Chapter 50 Love Under the Table, Literally
Ivikaa again sat there.
Café Viraha still carried the weight of Adwait's taste - the low-hung filament bulbs, the scent of burnt clove and old wood, jazz looping faintly in the background like someone forgot to turn it off a year ago.
The café had always looked better at night, as if daylight exposed too much.
Midnight suited it now. Or maybe just suited her.
Jatin looked up from behind the counter, his surprise only half-masked. Again.
"You know," he said, drying a glass with more ceremony than needed, "this is becoming your shift."
Ivikaa smiled without turning. "Ah, Paris time. I work round the clock now."
She moved past the handful of empty tables and sat at his spot. The corner table. The one that never had a reserved sign, but was always understood to be Adwait's - back when he still came in, still built things, still believed in beautiful distractions.
Jatin didn't argue. He knew better. He just dimmed the lights a little more, the way Adwait used to when he thought no one was watching. And Ivikaa, already pulling out her Macbook, let her fingers pause above the keys.
Outside, the city exhaled smoke and silence.
Her fingers froze mid-typing. The screen in front of her blurred.
Her mind wouldn't let go of what Adwait had told her. Mrutyunjay. The name echoed like a stone dropped into still water. He had said it so plainly, like it wasn't the weight of lifetimes, like it wasn't the reason she was still alive. Again.
She exhaled shakily and placed her hands flat on the table, grounding herself - wood against skin, breath against storm.
That's when she felt it - something rough beneath the polished surface. Uneven grain. Like someone had scratched the underside with keys. She traced the letters gently with her fingertips.
An I. Then K. Then an A.
She blinked. Looked up. Jatin was behind the counter, as usual, headphones in, head slightly bobbing to whatever track he lived inside after midnight.
She reached for her phone, turned on the flashlight, and tilted it under the table. The flash lit up the raw wood for a moment.
"Ika," she whispered. That's what he called her.
She smiled - small, involuntary. He scribbled it? Under the table? Really?
Aah, Adwait.
She looked around, the emptiness of the café wrapping around her like a soft shawl.
Then, with a sudden spark in her voice, she called out, "Hey Jatin, could you make two cups of coffee?"
Jatin didn't hear her at first, lost in his own rhythm.
She repeated the request - sweeter this time. "Two cups, please?"
He finally took his headphones off, confusion flickering across his face. "Two?"
Was she waiting for Adwait?
Still puzzled, he went back and prepared the coffee. When he returned, she gestured at the chair across from her.
"Please sit."
He hesitated, then lowered himself cautiously onto the seat. She took a slow sip, watching him over the rim.
"So, how did you know Mrutyunjay?" she asked, her smile casually sharp.
Jatin's face drained of color. "How... how did you know?" he stammered.
She tilted her head, amused. "Your tattoo gave you away," she said lightly. "Anyway, just in case your Jay didn't inform you - I was kidnapped by Russians again, and he saved me. Again." Her tone was dry, theatrical, but her eyes were serious.
Jatin shot to his feet. "Those fuckers-how dare they-" He caught himself mid-outburst. "Sorry. Sorry for the language," he said, now avoiding her gaze.
"It's fine," Ivikaa replied softly. "I'm safe. See?" She gestured to herself, alive and calm.
She watched him, then leaned in. "You said this café was given to you eight years ago. So how did he find you? Were you with him on the island?"
Jatin sat down again, quieter now. "No. When he came to save you... I was there too. For... human trafficking. I was just a number. But he opened the gates for everyone. I ran like the rest of them-but instead of running away, I ran with him."
He paused, eyes fixed on the cup in his hands.
"I'm sure he didn't tell you. Please don't blame him.
He never tells his own story - so mine would never come up.
He just... does things. Doesn't speak about them.
So yeah... now you know. He and his team saved me.
After we dropped you at Delhi, we came to Mumbai.
I had nowhere to go, and I was too young to figure things out. "
He looked around the café with quiet pride. "He gave me this place. It was just a dump. We built it from scratch. I work here. He waited here."
Ivikaa stood up, coffee in hand, and slowly walked the room - really saw it for the first time. The lamps, the carefully placed plants, the wear on the wooden floorboards. She'd always faced the glass, always looked out. Never in.
