90
The drive back to New York felt quieter than before — not uncomfortable quiet, but that easy, reflective silence that came after a few perfect days. The highway stretched endlessly ahead of them, streaks of afternoon light glinting off passing cars.
Vaani sat sideways in her seat, one leg folded under the other, gazing out the window.
The wind from the half-open window tugged at the ends of her hair.
She smiled faintly, still thinking about the Niagara cruise — the mist, the laughter, the way Dhruv's hand had found hers without even realizing it.
"This was really nice, Dhruv," she said softly, turning to look at him. "I really, really enjoyed it."
He glanced at her, his lips twitching into a small smile. "Glad you did."
"You planned it perfectly," she said. "Even the surprise part — I didn't see that coming."
"That was the point," he said, keeping his eyes on the road.
She leaned back, stretching. "You're getting better at this, you know."
"At what?"
"At this husband thing," she teased.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Took long enough."
"Mm," she said, smiling. "But you're a fast learner."
The city skyline began to appear in the distance — tall buildings, streaks of glass and steel shimmering in the sunlight. As the cab turned toward Manhattan, the familiar energy of New York began to hum around them again: honking cars, street vendors, the buzz of life.
By the time they reached their hotel, the golden light of early evening had wrapped around the city. Dhruv parked the rental, came around to get her bag, and handed it to her without a word. She smiled at him, small and quiet, and followed him into the lobby.
Their room was exactly as they'd left it — neat, minimal, a faint scent of vanilla from her perfume still hanging in the air. She dropped her purse on the bed and stretched her arms over her head.
"Back home," she sighed. "Well, sort of."
Dhruv smiled faintly. "Home for a few more days."
She nodded, pulling her phone out. "I'm gonna call Vihaan. He must be done with his classes by now."
"Yeah," Dhruv said, sitting on the couch, loosening his watch strap.
She dialed, and within seconds, Vihaan picked up — his face bright, the background noisy.
"Hi!" she said immediately. "Where are you?"
"Hey, Di!" he said, grinning. "I'm with a few friends — we're grabbing dinner."
Her eyes lit up. "Oh, that's so nice! You made friends already?"
"Yeah," he said, laughing. "People here are chill. There's this guy from Boston and another from Toronto. We're all in the same course."
"That's great," she said, genuinely happy. "I'm glad you're settling in."
Dhruv looked up from his seat and smiled a little. "That's good, Vihaan. Enjoy your time there."
"Will do, Jiju," Vihaan said cheerfully. "I'll text when I'm back at the dorm. Bye for now!"
"Bye," Vaani said, waving even though he couldn't see her.
When the call ended, she sat down on the edge of the bed, smiling. "He sounds so happy."
"Yeah," Dhruv said softly. "He does."
She looked at him for a moment. "It's so weird though, right? Time's flying. It's already almost time to go."
He nodded, leaning back in the chair. "Feels like we just got here."
"Exactly," she said. "One minute we're landing, the next — boom — we've done New York, Niagara, everything."
He smiled faintly, but his eyes stayed distant.
She frowned. "You okay?"
He blinked once, then nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Yeah," he said again, voice light, almost too quick. "Just tired, I guess."
She tilted her head, watching him. Something about his tone made her uneasy — not because it was cold, but because it wasn't fully there.
"You're quieter than usual," she said gently.
He looked up, meeting her gaze with that half-smile again. "Nah. I'm good."
"Dhruv," she said softly, "what am I?"
He blinked, confused. "What?"
She leaned forward a little, eyes twinkling even as her tone softened. "Hum aapke hain kaun?"
He chuckled, low and warm, finally looking at her properly. "You've been watching too many Bollywood movies."
"Answer," she said, crossing her arms.
He shook his head, amused. "You're impossible."
"Dhruv," she said again, smiling but firm.
He sighed, then grinned slightly. "My ardhaangini."
She blinked, then laughed, blushing. "Ardhaangini?"
"Half of me," he said, tone suddenly softer, more real.
Her laughter faded into a shy smile. She looked down, tucking her hair behind her ear. "You're getting better at this, Mr. Serious."
He raised a brow. "At what?"
"At saying things that make me blush."
He smirked. "That's unintentional."
She leaned forward and playfully smacked his arm. "Liar."
