CHAPTER 39
Stirring Something New
POORVI
I shouldn’t be this nervous. It’s ridiculous, really.
It’s just food—simple food—and yet, my palms are damp as I stand in front of the chopping board, slicing onions with slow, measured strokes.
The knife wobbles slightly in my hand, not because it’s heavy but because my heart is pounding so loud I can hear it in my ears.
I tell myself it’s because I’m not used to cooking for someone else, not like this. Not as… thanks. Not as something tender. Not as something that feels strangely important.
Vihaan has been trying—really trying. His efforts have been clumsy sometimes, sometimes too quiet, but always steady.
He didn’t leave me to drown in my thoughts.
He brought me out of my room, walked with me, talked with me, even when I barely answered.
Yesterday, he had taken me on that boat ride, and though my smile was weak, I know he noticed. He notices everything.
So today, this is the least I can do. A thank you. A gesture. A way of telling him without words that I see him, too.
I stir the pan, the aroma of ghee filling the kitchen. My hair keeps slipping forward, strands sticking to my face as the steam fogs my glasses, but I don’t care. I’m oddly…content.
Then I feel him.
I don’t even need to turn around to know he’s there. The weight of his gaze is unmistakable—warm, heavy, unashamed.
“You’re going to burn that if you keep staring at it like it’s a mortal enemy,” he teases, low and amused.
I gasp and turn, nearly dropping the spoon. “Vihaan! Don’t sneak up on people like that!”
He chuckles, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “I wasn’t sneaking. I’ve been standing here for the last five minutes, waiting for you to acknowledge me.”
I scowl, though my lips threaten to curl upward. “You could’ve said something instead of hovering like a ghost.”
“I did,” he says easily, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “You were just too busy glaring at the onions to notice.”
I roll my eyes, turning back to the stove. “I wasn’t glaring. I was concentrating.”
He steps closer, so close I can feel his presence at my back. “Concentrating, hmm? Does concentration always involve muttering under your breath about stubborn spices?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I was not muttering.”
“You were,” he insists, his tone playfully certain. “I could write down every word. Something about ‘this masala being out to get you.’ Very fierce.”
I let out a soft groan. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”
My hand freezes mid-stir. The words slip out of him so easily, like breathing. And my heart—it skips, stutters, then races ahead as if it heard a promise hidden in those simple syllables.
I quickly busy myself, pretending not to hear. “You shouldn’t be here anyway. Go sit. I’ll bring it out once it’s ready.”
“Oh no,” he says, and suddenly his voice is closer, much closer. “I’m not leaving you here alone with knives and boiling pans. You might start a war with the stove next.”
Before I can retort, his hands are suddenly at my waist.
“Vihaan—!”
With one smooth motion, he lifts me, and I shriek, the sound bouncing off the walls of the kitchen. My stomach flips, my hands flail, but in the next second, I’m perched on the counter, breathless and wide-eyed, staring at him.
He’s grinning like he’s won something. Like he’s placed me exactly where I belong.
“Better,” he murmurs, brushing his hands casually against his trousers as if lifting me was the easiest thing in the world.
“Vihaan!” I whisper-shout, clutching the edge of the counter. “You can’t just—just—”
“Just what?” His grin turns boyish, teasing. His eyes, though—his eyes pin me in place. Dark, intent, but softened by a smile that makes my chest ache.
I shake my head, trying to hide my own smile. “You can’t just pick me up like that without asking.”
“Next time I’ll ask,” he promises, not sounding sorry at all. “But I can’t promise I’ll wait for the answer.”
My lips part, but no words come out. My heart is racing so fast I’m certain he can hear it.
He steps closer, still smiling, still pinning me with that gaze. “Let me,” he says softly. Not a command. Not exactly a request either. Just… a simple plea wrapped in certainty.
Something in me melts. My shoulders drop, the tension easing. And I nod, a small, fragile nod, my throat too tight for words.
The way his smile grows—it’s almost blinding. For a moment, I forget to breathe.
He turns to the stove, taking the spoon from my hand, and I watch him stir the pan like he’s been doing this forever. The kitchen smells warmer now, richer, not because of the food but because of the way he fills the space, the way he makes it feel alive.
I let myself watch him—his easy confidence, the slight furrow of his brows as he tastes the curry, the curve of his lips when he approves. And something stirs in me, something I don’t recognize. Something I’ve never allowed myself to want.
It will never be possible to forget Ranbir’s touch.
That’s the truth I can’t escape. His shadow clings to me, and I hate it.
But with Vihaan beside me—with his steady hands, his unshakable patience, his effortless warmth—I feel the faintest glimmer of possibility.
The possibility that maybe, just maybe, I can move forward.
But then again, doubt curls in my chest. He still thinks he was played by my family.
That marriage with me was nothing but politics, duty, manipulation.
If he truly saw me as a mistake, then what was all of this?
His raw anger that day, his desperate defense, his tenderness now—it doesn’t match the picture of a man who regrets me.
Should I ask him? Should I really risk it? The thought lodges in my throat like a thorn.
I will. Tonight. No matter what the answer is, I’ll ask. I need to know. I can’t keep drowning in these questions.
But for now…for now, I want to live in this moment. His chuckle still echoing in my ears, his smile still warming the air around me, the faint tremor in my own chest reminding me I’m still alive.
Just for now, I want to forget the heaviness and let myself enjoy the sweetness of this fleeting, fragile thing.
Because with him standing here, stirring my half-cooked curry like it’s the most important thing in the world… this feels like home. And I am getting used to the idea of home.