Now she noticed the photo frames. Dozens of them. But none of him.
No selfies, no portraits, no Adwait. And yet, everything in the café was him.
Hidden in plain sight. That was his way.
She stared at the photos. Strangers smiling. Unfamiliar faces in familiar places.
She turned to go back to her seat when a photograph on the far-left wall caught her eye.
Unlike the others - filled with color, laughter, sunlight - this one was completely dark.
Stark black tones. Just two figures, barely visible.
A boy and a girl. Both dressed in black.
Sitting side by side on what looked like an old airport bench.
The girl's head was resting in the boy's lap, her face buried deep into his stomach.
His head leaned back against the headrest, obscured by a mask - nothing visible except his jawline and a lock of hair falling onto his temple.
Pinterest aesthetic. Monochrome intimacy. It would've looked like a download - except it wasn't.
She stepped closer.
Her eyes didn't move quickly - they scanned the image slowly, deliberately, unwilling to trust themselves.
Her grip. The girl's hand - clutched into the boy's black leather jacket, exactly where she used to hold when she couldn't breathe.
The charm bracelet on her wrist - Paris tower, silver, slightly tilted.
Her breath caught.
It was her.
And him.
The photo was real - taken silently, maybe in transit, maybe during the last time he saved her. That endless night she barely remembered. But what caught her breath fully was his hand - resting lightly on her shoulder.
She knew those fingers now.
The slightly crooked knuckle from the old injury. The way he never wore rings. How his pinky always curved slightly inward when he relaxed. That hand had held her through the darkest, coldest night of her life - and now it hung framed on a quiet café wall, hidden in plain sight.
Her own face was hidden. His was covered.
It was just... them.
No names. No clarity. No claim.
Only a photo.
She turned slowly. Jatin was back behind the counter.
And there, just under the frame, carved into a strip of aged teak, in thick black ink - his handwriting. Familiar. Unsparing. Intimate.
"????? ?????? ??????? ????? ?????? ??, ????? ??? ??????? ???, ?? ??? ??? ?????? ???."
(For readers: "A dry leaf stuck to the wall is a short letter of autumn -
You're not written in it, but I read you every day.")
She blinked once.
Didn't react.
Didn't even breathe, maybe.
Just lifted the phone as if she were capturing the cafe's warm interiors - the filtered light, the quiet shelves, the soft blur of rain-glazed windows.
But that wasn't what the lens was really pointed at.
Just one soft click.
No flash. No sound.
A memory of a memory. To be translated later.
She didn't linger near the frame.
Didn't trace the glass. Didn't sigh.
Just let her fingers drop to her side, phone tucked like it meant nothing at all.
Then, silently - she walked back to Adwait's old table, the one she always claimed around midnight like some sacred ritual. She opened her laptop again, the screen lighting her unreadable expression.
Jatin glanced her way, curious. She gave him a quick, effortless nod - all's normal.
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, but they didn't move.
Instead, she reached into her phone gallery, opened the photo.
Zoomed in. Cropped out everything else.
Just the picture. Just the line below.
Then she opened WhatsApp.
Found "Papa ?????" - her father.
And sent him the photo with a single caption:
"Mr. Education Minister, please educate me."
The typing bubble didn't appear.
She wasn't expecting it to.
She minimized the chat, opened her work document again,
and began to type - as if she wasn't holding a world between her fingers just moments ago.
°? ?°????°? ?°????°? ?°????°? ?°??
Later that night, Ivikaa lay curled up in her bed,
laptop closed, lights dimmed - but sleep was nowhere near.
She stared at her phone screen.
The photo she had cropped earlier - his handwriting, under their picture,
those lines she couldn't read but couldn't look away from either.
She read it again.
Again.
And again.
Her lips moved slowly, trying to pronounce the words,
as if saying them might make her understand them.
"Damn it," she muttered under her breath, "Why the hell didn't I learn Gujarati? Half Gujarati and still useless."
She tapped the screen hard, frustrated at herself - then sat up, tossed the blanket off, and opened her browser.
2:43 AM.
She uploaded the image to an online text extractor, carefully selecting the words under the frame.
Copied. Pasted. Opened the translator.
And there it was:
"A dry leaf stuck to the wall is a short letter of autumn -
You're not written in it, but I read you every day."