He laughed quietly, rubbing the spot.
"Seriously though," she said after a moment, her tone gentler now. "You can tell me what's going on with you, you know?"
He glanced up, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." She hesitated. "You've been quieter lately. Even more than usual. And I know you're the strong, silent type and all, but..." She took a breath. "You need to open up to me, Dhruv."
He looked at her — really looked. Her eyes were warm and searching, her face open and kind. He didn't say anything for a long moment.
"Vaani..." he started, then stopped. His gaze softened, but the words didn't follow.
She waited. For a second, it looked like he might speak — like something was forming behind his eyes — but then he just exhaled quietly, as if the moment had passed.
She watched him, her heart tugging a little. Maybe he didn't want to talk. Maybe he wasn't ready.
So she smiled instead — a small, patient smile — and got up. "Okay," she said, cheerful again. "I'm gonna call Aai Baba and Maa Papa. It's been two days since I last spoke to them."
He nodded slowly, watching her move toward the window. "Alright."
She turned just before stepping away, flashing him a grin. "You think they'll scold me for not calling?"
He smirked faintly. "Probably."
She giggled, dialing on her phone. "Then you better prepare your defenses, Mr. Son-in-law."
He leaned back, watching her as she talked — her voice lifting, her expressions animated as always. There was something grounding about the way she carried lightness into every corner of his life.
As she stood by the window, chatting and laughing, he just watched quietly. There was that warmth again — the kind that didn't shout or demand, but stayed steady, like sunlight through a half-open curtain.
And as the city lights began to flicker to life outside, Dhruv realized that maybe — just maybe — opening up didn't need words yet.
Sometimes, it was enough that she was there, filling the silence he hadn't known how to break.
~·~
The soft drizzle had begun sometime after dinner — the kind that wasn't heavy enough to send people running indoors, but steady enough to leave streaks on the glass.
New York glowed under the faint haze of it.
The streetlights shimmered in pools of water, yellow cabs moved like fireflies below, and far away, the skyline stretched like a heartbeat against the grey sky.
Dhruv stood at the balcony railing, hands in his pockets, his shirt sleeves rolled up, hair a little disheveled from running his fingers through it too many times.
The air was cool — that kind of gentle chill that carried both calm and nostalgia.
He'd left the balcony door open, so the faint sounds of the city drifted in — honks, laughter from the street, the rhythmic patter of rain on metal.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the railing, eyes fixed somewhere distant.
His mind wasn't quiet — it never really was. Thoughts spun around, crossing paths, overlapping, slipping between past and present.
He thought of his first year in New York — how everything had seemed impossibly big, fast, and electric.
He thought of the first winter here, the first snowfall, the first time he'd walked these streets alone after a long night of studying.
He thought of late-night walks by the Hudson, of cheap pizza slices and the smell of roasted nuts from the carts.
It had been hard sometimes, yes — lonely, too — but it had been his. His city, his rhythm, his piece of freedom.
And now, standing there again years later, the city lights flickering on his face, he felt it — that faint tug in his chest. A bittersweet ache, a reminder that some places etched themselves into your soul no matter how much time passed.
He let out a small sigh, shaking his head. "It's stupid," he muttered under his breath, voice almost lost in the rain.
But then, somewhere in the quiet of his own thoughts, another part of him — the gentler one — whispered, She's my wife.
He blinked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Right. He wasn't here alone this time.
He glanced back at the balcony door. The soft lamplight from inside spilled out onto the floor, a warm contrast to the silvery rainlight.
Vaani was somewhere inside, probably folding her clothes or texting her mother.
He could almost hear her humming faintly — that absent-minded tune she always slipped into when she was doing something.
Dhruv took a deep breath, then raised his voice slightly.
"Vaani!"
A muffled voice came from inside. "Yes, Dhruv?"
"Ikde ye, please." (Come here, please.)
There was the sound of her footsteps, soft and quick. "Ho yete (Yes, coming)," she called back, her tone light.
The balcony door slid open, and she stepped out. She'd tied her hair up loosely, wearing a soft sweatshirt and pajama pants, her feet bare. The drizzle made the air cool enough that goosebumps rose on her arms.
"What happened?" she asked, a little smile on her lips, her head tilting.
