7. Between Now and Forever
The morning after the roka felt surprisingly ordinary.
The house was quieter than it had been the night before.
Ruhika stood before the mirror fastening her watch, her expression composed, almost corporate again.
Board meeting at eleven.
Quarterly review by three.
Three pending client calls.
Her life had not paused. And yet, when her phone lit up with a message, her heartbeat reacted before her mind did.
She stared at the word for a second.
It no longer felt ceremonial. It felt... directed.
She typed back before she could overthink it.
Ruhika : Barely. I think your brother enjoyed it more than we did
Ruhika: I kept replaying parts of the evening.
No elaboration. No poetry. Just truth.
And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything they had said in front of a hundred people.
______
The first week after the ceremony did not bring dramatic romance. It brought rhythm.
Calls between meetings.
Texts sent during traffic signals.
Short conversations at the end of long workdays.
They were still formal in public. Still careful. Still adjusting to the shift in vocabulary.
But somewhere between "you" and "we," something subtle began to change. They texted every day — but never excessively. Good mornings became routine, not obligation.
Calls happened after dinner, when both were finally out of professional roles and allowed to sound like themselves.
In the beginning, their conversations stayed safe.
Work. Family. Childhood anecdotes. Food preferences.
But slowly, tone began replacing content.
He learned that when she typed short replies, it meant she was overwhelmed — not uninterested.
She learned that when he said, "I'll call you in ten," he meant exactly ten.
?
Ruhika's POV
The thing about competence was that it made people assume you never trembled.
She had built her entire adult identity on being prepared.
One Tuesday evening, she stood alone in the conference room ten minutes before a critical client presentation, staring at the final slide on her laptop.
It wasn't the numbers that worried her.
It was the negotiation tone. The room dynamics.
The subtle power play that always lingered beneath large contracts.
Her fingers hovered over her phone.
She wasn't someone who announced nerves.
She didn't dramatize pressure.
She simply handled it.
Still—
She opened his chat.
That was it.
No context. No vulnerability attached to it.
Just information.
She locked her phone immediately after sending it, as if distancing herself from the act.
Two minutes later, it buzzed.
Shivansh: "You Can, and I know you will"
No "all the best." No "you'll smash it!!!"
No emojis. Just certainty.
She read it twice. Then once more.
Something inside her chest unclenched.
He hadn't treated it like an event that required external validation.
He had treated it like an extension of who she was.
Prepared. Capable. Ready.
And for some reason, that steadied her more than encouragement ever could.She slipped the phone back into her bag and walked into the room.
The presentation lasted an hour and twenty minutes.
There were interruptions. There were counter-questions. There was one moment when the lead client tried to corner her on a projection assumption.
She didn't flinch. She recalculated calmly.
Reframed the narrative.Controlled the room again.
When it ended, handshakes felt firmer.
Expressions felt satisfied.But she didn't celebrate immediately.
She walked to her car first.Closed the door.
Exhaled.
He picked up before the second ring.
"Hi."
"I think it went well," she said, aiming for composed.
"You think?" he replied.
She leaned back against the headrest.
"I mean— yes. It went well."
"I know it did."
There was no hesitation in his voice.
She frowned slightly.
"You weren't there."
She let out a small breath of laughter. "That's very confident."
"No," he corrected calmly. "That's very predictable."
"Predictable?" she repeated, amused.
"You don't prepare to lose."
The words hit differently.
She stared at the steering wheel. Most people described her ambition as intimidating.
Too sharp.Too intense. Too serious.
Not something to soften.Not something to apologize for.
Just... hers.
"You say that like it's admirable," she said quietly.
She didn't respond immediately.No one had ever framed it that way.
Her ambition had always been something to temper around men. Something to downplay in social settings.Something that needed cushioning.
"You're not bothered by it?" she asked.
"By what?"
"How driven I am."
A small pause.
She blinked.
"Why?"
"Because it means you care about building something. And I don't want to stand next to someone shrinking themselves."
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
"You're very certain about things," she murmured.
"I'm certain about effort," he said. "Results fluctuate. Effort doesn't."
She smiled faintly.
"Are you quoting something?"
"No."
"You sound rehearsed."
"I'm not," he replied. "I just observe you."
Silence settled gently between them.
Not awkward. Not loaded. Just warm.
"You're not going to ask for details?" she asked after a moment.
"I will," he said calmly. "But not right now."
"Why?"
"Because right now, you need to sit with the win before dissecting it."
She didn't realize how badly she needed someone to say that.She leaned back further into the seat.
"You're annoyingly balanced sometimes ," she said.
"I try."
She smiled.
"I'll tell you everything tomorrow."
"I'll listen," he replied.
And the simplicity of that promise stayed with her long after the call ended.
_______
She had already moved on from the meeting. That was the problem with high-performance environments.
