firm against her cheek, his hand pressing lightly at her back as if anchoring her there.
Vaani froze at first, startled. Her breath caught, her heart skipping like it had tripped over itself. And then, slowly, she let herself sink into it, her hands resting lightly against his sides, her lips curving into a smile she couldn't hold back.
It was brief, but not rushed. Long enough that she felt the weight of it. Long enough that it meant something.
When he finally drew back, his face carried the faintest hint of mischief, rare but unmistakable.
"Real hug," he said, voice steady but with the tiniest smirk. "Check." He held up a finger as if ticking items off a list. "Longer than three seconds... check."
Her jaw dropped a little, caught between disbelief and a laugh. "You—"
Before she could finish, the elevator doors slid fully open. Dhruv stepped inside, his smirk still tugging at his lips, hands slipping back into his pockets as if nothing extraordinary had just happened.
He glanced at her one last time, his eyes lingering just long enough to make her pulse race, and then the doors closed with a soft swoosh.
Vaani remained rooted to the spot in the corridor, her palms pressed together in front of her, her heart fluttering like someone had set off sparklers inside her chest. She touched her cheek absentmindedly, as though trying to hold onto the warmth of his shoulder, the weight of that hug.
She let out a shaky breath and laughed softly to herself, shaking her head. "Unbelievable," she whispered, though her smile gave her away.
She stood there for another few seconds, staring at the closed elevator doors, before finally turning and walking back into the apartment.
Her steps were lighter. Her chest felt full. And somewhere deep inside, an undeniable thought glimmered, unspoken but impossible to ignore—
She was falling.
Falling, and maybe he was too.
??
Small chapter—I'll come back with longer ones soon!