Chapter 8 HELPING HAND
ADITYA
I come back home around noon because I forgot my notebook.
That’s the excuse I give myself when I unlock the front door.
The truth is a little less practical. I’ve been thinking about her all morning.
The ice cream date, the way she hugged me under the streetlight like she forgot we were technically still strangers, the quiet smile she had when she thought I wasn’t looking.
It’s distracting.
Running a publishing house is easier than figuring out the strange pull I feel toward the woman who I now share a home with.
The house is quiet when I step inside. Neel is at school. Divya is supposed to be downstairs at the shop.
I drop my bag on the couch and head toward the kitchen for water. That’s when I hear the noise. A dull thump. Then another. Then a frustrated sigh.
I frown and walk toward the staircase leading down to the shop. When I reach the bottom step, the scene in front of me makes me pause.
Divya is standing behind the counter, half bent over a large wooden crate that looks far too heavy for someone her size. A few smaller boxes are scattered across the floor. She’s clearly been trying to move them by herself.
Her hair has escaped the loose braid she tied this morning. Strands fall across her face as she struggles to lift one side of the crate.
“Okay,” she mutters to herself. “You are not winning today.”
She lifts again. The crate doesn’t move. I lean against the doorway and watch for a moment before speaking.
“You know,” I say casually, “most people use their hands to run a shop. Not declare war on furniture.”
She freezes. Then slowly turns around. Her eyes widen when she sees me standing there. “When did you come back?”
“A minute ago,” I say, pushing myself off the doorframe.
My gaze moves briefly over the scattered boxes. “What happened here?”
She exhales a breath and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Delivery.”
That explains the crates. “And you decided to move all of them yourself?”
“I always move them myself.” I step closer and crouch beside the crate.
“Divya.” She folds her arms immediately.
“That tone suggests you are about to say something annoying.”
“I’m about to say something obvious.” I grip the edge of the crate and lift it easily. It’s heavier than it looks but manageable.
“Which is?”
“That you could ask for help.”
She points toward the back shelf. “Put it there.”
I carry the crate across the room and set it down where she indicated. When I turn back she’s already dragging another box across the floor. “You know,” I say slowly, “this is not a one-woman competition.”
She shrugs. “I used to ask for help.” Something in the way she says it makes me pause. “But I never got it,” she adds quietly. “So I stopped asking.” She states like it’s a fact and I hate that.
I walk over and pick up the box she’s trying to move. “You never asked me.” The words slip out before I think about them. Divya looks up. Really looks. For a second neither of us says anything. Then she gestures toward the shelves again.
“Second row.”
“Yes, boss.” I stack the box where she wants it.
We fall into a quiet rhythm after that. She points.
I lift. She directs. I move. Every few minutes our hands brush when we both reach for the same thing.
The first time it happens she pulls her hand back quickly.
The second time she doesn’t. By the time we’re halfway through the crates the air in the small shop feels warmer.
Not physically. Something else. Something charged. Divya wipes her hands on the edge of her kurta and surveys the shelves.
“That should be the last one.” I lift the final box onto the counter and stretch my arms slightly.
“You run this entire operation alone?”
“Yes.”
“You’re stubborn.”
She tilts her head. “That’s a compliment.”
“I’m not sure it is.” She laughs softly. The sound fills the room in a way that makes the space feel smaller. Closer.
She turns toward one of the wooden cabinets lining the wall.
Rows of tiny glass bottles sit inside. Golden liquid.
Amber. Deep brown. The scent in the air changes slightly as she opens one.
Warmer. Richer. Divya picks up a small bottle and walks back toward me.
Her movements are slower now. Almost hesitant.
“I’ve been meaning to give you this,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “What is it?”
“Attar.” I glance at the bottle.
“You’re giving me perfume?”
“It’s not perfume,” she says automatically.
“It’s attar.”
I smile slightly. “My mistake.”
She twists the cap open carefully. A faint scent drifts into the air. Something warm. Deep. Not overly sweet. It suits her shop perfectly. “I think this one would suit you,” she says quietly.
I study her face. The way she avoids direct eye contact. The way her fingers move slowly around the glass bottle. She’s nervous. That realization does something strange to my chest.
“Why don’t you apply it on me?” I say lightly. Her head snaps up.
“What?”
“You chose it,” I shrug. “You should test it.” For a moment she just stares at me.
Then she steps closer. Slowly. The space between us shrinks.
I suddenly become very aware of everything.
The faint scent of the oils around us. The soft sound of her breathing.
The way her fingers tremble slightly as she lifts the bottle.
She dips the tiny glass stick into the oil.
Then reaches for my wrist. Her touch is gentle.
Barely there. But the moment her fingers wrap around my hand something shifts inside me.
Heat spreads slowly through my chest. Divya’s eyes remain focused on what she’s doing.
Careful. Concentrated. She presses the oil against my pulse point.
The scent blooms instantly. Warm. Earthy. Intoxicating.
Her thumb brushes lightly against my skin as she finishes.
My breath catches. She doesn’t pull away immediately.
Her fingers linger on my wrist. Just for a second.
When she finally looks up our faces are much closer than before.
Her eyes search mine. Curious. Unsure. I realize suddenly that my other hand has moved to the edge of the counter behind her. Without thinking. Without planning.
The air between us feels different now. Heavy. Charged. “You were right,” I say quietly. Her voice comes out softer than usual.
“About what?”
“This suits me.”
She swallows. “Good.” Neither of us moves.Her hand is still resting lightly against my wrist. My fingers are inches from her waist. If either of us leans forward even slightly—the thought lingers in my mind. Divya seems to realize it too. Her breath quickens. Then she steps back.
Just one step. The spell breaks slightly. She clears her throat and quickly screws the cap back onto the bottle. “You should wear it sometimes,” she says.
“I will.” She places the bottle in my hand.
“Consider it a… housewarming gift.” I look at the small glass vial resting in my palm. Then back at her. “You know,” I say slowly.
“What?”
“If this is how customers get treated here…” She raises an eyebrow. “…I might start visiting the shop more often.”
Divya laughs again. But the blush on her cheeks doesn’t fade. And neither does the warmth spreading quietly through my chest.