Her breath caught.
Just like that, a line she couldn't read turned into a wound she couldn't close.
She pressed the phone to her chest and closed her eyes,
as if that would make the words echo a little less.
Her eyes snapped open.
Not because of a sound,
but because of something louder than that -
a thought that suddenly stood up inside her like a shadow in moonlight.
"He was waiting."
The translation blinked at her from the screen.
You're not written in it, but I read you every day.
A line soaked in time, silence... and something deeper.
She slowly sat up again, fingers trembling just slightly as they clutched the phone.
"That's what Café Viraha meant," she whispered to the darkness,
as if the night itself might respond.
Viraha.
Not a place.
Not a name.
Not a coincidence.
It was absence.
It was yearning.
It was the long wait with no promise of return.
And Adwait - he wasn't building a café.
He was building a place to wait.
For her.
All those nights he sat at that table,
all those cups of untouched coffee,
all those framed photos - not of people, but of feelings.
She didn't cry.
She didn't smile.
She just stared at the ceiling, the weight of years pressing gently on her chest, realizing how loud love can be when it says nothing at all.
°? ?°????°? ?°????°? ?°????°? ?°??
On his back, Raha, dressed in pastel athleisure, was comfortably seated cross-legged, scrolling through her phone and half-pouting.
"Please, Adi bhaiya... just one international trip," she begged, as if he was a cruel monarch and she, a wronged princess.
"You just came from the USA, Raha," Adwait replied calmly, pushing up without missing rhythm.
"Please naa bhaiya! Aap apni Raha ka itna bhi nahi karoge? Ek hi toh bhai hai mera..." she dragged dramatically, tossing her hair like she was on stage.
"You have two brothers," he corrected flatly, dropping into another push-up.
"Par permission toh ek ki hi chahiye na..." she grinned. "Do din baad Rakhi hai, bhaiya. Rakhi ka gift samajh ke de do."
He kept going. Silent. Focused.
She huffed.
"Thik hai, I'll allow only one country. Of my choice."
At that, Raha lit up. She slid off his back, knelt beside him, face gleaming.
"Which one, bhaiya?"
Adwait transitioned smoothly into a plank, barely glancing at her.
"Russia."
Raha's eyes widened like saucers. Her jaw dropped.
Behind them, standing at the door with a protein bar half-raised, Ivikaa froze.
"Seriously?" she blurted out.
Adwait glanced sideways at her - cool, unreadable.
"Problem?" he asked casually, holding the plank like a machine.
Iva looked at Raha, who now looked personally betrayed by history.
Raha stared at him in disbelief for a full two seconds.
"Russia!?" she repeated, as if the word itself offended her.
Adwait gave her the faintest smirk - the kind that meant he'd already won.
Raha scowled, flounced away like a betrayed princess, leaving the gym echoing with her fading curses.
Without looking at Ivikaa, he muttered, "Morning."
She walked in slowly, leaned against the equipment rack, arms folded, watching him.
"Russia?" she asked, voice flat but eyes searching.
He wiped his face, still not looking at her. "Best way to keep her grounded. And close."
Adwait tossed the towel onto the bench and reached for his water bottle.
Ivikaa, still leaning against the rack, arms crossed, said with a half-laugh:
"I couldn't understand you, Adwait... You saved her from trauma, and now gave her trauma by saying she could go to Russia."
She chuckled.
"Only her brother is allowed to give her trauma."
Adwait gripped the high pull-up bar, arms stretching up with perfect control.
He pulled himself up - not fast, not showy - just clean, deliberate strength.
The kind built over years. The kind that didn't ask for attention but couldn't avoid it either.
Ivikaa watched for a moment, then quietly walked toward the mat he'd abandoned minutes ago.
Without saying a word, she lowered herself onto it.
Flat on her back. Arms stretched out beside her. Staring up at the skylight above the gym roof.
"So... when are you confronting Rudra?" he asked without looking at her, his voice low, even.
Ivikaa, still lying on his mat, stared up at the skylight."I need some time." She paused, then added theatrically, "But first... I need my boyfriend."
Adwait's grip didn't falter - but his eyebrows twitched.
She sighed deeply, draping an arm across her forehead like a drama queen from an old film, "Oh wait... I don't have a boyfriend. No one ever proposed to me."