Wins were acknowledged briefly. Then replaced with the next target.
By Thursday afternoon, she was knee-deep in emails again when the receptionist knocked lightly on her cabin door.
"Ma'am, there's a package for you."
She frowned slightly. "I didn't order anything."
The box was small.Rectangular.Plain brown packaging.
Along with it was a small packet. No flashy branding.No dramatic ribbon.
She turned it over in her hands.
The sender name made her pause.
She closed her cabin door before opening it.
Smooth texture. No logo stamped across the front.
No unnecessary embellishments.Elegant in the quietest way.
She ran her fingers over the cover slowly.It was exactly the kind of thing she would choose for herself.
Functional and Understated.
Her throat tightened slightly.
She almost giggled, and opened it. It felt like she was being treated as someone who scored full marks in a test.
She couldn't remember when was the last time she herself or someone else appreciated her progress in the smallest ways when it mattered
On the first page, written in his steady handwriting:
She stared at the words.
Read them once. Twice.
Empire. Not project.Not job. Not career.
He had not reduced her ambition to something decorative. He had amplified it. Her chest warmed in a way that felt almost overwhelming.
There were no hearts.No dramatic lines. No romantic overtone
It wasn't a lover's gift. It was a partner's. Someone who thought
And that distinction mattered.
She traced the indentation of his handwriting lightly with her thumb.
Then picked up her phone.She didn't call immediately. She wanted to sit with it first. To understand what exactly it made her feel.
That was the word. Admired. Praised.
But most importantly, Seen.
He answered on the third ring.
"You liked it? ," he said.
"Yes."
Silence.
"You didn't have to this," she said softly.
"I know."
"Then why did you?"
A faint smile colored his voice."You needed a place to plan the next conquest."
She huffed lightly. "You're exaggerating."
"No," he replied. "I'm accurate."
She leaned back in her chair, the notebook still open on her desk.
"You didn't write anything dramatic," she said.
"Should I have?"
"I don't know."
Her heart skipped.
"From what?"
That did it.
She swallowed. "You don't feel threatened?" she asked quietly.
He didn't hesitate. "By what you're capable of? No."
"And if it becomes bigger than yours?"
Her eyes burned unexpectedly.She hadn't prepared for that.
_______
Saturday Evening," she said over a call midweek. "No families. No temple. No rituals. Just... us."
"Are you asking me out?" he asked calmly.
"Good," he said. "I was beginning to think I'd have to start planning creative proposals for basic dates."
She smiled despite herself. "Seven-thirty. I'll send the location."
It wasn't a grand restaurant.
It was a quiet terrace café overlooking the city skyline — soft lighting, minimal crowd, live instrumental music in the background.
She reached first.
He arrived five minutes later.
Deep Green shirt. Rolled sleeves. Watch. No effort that looked forced.
He didn't immediately sit.
He looked at her first.
Slowly.
"You chose well," he said.
They spoke about ordinary things first.
Work. Deadlines. His upcoming site season. Her expansion pitch. Traffic. Coffee preferences.
But slowly, the conversation shifted.
"Do you get tired?" he asked suddenly.
She frowned slightly. "Of?"
"Always being capable."
No one had ever asked her that. She took a moment before answering. "Sometimes."
He nodded once, like that answer mattered. "You don't need to be capable with me always," he said. "You can just be tired."
The music shifted in the background.A soft instrumental version of a familiar love song. She didn't say anything for a few seconds.Then she leaned back in her chair.
"That's a dangerous offer."
"I don't offer things I can't handle."
He wasn't flirting. He was stating.
And that, somehow, was more romantic.
She didn't say anything for a few seconds.Because no one had ever positioned her strength as something that could rest.
People admired it. Competed with it. Sometimes resented it. But no one had offered to hold it.
She picked up her glass of water, more to occupy her hands than because she was thirsty. "You say that very confidently," she murmured.
"I am confident."
"In your ability to handle me being tired?"
There it was.
Not dominance. Not ego. Just steadiness.
Her eyebrow arched slightly. "That sounds suspiciously like a challenge."
He leaned back in his chair, studying her like he wasn't in any hurry to respond. "If it were a challenge, I'd look more nervous."
"You don't look nervous?"
"Should I be?"
She tilted her head thoughtfully, letting her gaze travel over him in a way that was subtle but intentional.
"You're agreeing to deal with someone who triple-checks presentations at midnight and rearranges her calendar like it's a chessboard."
"That's fine."
"And who doesn't cry easily."
"That's also fine."
"And who overthinks."
He smiled faintly. "I've noticed."
Her eyes widened. "Excuse me?"
"You do this thing," he said, gesturing lightly with his hand,
"where you pause before replying. Like you're editing yourself."
She opened her mouth to deny it.Then closed it.