"Sit with me," he said simply.
She blinked. "What?"
"Sit with me, Vaan."
Something about the way he said her name — quiet, almost hesitant — made her expression soften. She smiled, small and genuine, and nodded. "Okay."
She moved to the small sofa in the balcony — the one facing the city view — and sat down beside him. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The rain filled the silence, soft and steady.
He leaned back, rubbing his palms together as if searching for words. Finally, he exhaled.
"I..." he started, voice quiet. "I've been quiet because..." He paused again, then gave a faint, almost sheepish smile. "Because I like the city."
She turned to look at him, brow slightly furrowed. "You like the city?"
"Yeah," he said, nodding slowly. "I like the city. A lot."
She tilted her head, confused but patient. "Okay...?"
He gave a small laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I don't know. I just — I miss it. And the idea of leaving again..." He trailed off, his gaze falling to the wet pavement below. "Made me a bit sad, I guess."
Vaani looked at him quietly, and realization began to dawn.
"Oh," she said softly. "You mean... you miss this — New York."
He nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I do. I didn't even realize it until we got here. It's weird — I've been away for years, living a whole different life. And still, being here... it feels like coming home. Like something inside me just fits."
She smiled faintly, nodding. "I know that feeling."
He glanced at her. "You do?"
"Yeah," she said, her voice gentle. "I felt it too — when we were leaving Oxford."
He turned a little toward her, listening.
She continued, "It wasn't even about the place, really. It was about what it meant — all those mornings by the river, long walks to class, all the people we met. You don't just leave a city; you leave a version of yourself behind."
He looked at her for a moment, his expression softening. "Yeah," he murmured. "That's exactly it."
The rain picked up a little, the sound deepening around them. The lights across the skyline blurred slightly through the mist, painting everything in a dreamy glow.
Vaani leaned her elbow on the back of the sofa, watching him. "It's alright, Dhruv," she said quietly. "We can always come back."
He smiled faintly, almost wistfully. "I know."
"Maybe next time, we'll have Vihaan too," she added, her voice lifting with a smile. "He'll be a pro New Yorker like you by then."
He chuckled softly. "Yeah. He probably will."
For a few seconds, the silence stretched again — comfortable, full of unspoken warmth. She watched him quietly — the way he sat there, calm but thoughtful, the city's glow brushing the edges of his face.
He sighed again, softer this time.
Vaani didn't say anything more. She didn't have to. Sometimes, being there was enough — her quiet understanding wrapping around him in ways words couldn't.
The rain slowed after a while, tapering into a mist. The night air was cool, crisp, and faintly sweet.
She reached out, her hand brushing against his on the armrest. He didn't move, but she could feel the faintest squeeze of his fingers.
They stayed that way — side by side, listening to the heartbeat of the city and the rhythm of the rain, each lost in their thoughts but tethered to the other by something quiet and steady.
And when Vaani turned slightly to look at him, she found him gazing at the skyline again, a softer expression on his face.
For once, Dhruv looked peaceful.
She smiled faintly and looked back at the lights.
Neither of them said another word.
The city shimmered before them, alive and endless — the kind of place that never really let you go, no matter how far you traveled.
And as the drizzle faded into the night, Vaani simply sat beside him, the warmth of their silence saying all that needed to be said.
The rain had slowed to a faint drizzle, just the occasional droplet tapping against the glass railing of the balcony.
The night around them had deepened — the kind of soft, glowing darkness that made the city below seem alive, breathing in flickers of gold and silver light.
Dhruv leaned back against the small outdoor sofa, eyes still on the skyline.
His expression had eased — the heaviness that sat there a while ago now replaced by something gentler, calmer.
Vaani, still beside him, watched him quietly. The light from the room spilled faintly onto his face — tracing his jawline, glinting against his watch, catching the faint furrow between his brows that always appeared when he was thinking too much.
She studied him for a long moment, then smiled softly.
"I'm proud of you," she said suddenly, her voice breaking through the hush of the rain.
He blinked and turned toward her, a small crease of confusion between his brows. "For what?"
She tilted her head, still smiling, her eyes warm. "For trying to open up."
He looked at her — a quick, searching glance — and she saw something flicker in his eyes. That subtle you noticed? look he always gave her whenever she picked up on something he hadn't said aloud.
