•| TWENTY EIGHT |•
Krish kicked the leg of his table in frustration, the sharp sound echoing inside his cabin as he ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight and eyes stormy — your tear-filled face still flashing in his mind again and again like a loop he couldn’t shut off.
He hated that look… hated that he was the reason behind it.
Meanwhile, completely unbothered, Aarav sat sprawled on the couch, leisurely eating the food you had packed, humming in satisfaction as if he were at a five-star buffet instead of his best friend’s war-zone office.
“You know what,” Aarav spoke mid-bite, pointing the spoon at Krish like he had just discovered life’s greatest solution, “you should give her something.” Krish stopped pacing and looked at him with narrowed eyes.
“Like what?” he asked, irritation laced in his tone.
Aarav chewed slowly, swallowed dramatically, then leaned back with a smug grin.
“Yeah… whenever my wife is angry with me, I give her a rough night.” The smirk on his face only widened — but it lasted exactly two seconds before smack — Krish landed a solid hit on his back.
“Ouch! What was that for?” Aarav groaned, clutching his back.
“I’m not doing that,” Krish shot back instantly, annoyed, before dropping into the chair in front of him.
Without warning, he pulled the lunch box toward himself.
Aarav’s eyes widened in betrayal. “I was eating that!” he whined like a robbed child.
“It’s mine,” Krish said flatly, opening the box and starting to shove the food into his mouth.
“…She made it for me.” The words came out quieter — softer — and Aarav noticed the shift immediately, his teasing expression melting into a knowing look.
He watched Krish eat — fast, almost defensively — like he was trying to swallow both the food and his guilt together.
Aarav wiped his hands, leaned forward, and spoke more seriously this time.
“Then take her on a romantic date.” Krish paused mid-bite, his chewing slowing as the suggestion settled in.
Aarav continued, nudging his shoulder. “Flowers, dinner, maybe a drive… girls like efforts, not attitude.” Krish didn’t reply immediately.
He just stared at the lunch box for a moment — at the neatly packed food you had made despite everything — and for the first time since you left…
he actually started thinking about how to make it right.
You came home with tears still clinging stubbornly to your lashes, your vision blurred as you stepped inside the mansion, trying your best to wipe your face before anyone could notice — but little eyes always notice what adults try to hide.
Kiaan had been sitting in the living room playing with his toy cars, yet the moment he saw your red nose, your swollen eyes, and the way your lips trembled despite your forced smile, his tiny brows pulled together in confusion that quickly melted into protective anger far too big for his small face.
He didn’t ask you anything — didn’t need to — because in his little world, there was only one person who could make his mommy cry.
So now, hours later, he sat right in front of the mansion’s main door like a tiny guard on duty, arms folded tightly over his chest, legs stretched out, lips pushed into a stubborn pout, determination written all over his face.
“I won’t let Dad come inside,” he had declared earlier to himself — and he meant every word of it.
Mrs. Mehra had already left for her sister’s house soon after you returned, leaving the mansion unusually quiet, the silence only broken by the ticking clock and your occasional sniffles upstairs.
Not long after, the familiar sound of a car engine echoed through the driveway — Krish had returned.
Kiaan immediately got up from his spot, standing straight like a soldier preparing for battle, his tiny hands again spreading wide the moment Krish jogged up the stairs toward the entrance, loosening his tie, exhaustion visible on his face — exhaustion that quickly turned into confusion when he saw his son blocking the door.
“Waiting for me? Wow,” Krish teased lightly, trying to step forward — but Kiaan moved with him, arms still stretched, determination unshaken.
“No Dad, you are not allowed to come inside,” he said firmly.
Krish blinked, surprised. “Why?” Kiaan’s pout deepened. “You made mommy cry.”
The words hit harder than any slap could have. Krish’s smile faded instantly, guilt flooding his chest so fast it almost knocked the air out of him. “Did she tell you?” he asked quietly.
Kiaan shook his head stubbornly. “No… but I know you made her cry.” His voice softened at the end, hurt replacing anger.
Krish sighed, crouching down before pulling Kiaan gently into his arms, pressing a kiss to his hair.
“Dad is sorry, my boy… I’ll say sorry to mommy also, okay?
” Kiaan studied his face for a moment as if judging the truth of his words, then slowly nodded, his tiny anger melting.
Krish carried him upstairs, each step heavier than the last, until they reached the bedroom door.
He didn’t walk in immediately — instead, he slowly pushed the door open just a little and peeked inside.
There you were — sitting on the bed with your books open, pretending to study, but the red tip of your nose and your puffy, tired eyes exposed everything you were trying to hide.
The sight twisted something deep inside him.