He didn't gloat.He didn't tease loudly.
He just watched her with that composed, infuriatingly perceptive calm.
"And?" she asked.
"And I don't need the edited version."
Something inside her softened so quietly she almost missed it.
You say that now," she replied, eyes narrowing playfully.
"Wait until I start sending you 2 AM voice notes about quarterly targets."
"I'll listen."
"You'll regret that."
"I doubt it."
She studied him carefully. "You're very sure of yourself."
He shook his head once. "No. I'm sure of you."
The words didn't come wrapped in grand emotion.
They came simple. Certain.
And that was worse. For her heart .
She looked away briefly, pretending to watch the skyline, but her pulse had shifted.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
"So," he said lightly, picking up the menu again as if he hadn't just destabilized her, "are we ordering or are we continuing this psychological evaluation of my coping skills?"
She let out a small laugh. "You started it."
"I asked if you get tired."
"That's not a small question."
"Neither is marrying someone."
Touché.
The waiter arrived. They ordered. The moment softened into something easier.
But under the table, their feet brushed accidentally.
Neither moved immediately.
She glanced up at him. He didn't break eye contact.
"You're staring," she said quietly.
"I know."
"Why?"
He considered that for a second.
"Because I'm allowed to now."
Her breath caught — not dramatically, just enough to register.
"You were allowed before."
The city lights blurred for a second. She swallowed.
"You're very composed for someone saying things like that."
He gave her a half-smile. "You're very composed for someone reacting to them."
She exhaled slowly, shaking her head.
"You're impossible."
He smiled, ."If you say so"
There was something in the way he said it.
She reached for her drink again, hiding a small smile.
"This is still a basic date," she said. "Don't get ahead of yourself."
He leaned slightly forward, resting his forearms on the table.
"I'm not ahead," he replied quietly.
"I'm exactly where I want to be."
And for the first time that evening, she didn't have a teasing comeback ready.
______
On reaching the Car, She reached for the handle.
"Wait."
She paused.
He stepped out of the car before she could ask why.She watched him walk toward the back seat. He opened the door. Pulled something out.
Her brows furrowed.
When he came back around , he was holding a small bouquet.Not extravagant. Not dramatic red roses.
Simple. Thoughtful.
She stared at them, surprised in a way she hadn't expected to be.
"You—" she blinked. "When did you—?"
Her eyes lifted to his ans she teased
"You were confident that the evening would go well?"
There was no showmanship in his tone.
He wasn't trying to impress her.
He was just... deliberate.
She took the bouquet slowly.
"They're beautiful."
"I asked the florist which flowers last longer," he added lightly. "I was told lilies are patient."
She looked up sharply.
"Are you comparing me to a flower now?"
"No," he said calmly. "I'm comparing the situation,US"
She narrowed her eyes playfully. "And what situation is that?"
He leaned slightly closer, one hand resting lightly on the top of the car door.
The world did something unfairly cinematic in that moment — the faint rustle of trees, distant car sounds, soft streetlight glow catching the edge of his profile.
She swallowed.
She hesitated before stepping fully in the car. He settled too and turned towards her before moving, both of them unwilling to let go yet.
Then she did something small. Unexpected.
She reached up and adjusted his collar slightly, straightening it even though it didn't need straightening.
"You look good in Green," she murmured softly.
His gaze softened.
"Is that a compliment?" Thankyou I guess
"Don't get used to it."
She took a step back toward her gate.
Then paused.
Turned.
"Thank you... Shivansh."
Not casual. Not teasing.
His name carried something warmer now.
He inclined his head slightly.
"Goodnight, Ruhika."
Within half an hour, they were outside her home. She walked inside without looking back immediately.
But halfway up the steps, she couldn't resist.
He was still there. Watching.
Not possessive.Not impatient. Just... there
She held his gaze for a second longer than necessary. Then disappeared inside.
In her room, she placed the flowers carefully in a vase.
And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to sit on her bed without opening her laptop.
Her phone buzzed. A message from him.
She smiled and replied ,"They're acceptable"
A pause.
Then another message.
Glad. I'd like to keep meeting the standard.
She didn't reply immediately. She looked at the flowers instead.
Then typed back:
His reply came within seconds.
And for the first time since this arrangement had begun, she didn't feel like she was stepping into something uncertain.
She felt like she was being met.
Slowly. Steadily
_______
Shivansh's POV
It was the third week of April
His firm was under external review. Financial scrutiny. Compliance checks. Endless documentation. Late nights at the office. Controlled chaos disguised as professionalism.
He hadn't complained. He never did.
He had only mentioned it once in passing.
"Next ten days might be slightly mad," he had said casually. "Audit."
She had nodded, half-listening while reviewing her own presentation deck.
"Okay," she'd replied. "Survive."
He had smiled. "That's the plan."
______
It had been one of those days.