She smiled a little wider, understanding. "Of course I noticed," she said gently. "I understand you, Dhruv. I know it's not easy for you to open up. I don't know why... maybe it's just the way you are. But we have our whole life, okay?"
He looked down for a moment, almost like he was trying to hide the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he let out a quiet chuckle.
"Why are you so... you?" he asked, shaking his head slightly.
She frowned a little, amused. "What does that mean?"
He gave a small shrug. "Nothing."
She leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing playfully. "Bolo, Dhruv."
He sighed dramatically, pretending to resist, then finally said, "You're amazing."
Her eyes lit up instantly. "Thank you very much," she said, grinning.
They both chuckled softly, their laughter mingling with the faint hum of the city below.
For a while, the silence returned — but it wasn't empty. It was warm, the kind that only existed between two people who didn't need to fill every space with words. Dhruv leaned back again, and Vaani turned a little, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, facing him fully now.
After a few quiet seconds, Dhruv spoke again, his tone thoughtful. "How's it so easy for you to open up?"
She blinked. "What?"
He looked at her, genuinely curious this time. "How can you just... talk? Be honest about things. Open up so easily. Doesn't it ever feel... heavy?"
She smiled faintly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Oh, trust me," she said softly. "It was not easy."
He raised an eyebrow, silently asking her to go on.
"It took me a long time," she continued. "A lot of time. And a lot of breakdowns."
Her voice was calm, not sad — more like she was remembering something she'd already made peace with.
"There was a time when I'd bottle things up too.
Smile through everything, pretend I was fine.
I used to think that talking about things made you weak, or made the problem feel bigger.
But the truth is, it only made me feel lonelier. "
Dhruv's gaze softened. He didn't interrupt.
She continued, "It took a few bad nights and some good people to make me realize that opening up doesn't make you weak — it makes you lighter. It's like... it's like carrying a heavy bag for too long and then finally putting it down."
He nodded slightly, absorbing her words. His eyes flickered down for a second, then back to her. "And you really feel better after that?"
She chuckled softly. "Yeah, Dhruv. You really do. You'll feel better when you open up."
He hummed — a low, thoughtful sound — and looked back at the rain.
Vaani smiled, watching him quietly. The way he hummed whenever he was unsure had become almost endearing to her — this small, wordless gesture that said more than a sentence ever could.
She leaned back, grinning, and said lightly, "And my cow is back."
He turned sharply toward her, his lips twitching into a smile despite himself. "What?"
She giggled, teasing, "You know — the way you hum. Hmm. Like a cow chewing cud."
He stared at her for a second, pretending to look offended. "Wow, thanks for the compliment."
She burst into laughter, clutching her stomach. "Oh, come on, Dhruv! It's cute!"
He shook his head, a smile now breaking fully across his face. "You're ridiculous, Vaani."
"I know," she said proudly. "But admit it, you miss this when I am not around."
He smirked. "You wish."
"Oh, I know," she said, eyes glinting. "You're so bad at lying."
He laughed quietly, the sound deep and warm. It wasn't loud, but it was real — one of those rare laughs that softened the sharp lines of his face.
After a few moments, the laughter faded into a comfortable silence again. The rain had stopped completely now, leaving the city washed clean, sparkling faintly under the streetlights.
Dhruv shifted slightly, leaning back against the sofa cushion. He stretched his arm out along the back of the seat, a small, wordless gesture — subtle but clear.
She noticed immediately.
He didn't say anything, just looked at her — the faintest trace of a smile in his eyes, the kind that said come here.
Vaani smiled softly. "You're making it sound like an invitation," she teased.
"It is," he replied quietly.
Without another word, she moved closer, nestling against his side. His arm came around her shoulders naturally, easily, as if it belonged there.
They sat like that — the two of them wrapped in the quiet hum of the night. The air was cool but not cold, carrying the scent of rain and faint traces of city food carts below. The lights from the skyline flickered in their eyes, soft and gold.
Vaani rested her head lightly on his shoulder, and he looked down at her for a second — just a second — before turning back to the city.
Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to.
Some moments didn't need words — they just needed to be felt, to breathe and settle in the spaces between two people who understood each other even in silence.
