LOVE UNSCRIPTED

•| ONE |•

Fixing the sharp cuff of his charcoal suit, Krish stood still in front of the full-length mirror, his gaze locked on his own reflection as though he were studying a stranger rather than himself.

The man staring back at him looked immaculate-tie perfectly knotted, jaw freshly shaved, hair combed into disciplined neatness-but the eyes.

.. the eyes told a different story. Cold.

Guarded. Unforgiving. That was the face the world knew.

The ruthless businessman. The strict boss.

The man whose voice alone could silence a boardroom.

Yet beneath that polished exterior lived a fatigue no sleep could cure and a loneliness he had long stopped acknowledging.

He exhaled slowly, a deep sigh leaving his chest as his shoulders dropped just a fraction, the only visible crack in his otherwise unshakeable composure.

His gaze drifted away from the mirror, softening almost instantly as it landed on the small bed behind him.

There, wrapped in a dinosaur-printed duvet, lay his entire world-his four-year-old son, Kiaan.

The contrast between father and child was almost poetic.

Where Krish was rigid, Kiaan was softness.

Where Krish was guarded, Kiaan was warmth.

A faint smile, rare and unguarded, touched Krish's lips as he watched the boy sleep, tiny lashes resting against chubby cheeks, lips slightly parted, one arm thrown carelessly over his stuffed toy lion.

In moments like these, Krish forgot the bitterness of his past-the betrayal, the abandonment, the night his wife walked out of their lives for another man.

The scar remained, but it no longer bled when he looked at his son.

Kiaan had unknowingly stitched the worst of his wounds simply by existing.

Walking quietly toward the bed, careful not to let his formal shoes make noise against the wooden floor, Krish sat down on the edge beside him.

The mattress dipped slightly under his weight.

For a brief second, he just watched-memorizing the innocence on his son's face as though storing it for the long, exhausting day ahead.

Then, with a tenderness he never showed the outside world, he reached out and gently caressed Kiaan's soft hair, brushing the strands back from his forehead.

"Kiaan..." he murmured, his voice dropping into a warmth reserved only for the boy. "Wake up, my boy."

The child stirred faintly, letting out a sleepy hum in response, his tiny brows scrunching before he snuggled deeper into the pillow instead of waking. The sight drew an amused huff from Krish-half laughter, half helpless affection.

"Come on," he said softly, leaning closer. "You're getting late for your kindergarten, champ."

When the boy still refused to wake, Krish shook his head with mock resignation before gripping the edge of the duvet and tugging it away in one smooth motion.

"Kiaan."

The cold morning air hit the child instantly, making him curl and whine in protest, his sleepy voice filling the room as Krish finally let out a quiet laugh-the rare kind that never reached anyone else, but always belonged to his son.

"Umm... Dad, it's cold..." the boy mumbled sleepily, his tiny voice thick with drowsiness as he instinctively tried to curl into himself, small hands reaching blindly for the warmth of the duvet that was no longer there.

Krish felt his chest tighten at the complaint, but he forced a small, firm smile instead of giving in. "No, no... none of that," he said gently, though his tone carried the quiet authority Kiaan was used to. "Get ready. Come."

Before the child could protest further, Krish leaned down and scooped him up into his arms with practiced ease.

Kiaan's warmth seeped through the thin fabric of his nightshirt, his little arms automatically wrapping around his father's neck as his head dropped against Krish's shoulder.

The boy was still half-asleep, breathing softly against his collar, trusting him completely-and that simple, unconscious trust did something to Krish every single time.

It both healed him and broke him in equal measure.

Carrying him toward the bathroom, Krish adjusted his hold so the boy wouldn't feel the morning chill too harshly. "You'll wake up in two minutes once you brush," he murmured, more to soothe than to convince. Kiaan only hummed in response, nuzzling closer.

The next half hour moved in a rhythm Krish had memorized over the years.

He set Kiaan on the counter, guiding the tiny toothbrush into his hand before ultimately doing most of the brushing himself when the boy grew lazy.