The kind where nothing collapses — but everything presses.
Audit queries escalated.
An internal miscalculation surfaced.
A senior partner questioned a projection in front of the entire review team.
He handled it. Of course he did.
Calm voice. Structured response. Data pulled up within seconds. No visible crack.
But by the time he walked back into his cabin, shut the glass door, and loosened his tie slightly — the weight settled in.
He wasn't angry. He wasn't defeated.
For the first time in weeks, he didn't want to sit with it alone.
He glanced at his phone.
7:42 PM.
He knew she usually wrapped around eight.
He didn't overthink it. He just pressed call.
It rang.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
No answer.
He waited. Let it ring fully.
He stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary.
He told himself that immediately.
Instead, he sent a simple text. Long day. Call when free?
Then he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment.
At that exact time, she was in the basement parking of her office.
Phone on silent.
Arguing with a vendor on a call through her car Bluetooth.
Her day had been relentless too.
Back-to-back reviews.
A last-minute data correction.
A minor team disagreement she had to mediate.
By the time she stepped out of her car and checked her phone, it was 8:25 PM.
She saw the missed call.
Shivansh.
And the text below it.
Long day. Call when free?
Her brows pulled together. He rarely phrased things like that.
He usually said: Call later. This sounded... different.
She called immediately.
It rang once before he picked up.
"Hi."
His voice was steady.
But softer than usual.
"You called," she said.
"Yeah."
"You okay?"
"Mm."
That non-answer. She knew it. She used it too.
"What happened?"
"Nothing dramatic," he said lightly. "Just audit chaos."
"You sound tired."
"I am."
There was a pause. He didn't elaborate. Didn't unload.
Didn't dramatize.
And that's when she realized something uncomfortable.
He had called her first. On a hard day. And she hadn't picked up.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
"For what?"
"It's fine."
But it wasn't dismissive. It was factual.
"I was in the parking lot dealing with something stupid," she continued. "I didn't see it."
"I figured."
"You don't sound convinced."
He exhaled softly.
That made her straighten in her seat.
"Why would you feel stupid?"
There it was.
The vulnerability.Not dramatic. Not emotional. Just honest.
Her voice softened instantly.
"I want you to call."
She drew in a slow breath, fingers unconsciously tightening around the phone
"You matter enough to be answered. And if I fail at that, I'll try better"
The admission sat heavy between them.
Silence. He absorbed that.
"I wasn't calling to complain," he said after a moment. "I just wanted to hear something normal."
Her chest tightened. "Okay," she said quietly. "Tell me about it."
He hesitated.Then he did.
Not a rant. Not frustration.
Just a structured recounting of the day — the audit partner's tone, the projection issue, the correction he had to implement in under an hour.
She didn't interrupt. She didn't immediately solve.
She just listened.
And when he finished, there was a small silence.
"You handled that," she said simply.
"I had to."
"No," she corrected softly. "You handled that well."
Another pause. He hadn't realized he needed to hear that.
"You're allowed to have hard days," she added.
"I know."
"You don't always have to be the composed one."
A faint smile touched his voice. "That's usually my line."
He leaned back in his chair. The office around him had emptied. The cleaning staff moved quietly outside.
"I didn't like that you didn't pick up," he admitted suddenly.
Her breath caught.
"Because I needed you," he finished.
No accusation. No guilt. Just truth.
She closed her eyes briefly.
"I'm here now." And "I'll try to be there the other times too."
He didn't tease her for that. Didn't soften it with humor. He just said,
"That's enough."
They stayed on the phone longer than necessary.
Not discussing audit. Not discussing work.
Just small things.
What she had for lunch. How his coffee had gone cold.
A random observation about traffic. Ordinary details.
But when they hung up, something subtle had shifted.
He no longer hesitated before calling.And she no longer underestimated the weight of a missed ring.
Because somewhere between audit pressure and parking lot chaos—
They had crossed from being two capable individuals...
To being two people who quietly preferred not to handle hard days alone.
______
Next week (Ruhika's POV)
She hadn't planned the evening. It began with a casual conversation.
Aarav had called her that afternoon about some engagement discussions — venue availability, shopping errands, the usual chaos.
And somewhere in between teasing her about "official bhabhi duties," he had mentioned lightly,
"Bhai will be home early today, by the way.
Audit review wrapped. Miraculously alive."
Her fingers paused over her keyboard.
"Early as in?"
She tried to sound unaffected. "Hmm."
But her mind had already shifted.
He had called her the previous week after a hard day.
She had missed it.
He had said, simply: Because I needed you.
He hadn't made her feel guilty.
And somehow that made it heavier.
So at 7:15 PM, instead of driving home, she turned her car toward his house.
_____
She didn't inform him. She didn't overthink it.