Adwait had paused for a second - that rare ghost of a smile brushing his face.
He dropped from the bar silently, wiped his hands on the towel.
Walked past her to adjust the weight stack, but glanced down as he passed.
There she was. Lying on the mat like it belonged to her. Like she belonged there.
Then, without warning, he walked over to her. And before she could say anything, he dropped down - palms on either side of her head - and began doing push-ups.
Right above her.
She blinked, startled at first.
His body moved rhythmically above hers, controlled and close - but not touching. His face dipped with every rep, barely inches from hers.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, half amused, half breathless.
"Reframing your crisis," he replied, voice steady between reps.
But on the next push-up, he held at the bottom - their noses almost brushing - and said quietly,Then pushed back up.
She reached up - slowly - and her fingers brushed a strand of his hair back.
Then, without asking, without warning, she pressed the softest kiss to the corner of his lips.
He stilled. Not because he was surprised.
But because he felt it - the weight of that quiet, stolen moment.
Another peck. This time to the other side - like punctuation marks around a truth she hadn't spoken yet.
She slipped out from beneath him - slow and fluid - like silk unraveling in the warm wind, then circled behind with quiet purpose.
She lay across his back - her body aligned with his, but reversed - her head resting between his shoulder blades, eyes on the ceiling.
Every time he lowered into a push-up, her body moved with him, the rise and fall soothing, strangely grounding.
She didn't speak.
She simply let herself exist there - on him - the warmth of his back against hers, the steady rhythm of his breath her only clock.
And then - slowly, deliberately - she began to slide.
Downward, across the slope of his back, her body gliding in smooth motion, until her face was near his right shoulder... her head now upside-down, tilted slightly so she could see the sharp edge of his jaw.
Her breath hit his neck. Then, without warning, her lips pressed just below his ear - a soft kiss, deliberate and quiet.
He paused mid-push-up - not from fatigue.
Just that one kiss.
Just that moment.
His breath hitched - sharp but controlled.
Ivikaa whispered, "Don't stop. I like this angle."
She shifted again, slowly - letting her body turn so her front met his back now - chest pressing lightly, her chin barely resting on his shoulder.
From that angle, she turned her face more, upside-down, until her lips found the corner of his cheek - close enough to tease his mouth.
And that was it.
In a fluid motion, Adwait moved - one strong arm curling behind him to grip her waist, pivoting them both with precision.
In a practiced sweep, she was beneath him, the mat cool against her back, her breath stolen in the flip.
Adwait hovered over her now - weight balanced on his elbows - his body close but not crushing, protective without restraint.
Their eyes locked.
He reached for her hands and laced their fingers together, guiding them softly above her head - palm to palm, like some sacred joining.
And then he kissed her.
Not rushed.
Not wild.
But with devotion.
A kiss that spoke of the years he had waited.
The words he had buried.
The ache he had ignored.
His lips moved over hers like a prayer - reverent, measured, real.
Each breath shared between them was a vow neither had made aloud.
Ivikaa arched into him, her fingers tightening in his - grounding herself in the only truth that mattered in that moment:
He was here.
He had always been.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against hers.
His breath, steady.
His silence, full.
"You know," she said, voice teasing as her fingers traced idle lines across his chest, "there was one thing I was right about all along."
He turned to look at her, brow lifting in curiosity. "Yeah? What?"
"That you're just a caveman," she grinned - and before he could respond, she bit his cheek softly.
"Oh," he muttered, half-laughing as he shifted beside her and dropped onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
"You never used to come to this gym. Especially not at five in the morning," he said, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I wanted to start my morning with my caveman," she replied sweetly, sitting up with a stretch and extending her hand toward him.
With a half-smile, he reached up and took her hand, letting her pull him up. Together, they walked out of his private gym and into the kitchen.
There, they found Martin and Maria already bustling about.
"Maria, could you please cook something for me?" Ivikaa asked, her voice light but pointed. "I don't trust Martin's knife anymore."
Martin didn't miss a beat. "I was just practicing in case someone bites the boss again."
Adwait smirked, she shot a quick look at Adwait and subtly gestured with her eyes. Instantly understanding, he moved toward her, hands firm around her waist as he effortlessly lifted her onto the high kitchen slab.