He washed his face, combed his soft hair, buttoned his miniature uniform shirt with careful fingers that handled million-dollar contracts with the same precision-but felt infinitely more pressure doing this.

Kiaan, now more awake, kept up a stream of small complaints and questions-about school snacks, about a friend who had a new toy car, about whether his dad would pick him up early. Krish answered each one patiently, his earlier coldness melting away completely in these private moments.

After the bath, he dried him, dressed him in his neatly pressed kindergarten uniform, tied his tiny shoelaces. Only when everything was perfect did he finally step back and look at his son.

For a second, exhaustion washed over him.

It was hard-far harder than he ever allowed anyone to see. Taking care of Kiaan alone. Managing a demanding career. Running a household that once had another heartbeat in it. Nights were the worst-when the silence reminded him that the other side of the bed had been empty for years now.

He knew... of course he knew... that Kiaan needed a mother's love too. There were moments-school events, sick days, bedtime questions-when the absence felt louder than words. When Kiaan would innocently ask things that stabbed straight through Krish's guarded chest.

But the part of him that once believed in companionship... in marriage... in forever... was long buried.

His wife hadn't just left-she had chosen someone else over their family. Over their son. That betrayal hadn't merely broken his heart; it had rewired him. Trust no longer came naturally. Faith in love no longer existed.

Now, all that remained was duty... and devotion to the one person who had never abandoned him.

Serving breakfast onto the plates with mechanical precision, Krish barely looked up at first. His mornings usually moved like clockwork-efficient, silent, structured.

But today, something was... off. He noticed his mother unusually engrossed in her iPad, her brows slightly furrowed in concentration, glasses resting low on her nose as her fingers scrolled with suspicious enthusiasm.

He placed the last toast on the plate before finally asking, "What are you doing, Mom?"

Mrs. Mehra glanced up at him, completely unfazed, as though she had been waiting for him to ask. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face-the kind that instantly put Krish on alert.

"I'm searching a wife for you," she said casually, as if she were talking about grocery shopping.

"Mom!"

The reaction was immediate. Krish strode over and snatched the iPad straight out of her hands before she could even react, his jaw tightening as he glanced at the matrimonial profiles open on the screen.

"Yah, what is this behavior, Krish?" she scolded lightly, though her eyes still held that stubborn glint. "Give it back."

But Krish had already locked the screen, exhaling sharply as frustration flickered across his face. "I told you already, Mom," he said, his voice firm, clipped, leaving no room for argument. "I don't want to get married."

The dining room fell into a brief silence-heavy, familiar. This wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation, and both of them knew it.

Without waiting for her response, Krish placed the iPad aside and reached for the files lying on the table, flipping them open as he mentally shifted into work mode again. Meetings. Contracts. Numbers. Those things were easier to deal with than emotions.

"Please drop Kiaan today," he added, already checking his watch. "I'm getting late for the meeting."

His tone had softened slightly when mentioning his son, but the emotional wall was already back in place. Before his mother could protest-or continue the marriage discussion-he picked up his car keys and walked out, his footsteps echoing with finality.

The front door closed behind him with a quiet but decisive click.

Across the table, little Kiaan watched the entire exchange with wide, observant eyes-far more perceptive than most adults gave him credit for. His tiny lips formed a sad pout as he looked at his grandmother.

"Dad is not going to listen to Granny..." he mumbled, disappointment lacing his small voice.

Mrs. Mehra's expression softened instantly at her grandson's words. She reached out and cupped his cheek affectionately, her thumb brushing away the pout.

"No way," she said with gentle confidence, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "He will surely listen to me... maybe one day."

There was hope in her voice-not just for Krish's remarriage, but for the healing she knew her son still needed.

She stood up then, clapping her hands lightly to shift the mood. "Come on, we're getting late for your school, Kiaan."

The boy's sadness dissolved quickly-as it often did-and he broke into a giggle at her dramatic tone, slipping his tiny hand into hers as they walked toward the door together.

And though Krish had left the house wrapped in his usual armor... inside those walls, both his mother and his son still carried quiet faith that one day, his guarded heart might open again.