She stopped at a small bakery on the way — the one he had once mentioned in passing because they made
"actual good tea cake, not the dry kind."
She bought one.By the time she reached, the house lights were on but the atmosphere felt unusually quiet.
His mother opened the door.
A soft surprise.
"Ruhika beta?"
"Hi, aunty. I was nearby and thought I'd drop something."
His mother's smile was knowing in a way that made her cheeks warm slightly.
"He's in his room. Resting. Long week."
That settled something inside her. She nodded and walked down the hallway.
She knocked lightly.
"Yeah?" his voice came from inside.
She opened the door slowly.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened up, one hand pressed against his temple.
He looked up.
And for a second, genuine surprise flickered across his face.
"Ruhika?"
She leaned casually against the doorframe.
"Hi, survivor."
He blinked once, processing."You're here.Really?"
"Observation skills intact despite 13 hour work days? Impressive."
A faint smile appeared despite the tiredness.
"You didn't tell me you were coming."
She stepped inside, placing the bakery box on his study table.
"Is this an inspection visit?" he asked.
"Yes. I heard the firm barely made it through."
He shook his head lightly, but his eyes hadn't left her. There was something different in the way he was looking at her. Not because she was dressed up. Not because it was dramatic.
"You drove here?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
She shrugged, walking closer. "You said you needed me last week. I just couldn't get it out of my head"
He stilled. The room went quiet in a different way.
"And I don't like failing performance reviews."She tried lighten the mood
A soft breath escaped him — half laugh, half something else.
"You're impossible," he murmured.
"No," she replied gently. "I'm learning."
That did it.The composure cracked just slightly.
He leaned back against the headboard, studying her like he wasn't sure whether to tease her or just absorb the moment.
"You didn't have to," he said quietly.
"I know."
Her tone mirrored his from weeks ago.
I know.
I still chose to.
She stepped closer and placed the small strip of medicine next to him.
"How bad is it? Your headache?
He was surprised that she noticed this too "Manageable."
"That means bad."
She crossed her arms. "Sit properly."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're giving instructions in my room?"
He shifted obediently, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
She moved behind him before she could overthink it.
Not overly intimate. Not dramatic. Just soft. Careful.
He froze at the first touch.
"You're very confident suddenly," he said quietly.
"Don't talk." She suddenly lowered her eyes more
"That wasn't a complaint."
She ignored him and adjusted the pressure slightly. Asking him to let go of the tie.
His shoulders dropped almost immediately. He exhaled slowly. Relieved
"That's unfair," he murmured.
"What is?"
"That you look composed and then do things like this."
She leaned slightly closer without thinking.
"What things?"
"Make it difficult to remain composed."
Her fingers faltered for a second. Then continued.
She moved around to sit beside him on the bed.
"Cake," she said, opening the box to change the temperature of the moment.
He looked at the tea cake and then at her.
"You remembered."
He watched her carefully.
"Dangerous woman."
"You've used that line before."
"And I meant it more this time."
She cut a small piece and handed it to him. He didn't take it immediately.
Instead, he leaned slightly forward and took a bite from her hand.
Her breath caught. "Shivansh."
"What?" he asked innocently.
"You could've taken it."
"I did."
She glared at him, but her pulse had betrayed her.
He chewed slowly, watching her reaction.
"Still good," he said.
She rolled her eyes and handed him the spoon properly this time. After a few bites, the teasing softened. He looked better already.
Less tight. Less distant.
"As much as I'm glad you're here, you don't need to feel guilty for just missing my call" he said quietly.
He studied her for a moment.
Then, softer than before: "I liked that you came."
She didn't deflect this time. "I'll come again," she replied simply.
He leaned slightly closer. "Careful," he murmured. "I might start expecting it." His lips twitched slightly upward.
Their eyes held. Not rushed. Not claiming. Just aware.
Not a reaction. Not an obligation. A choice.
And in that quiet room, with audit files stacked on the desk and half-eaten tea cake between them Something deepened. Not loudly. Not dramatically.
But undeniably.
When she finally stood to leave, he walked her to the door. The headache had softened. The tiredness hadn't.
But he looked lighter. At the door, he suddenly stopped her by holding her wrist and said quietly,
"Next time you miss my call..."
She smiled.
"Don't tempt me." He stepped closer — not touching, just enough for warmth to register.
She had just turned toward the door after that charged, quiet moment between them.
"I should go," she had said softly.
He had walked her to the door of his room — not out of formality, but because neither of them seemed ready to completely end the moment.
Her fingers had just brushed the handle—
Both of them froze. They looked at each other.
A second knock. Slightly louder.
And for the first time that evening, her composure faltered a bit. Before either of them could reorganize their expressions, the door opened a few inches.
Aarav peeked in. And then fully pushed it open.
He stopped. Took in the scene.
His brother standing a little too close.