Adwait stood close to Ivikaa, one hand resting on the counter beside her thigh, the morning light catching in his eyes. Quietly, effortlessly - they looked like they'd always belonged in the same frame.
Just then, a young man - around twenty-two - walked into the kitchen, calling out mid-sentence, "Martin, no shake, man-"
But the words fell apart the moment his eyes met hers. He froze. Completely.
He stood at ease, yet something about him demanded attention - the quiet confidence of someone used to being underestimated.
Half-American like her, it showed in the angles of his face - the sharp cheekbones, the fairer undertone to his olive skin, the mess of soft brown curls that looked like they'd been shaped by sea wind and rebellion alike.
His jaw was square but not rigid, mouth slightly parted, as if still catching up to what his eyes had just seen.
But it was those eyes - almond-shaped, deeply set, a familiar storm of brown flecked with gold - that made Ivikaa's heart stutter.
Because they were hers.
Her own eyes, mirrored.
He was built from the same bones. Same blood.
"Kiaan?" she whispered into the stillness, barely trusting the sound of her own voice.
The boy blinked, eyes softening. He didn't speak.
She looked at Adwait, who stood steady at her side. He met her questioning gaze, and with a quiet nod, gave her the answer she wasn't ready for - but maybe needed.
Yes.
Her brother.
Her palm trembled slightly, and Adwait reached for it without hesitation. His fingers slid into hers, his grip steady and sure - not holding her back, but holding her up.
Just in case.
Just then, Raha stepped into the kitchen - her hair tied in a loose bun, gym hoodie half-zipped, her eyes darting between Adwait and the unfamiliar young man.
Adwait caught her gaze immediately. "Raha, help Kiaan," he said, voice even but expectant.
Before Raha could move, the boy raised a hand. "No, bhaiya, I don't need help... I just came to-"
But again, his words slipped away as his eyes found Ivikaa's.
Still standing. Still staring.
Something unspoken stretched between them - not recognition, not yet - but something heavier.
Raha followed his gaze, then turned back sharply to Adwait. "He's my bhaiya," she said, her voice laced with quiet fury. The words weren't loud, but they hit like thunder.
Possessive. Protective. And above all - wounded.
Adwait's expression hardened. "Raha, no."
But it was too late. She made a face - subtle but scathing - then turned on her heel and walked out, her footsteps fast and final.
The silence that followed was thick.
"I'll help you," Adwait said quietly, as though he already regretted the timing of it all.
He placed a firm hand on Kiaan's shoulder and gestured toward the hallway.
Kiaan hesitated for just a breath, then followed Adwait out of the kitchen.
Ivikaa stayed rooted to the spot.
Alone now, she didn't move.
"It's fine, miss," Maria said gently, setting a glass down near Iva. "Give him some time. He's just a bit young... like Raha baby."
She offered a soft, comforting smile - maternal, without overstepping.
But Iva didn't smile back right away.
Because she knew.
Her brother - Kiaan - was closer to Adwait than he had ever been to the family they'd shared by blood.
And the unspoken question rose in her throat like smoke:
Did he hate us now?
Martin, sensing her unraveling silence, cleared his throat. "He's trained by Adwait sir. Emotionally, too."
It was his clumsy way of offering comfort.
"And Adwait sir doesn't... hate." Martin added the last part after catching the flicker of hurt across her face - too fleeting to name, too real to ignore.
There was a pause - long enough to sting.
Then Maria chimed in again, her voice softer. "He especially called him for Rakhi, Miss."
That caught Iva.
She blinked once, slowly - the weight of those words settling into her like a blessing she hadn't dared ask for.
That was it.
The best gift she could ever receive.
Even God wouldn't have thought of that.
But Adwait did.
Her lips finally curved - a smile, tender and stunned.
And just when that silence was beginning to settle again, Martin, never one to let things get too sentimental for too long, muttered under his breath:
"One Ambani was already too much to handle... Now there's a junior version? Great. Just great."
Iva turned sharply, eyes narrowed. "Dare you to say anything to my brother."
Martin raised his hands in mock surrender, lips twitching. "he's family now, right? That makes him mine too... by kitchen law."
It was all push-ups and peace until Ambani number two walked in and wrecked Martin's grocery math.
? ? ?