Vaani smiled faintly against his shoulder, her voice barely above a whisper. "You know, this city suits you."
He turned his head slightly, murmuring, "Hmm?"
She chuckled softly. "You. New York. You both have this quiet confidence — like you don't need to prove anything to anyone. You just are."
He looked at her, his lips curling into a small, genuine smile. "And you," he said quietly, "you're the noise this city didn't know it needed."
Her eyes widened a little, and then she laughed softly, brushing her fingers against his hand. "That was actually sweet."
"Don't get used to it," he said, smiling.
She tilted her head, teasing. "Oh, I definitely will."
He rolled his eyes, but his expression softened as he looked at her again — really looked at her. The laughter, the warmth, the way her eyes caught light even in the dimness.
Vaani glanced at him, caught his gaze, and smiled softly.
And there, under the quiet glow of the city they both were learning to love in their own ways, Dhruv tightened his arm slightly around her, pulling her just a little closer.
The night went still — soft, endless, alive.
And for once, Dhruv didn't feel like he was holding anything back.
~·~
Vaani was mid-story — one of her famous, unending ones — the kind that started somewhere logical and then spun off into a dozen directions before looping back to where it began.
Dhruv sat beside her, one arm draped lazily on the back of the sofa, his eyes half on her, half on the faint drizzle tracing patterns against the balcony railing.
"...and then this one barista in Oxford, I swear, used to make hearts on the cappuccino foam so perfectly," she said, waving her hands as if shaping the heart in mid-air. "I asked him once how he did it, and he said it's all about the wrist movement, not the milk. Can you believe that? The wrist!"
Dhruv smiled faintly. "So you're saying if I master my wrist, I'll become a coffee artist?"
She shot him a look. "Don't make it sound weird, Dhruv."
He chuckled quietly. "I didn't. You did."
She narrowed her eyes but couldn't help smiling.
"Anyway," she continued, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "that café had this corner table — right by the window.
You could see people walking past with umbrellas, all the colors reflecting off the wet cobblestones.
It always smelled like rain and coffee beans.
I used to sit there even when I didn't have class, just to.
.. I don't know, feel something, I guess. "
Dhruv nodded, watching the way her eyes softened when she spoke about the memory. "You really loved it there, didn't you?"
"I did," she admitted, a small smile playing on her lips. "It was quiet, you know? The kind of quiet that doesn't feel empty. Like the city was just... existing peacefully."
She turned toward him then, her voice dropping slightly. "New York feels louder. But somehow, sitting here, it doesn't."
He blinked, taken aback for a second. "Doesn't?"
"Hmm," she said, nodding, looking out toward the skyline where the rain shimmered like mist. "It feels... calm. Maybe because I'm not alone this time."
Dhruv didn't reply. He couldn't.
Because while she kept talking — now shifting the topic again to how she wanted to find that same kind of café here, one that smelled of espresso and nostalgia — he realized he wasn't thinking about anything else. Not the city. Not his work. Not even the rain.
He was thinking about her.
The way her eyes lit up when she got passionate about something so small. The way her laugh lingered for a few seconds longer than necessary. The way she always looked at him like she saw through the layers he didn't even understand about himself.
"—and then maybe," she was saying, "when we go back home, we can try making coffee like that barista. You can help me—Dhruv? Are you even listening?"
He blinked, his gaze still soft, still caught in the quiet magic of the moment. "Yeah," he said, voice lower than usual. "I'm listening."
She smiled, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Then what did I say just now?"
He paused, half-smiling. "Something about... hearts. And coffee."
She groaned dramatically, leaning her head against his shoulder. "You're hopeless."
He didn't move. He didn't even correct her. Because at that moment — feeling her hair brush against his jaw, the scent of rain and her perfume mixing in the air — Dhruv knew.
He couldn't deny it anymore.
It wasn't just fondness, or comfort, or the habit of shared moments. It was something deeper, slower, more dangerous. It was the kind of feeling that crept in quietly until it filled every inch of his silence.
He looked down at her resting on his shoulder, still talking about something — probably about croissants now — and a faint, almost involuntary smile touched his lips.
He was falling for her.
Loudly.
Clearly.
Inevitably.
And for once, he didn't want to stop himself.
??