Ruhika near the door.
Cake box open on the study table.
Tie discarded on the bed
Atmosphere... suspiciously warm. There was a full dramatic pause.
"Oh," Aarav said slowly.
Shivansh closed his eyes briefly. "Knocking is followed by waiting."
"I did knock," Aarav replied calmly. "You were... unavailable."
Ruhika straightened instantly. "We were just—"
"Headache treatment?" Aarav mocked as he came to ask his brother if he needed anything .
Shivansh gave him a warning look. "Aarav."
He stepped inside anyway, folding his arms. "So this is why the patient is glowing."
"I am not glowing," Shivansh said flatly.
Aarav squinted at him. "Bhai, aap audit week mein itne fresh tab lagte ho jab extension mil jaata hai. Aaj kya mil gaya?"
Ruhika coughed to hide a laugh.
Shivansh glanced at her. "Don't encourage him."and told Aarav "Can you leave?"
"Abhi toh aaya hoon." Aarav walked further into the room, examining the half-eaten tea cake. "Wow. Special bakery wala?"
Waise I'm surprised , normally bhai kisi ko apne headache phase mein room mein allow nahi karte."
Ruhika looked at Shivansh. "Really?"
He replied calmly, "I prefer suffering privately."
Aarav snorted. "Haan, aur aaj public display of recovery chal raha hai."
She tried to step toward the door again. "I was just leaving."
"Already?" Aarav looked offended. "Arre, itni jaldi? Headache fully cure hua ya half session?" He laughed
Shivansh stepped slightly closer to her then — subtle but protective. "That's enough."
Aarav immediately raised his hands. "Okay okay. I'll behave."
He looked at Ruhika again, grin returning. "Waise, bhai ne complain toh nahi kiya na?"
"About?" she asked carefully. "Ki aapne unka call miss kiya tha pichle week?"
The room stilled slightly. She met Shivansh's eyes for a split second.
He answered instead. "I didn't complain."
Aarav tilted his head. "Nahi kiya. Lekin teen baar phone dekh ke bola tha— 'She must be busy.'"
Ruhika's expression softened while Shivansh shot his brother a look. "You're done."
"Main sach bol raha hoon!" Aarav pushed off the table and walked toward the door.
Then paused dramatically.He looked at both of them again. Standing closer than necessary. Energy clearly shifted.
He smirked and directed to Ruhika
"And haan," he added with a mischievous grin, "Ho to aap poori Bhabhi material."
Shivansh moved toward the door immediately. "Aarav!"
The door shut before he could say more. Silence.
Then— She burst into quiet laughter.
Shivansh looked at her, half annoyed, half amused.
"He's impossible."
"He's cute," she corrected softly. He studied her for a moment increadously
"You're not uncomfortable?"
"With what?"
"With... this."
She understood what he meant. The teasing.The implication.
She shook her head.
"No." Then she added quietly—
"It feels... nice."
That answer did something to him. He stepped a fraction closer.
Thankyou Ruhika
She left, as it was about to be 10 at night. He offered to drop her back home, but she declined insisting that he takes rest.
This time, when she left —He didn't feel like he had handled the week alone.
And she didn't feel like she had missed her moment anymore.
__________
It was beginning of May, their engagement was planned around two weeks from now.
Ruhika planned to wrap her events and focus on the ceremonies later. The evening was already here.
The networking event had felt like hers from the moment she stepped into the ballroom.
She wore a champagne coloured saree — the kind that didn't scream for attention but held it anyway.
The fabric caught the warm amber lights of the chandelier and reflected them softly, like muted fire.
It wasn't overly embroidered, just a fine hand-embroidered border in antique gold that traced the edges with quiet precision.
The blouse was structured — tailored perfectly to her frame, high-necked in the front with subtle detailing along the collarbone, and a slightly lower back that revealed just enough skin to feel intentional, not performative.
The sleeves ended just above her elbows, fitted cleanly, giving her shoulders a sharp, confident line.
And when Shivansh saw her across the ballroom that evening— It wasn't just that she looked beautiful.
It was that she looked like she belonged exactly where she was. And he realized— He wasn't the only one who had chosen.
She had chosen herself long before he ever entered the picture.
She hadn't invited Shivansh to impress anyone. She had invited him because she wanted him to see this version of her.
The one that didn't hesitate. The one that spoke in structured sentences and didn't apologize for taking up space.
He arrived quietly. Charcoal suit. Sleeves precise. Presence calm. He didn't immediately come to her side. He watched first.
He stood a little distance away — near one of the tall cocktail tables — where he could see her clearly without interrupting the rhythm she had built around herself.
She was mid-conversation with two senior executives.
Not nodding mechanically. Not waiting for her turn to speak. She was listening.
Fully.