You sensed his presence and glanced up for a split second — but the moment your eyes met his, you looked away again, cold and distant, like he didn’t exist. That hurt more than your tears.
Before the silence could stretch further, Kiaan suddenly wriggled out of Krish’s arms and ran toward you, climbing straight into your lap like he belonged there — which he did.
“Today Kiaan will sleep with mommy and Daddy,” he announced proudly, grinning as if he had just solved the world’s biggest problem.
Your eyes widened instantly at his declaration — because since the wedding, you and Krish had never shared the same bed, always keeping an invisible distance between you.
Krish, however, let out a faint smile at his son’s innocence before quietly taking off his coat.
Without saying anything, he grabbed fresh clothes and walked into the bathroom to get ready, giving you space you clearly wanted.
Meanwhile, you swallowed your emotions and kissed Kiaan’s hair softly before carrying him downstairs.
With the maids on leave for the day, the kitchen felt unusually still — just you, Kiaan sitting on the counter swinging his legs, and the quiet clatter of utensils as you began preparing dinner, trying to busy your hands so your heart wouldn’t wander back to the man upstairs who was trying — in his own clumsy way — to find the right words to fix what he had broken.
After some time you were finally done cooking, the warm aroma of the freshly prepared food filling the quiet mansion as if trying to soften the heaviness lingering in the air between you and Krish.
Kiaan had insisted on helping you — standing on a small stool beside the dining table, carefully placing the spoons and napkins with his tiny hands, his tongue peeking out in concentration as if he was doing the most important job in the world.
When he was done, he looked up at you expectantly, waiting for your reaction.
Your heart melted instantly. “Good boy,” you whispered softly, bending down to kiss both his cheeks, your lips lingering a second longer as his giggle echoed in the dining space.
He wrapped his arms around your neck in response, his innocent affection acting like a balm over your aching heart.
Unbeknownst to you, Krish had been watching the entire scene from the staircase — his hand resting on the railing, his expression softer than it had been all day.
The sight of you and Kiaan together — so natural, so warm, so…
home-like — did something to him. A small, involuntary smile tugged at his lips as he slowly descended the stairs, his footsteps quiet so he wouldn’t disturb the moment.
By the time he reached the dining room, you and Kiaan had already started eating.
He pulled the chair beside you and sat down, close enough that he could hear your soft breaths — yet you didn’t even spare him a glance.
You simply continued eating as if he wasn’t there at all.
The silent treatment hurt far more than your anger would have.
Kiaan finished his dinner too, wiping his mouth messily with the napkin.
“Kiaan, you go play with your toys,” Krish said gently, trying to create a chance to speak with you alone.
Kiaan nodded obediently and ran toward his room, his little footsteps fading down the hallway.
The moment he left, you placed your spoon down and stood up, ready to leave without a word — but Krish’s hand shot forward instinctively, wrapping around your wrist. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice low, sincere — stripped of ego for once.
But you didn’t respond. You kept squirming, trying to free your hand from his hold, your silence louder than any accusation.
In the struggle, your foot accidentally slipped on the polished floor.
A gasp escaped your lips as your balance gave out — and before you could react, you stumbled backward, landing straight onto his lap.
“Shit,” you cursed under your breath, mortified.
Your body went rigid for that split second — painfully aware of how close you were — before you scrambled up at lightning speed, cheeks burning, heart hammering wildly in your chest. Without saying anything, you rushed toward the kitchen, grabbing a glass and gulping down cold water as if it could wash away the sudden storm inside you.
Behind you, Krish remained frozen in his chair, still processing what had just happened — the warmth of your body on his lap lingering, the faint scent of your hair still surrounding him.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly before standing up.
Meanwhile, you busied yourself with the dishes, scrubbing plates harder than necessary, using the task to distract your spiraling thoughts.
Once everything was done, you didn’t wait — you wiped your hands and walked straight upstairs.
You picked Kiaan up from his toys and brought him to the room, settling into bed beside him, wrapping your arms around his small frame protectively as if he were your safe place — which, in many ways, he had become.
Not long after, Krish entered the room quietly.
The sight that greeted him made his chest tighten — you asleep beside Kiaan, your face softer in sleep, the traces of earlier tears still faintly visible.
He walked closer, careful not to wake you.
Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss to Kiaan’s forehead first — lingering there like a silent promise — before his gaze shifted to you.
Hesitating only a second, he brushed your hair aside and placed a soft kiss on your forehead too.
“Please forgive me… I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the dim room.
Then he slipped under the duvet from the other side and wrapped an arm loosely around Kiaan, holding his son — yet his eyes remained on you for a long time before sleep finally claimed him too.