Her head slightly tilted, eyes steady, fingers lightly wrapped around the stem of her glass — not fidgeting, not distracted. When one of them made a point, she didn't rush to counter it. She let the silence sit for a second. Absorbed it.
Then she responded. Measured. Structured.
Her tone shifted almost imperceptibly depending on who addressed her — firmer when speaking data, warmer when acknowledging perspective, sharper when clarifying a misconception.
No defensiveness. No need to dominate. Just quiet command.
He noticed the way she didn't laugh too loudly at jokes that weren't funny.
The way she didn't shrink her opinion to make someone else comfortable. The way she maintained eye contact without challenging — steady, assured.
And when she spoke about her project, there was no exaggeration. Just facts. Delivered with conviction.
People leaned in. Not because she demanded it. But because she earned it.
A faint smile curved at the corner of his mouth.
He had seen her thoughtful. He had seen her teasing.
He had seen her apologetic and vulnerable and stubborn. But this version?
This was power.
Something tightened in his chest. Not insecurity. Not possessiveness.
Pride.
It surprised him. The feeling was quiet but full.
He wasn't proud because she was with him. He was proud because this was hers. Because she had built this voice.
This presence. This authority. Without borrowing strength from anyone.
And then—
One of the men stepped slightly closer.
Too close.
Not enough to be obvious. Enough to notice
Ruhika, right?" The man said smoothly, extending his hand. "I've heard about your presentation."
She shook his hand — firm, professional. "All good things, I hope."
"Only impressive ones."
Shivansh stood slightly to her left. Not intruding. Not distant. Close enough to belong, far enough to not overshadow.
Karan complimented her analysis first. Then the clarity of her articulation. Then her leadership approach.
Each compliment structured, intelligent.
And then—
"That rare combination of intellect and grace."
There it was. That fractional pause before grace.
That subtle lowering of tone. That look — assessing, lingering half a second longer than professional courtesy required.
Ruhika's smile remained intact. Polite but not even once it was inviting.
"Thank you," she replied evenly. "It's usually just long hours and stubbornness."
The group laughed lightly.
Karan leaned a little closer. "Well, stubbornness has its advantages."
Shivansh noticed everything. The shift in proximity. The micro-tilt of Karan's head.
The way his attention sharpened when others spoke but softened when she did.
He didn't react outwardly. Didn't place a hand at her waist. Didn't claim space beside her.
Because she wasn't fragile. And she certainly wasn't unaware.
She adjusted the flow of conversation effortlessly — redirecting it toward industry trends, pulling another colleague into the discussion, subtly widening the circle again.
Graceful. Controlled.
But Shivansh felt something settle low in his chest.
Not anger. Not insecurity. Recognition.
Other men were noticing her. Not just her competence.
Her presence.
Her femininity layered over authority. And while he trusted her completely— He did not like the way Karan's gaze implied possibility.
When the conversation finally dissolved and she stepped away toward the refreshments table, he followed at an unhurried pace.
He handed her a glass of water without comment.
"You're in your element," he said quietly.
She glanced at him sideways. "Is that approval?"
"It's admiration." The word came out steady.
She blinked once — not expecting it.
For a split second, the confident networking mask softened.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
He held her gaze just a moment longer than usual.
And in that look, there was pride.But beneath that pride, something else now lived. Awareness.
He had known by now that she was capable. Intelligent. Poised.
But tonight he was watching other men discover it in real time.
Watching their posture shift. Watching their tone soften. Watching interest form.
And that did something subtle inside him. Not doubt.
Never doubt. He trusted her instinctively.
It was something else— The realization that what he valued... was visible. Accessible to the world.
There was a new clarity forming. He didn't want to stand near her casually.
He wanted to stand beside her intentionally.
She noticed the shift. Of course she did.
She started noticing when his silences meant something. When his calm wasn't absence, but thought.
She leaned slightly closer at one point and murmured,
"You've gone quiet."
He glanced at her. "Just watching."
"Observing the competition?" she teased lightly.
A faint curve touched his mouth.
"I don't compete."
Her eyebrow lifted slightly
"I choose." The words were calm.
But this time, there was weight under them.
And she felt it. That subtle tension.
As if tonight had quietly confirmed something neither of them had articulated yet—
They were no longer exploring. They were investing.
And investment makes you protective.Not of the person.
But of the future forming between you.
?
In the car, the silence wasn't heavy. It was thoughtful.
Both of them were processing the evening.
City lights slid across the windshield in streaks of amber and white, reflecting briefly against his jaw before disappearing again. The hum of the engine was steady.
So was he.
After a few minutes, he asked, almost casually—"Do you know him well?"
She turned slightly in her seat. She understood who he was asking about ~ "Karan?"
"Yes." The name didn't carry any blame. Just clarity.
She studied him for a second — the relaxed grip on the steering wheel, the neutral expression that was only neutral if you didn't know him.
She tilted her head faintly.
"Are you asking professionally or personally?"
A small pause. "Personally."
The honesty in that single word warmed something inside her. It would've been easier for him to mask it as networking curiosity. He didn't
She let a faint smile form. "No."
He nodded once. Not relieved. Just registering.
The road opened ahead of them. A signal turned red in the distance.
Then he added, evenly, "I didn't like the way he looked at you."
She leaned back into her seat, watching him carefully "And how exactly did he look at me?"
"Like he thought he was discovering something."He answered
Her breath caught faintly. "And that bothered you?"
"Yes." The simplicity of it disarmed her.
"Why?"
He exhaled slowly, eyes still forward. "Because I don't like when someone assumes access to something they haven't earned." There it was.
She let the silence sit for a second before speaking again. "You think he assumed access?"
"Yes."
"Did I give him any?" she asked softly.
That made him glance at her. "No."
The answer came immediately.
"Then what are we really talking about?" she asked gently.
He thought about it. "We're talking about the fact that people will try." The red signal washed warm light across his face as he slowed the car.
She felt that land deeper than anything else he'd said so far. "You're not questioning me," she said carefully.
"No." I know it's not needed. He looked into her eyes and answered
The honesty steadied the space between them. She turned her body slightly toward him now, fully present.
His fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel and he said "I noticed."
"For the record," she continued, voice calm but firm, "I don't entertain attention that blurs lines."
He didn't interrupt.
"I enjoy being respected for my work," she added. "Not pursued for the idea of me."
A quiet beat. "And tonight?" he asked.
"Tonight I was proud you were there."
That surprised him more than anything else. "Why?"
"Because when someone complimented my intellect, you didn't feel threatened. And when someone complimented my grace, you didn't try to interrupt."
The signal turned green. The car moved again.
"And Karan?" he asked one last time.Smiling internally now
She answered without defensiveness. "Karan is intelligent. Ambitious. Probably used to getting attention."
A slight pause. "But he isn't who I look for when I'm steady."
The words were quiet. Clear.
He didn't look at her this time — but something in his posture eased.
And because she hated leaving things too serious for too long, she let a playful glint slip into her eyes.
She sighed dramatically. "Also... he's not my fiancée."
That made him glance at her.
"And I'm not entertaining alternatives," she added, brushing imaginary lint off her saree.
"Oh?" His tone stayed composed, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
"Yes. Very strict policy."
"Policy?" he repeated.
"Mmhmm. One-fiancé-at-a-time model. Very sustainable."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Generous of you."
"I know," she said. "You're welcome."
He shook his head faintly. "So Karan never stood a chance?"
She pretended to think. "Well... did he survive the screening round?"
"There was a screening round?" he asked, amused now.
"Of course."
"And?"
She turned toward him fully, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness. "Failed."
"That fast?"
"Didn't meet criteria."
"And what are these criteria?" he asked.
She began counting on her fingers.
"Number one: doesn't lean in unnecessarily."
He smirked. "Fair."
"Number two: doesn't say 'grace' like it's a secret discovery."
He let out a quiet chuckle. And number three?"
She paused deliberately. "Doesn't look at me like he's trying to figure me out."
His expression shifted slightly. "How should someone look at you?"
She leaned back, studying him. "Like he already understands what he's committing to."
A beat.
"And do I?" he asked softly.
She tilted her head. "You're learning."
"Learning?" he repeated.
"Yes. Ongoing assessment."
He nodded seriously. "Performance review schedule?"
"Quarterly," she replied instantly. "Though you've been scoring high lately."
"Lately?"
She smiled mischievously. "Tonight was a strong quarter."
He shook his head again, but the warmth in his eyes was undeniable. "So I don't have competition?," he said, almost casually laughing
She looked out the window for a second before answering. "You don't," she said lightly. "But don't get arrogant about it."
A small silence followed, playful and soft.
Then she added, lowering her voice just a little— "I don't get impressed easily."
"I've noticed."
"But I stay where I feel steady."
He absorbed that. "And you feel steady?" he asked.
They were outside her house. She reached for the door handle... then paused.
Looked at him. "Yes."
A softer beat passed. Then she ruined it on purpose.
"Also, you handle jealousy very attractively."
His eyebrow lifted. "That's a compliment?"
"Very much."
She gasped lightly. "Don't test the system."
Now he was openly smiling.
She stepped out of the car, then bent slightly toward the open window before closing the door.
"Goodnight, Mr. No-Competition."
He looked up at her. "Goodnight, Ms. No-Alternatives."
She grinned. And this time, when she walked toward her house, he wasn't watching to make sure she was safe.
He was watching because he liked that she was choosing him playfully. Deliberately.
Tonight, they hadn't defended themselves. They had defined themselves.
________