The night does not end when I fall asleep.

It lingers—quietly, stubbornly—like something that refuses to let go even when my body finally gives in.

Somewhere between the warmth of the blanket wrapped around me and the fading echo of his voice, I drift in that strange space where sleep feels too light to hold me and waking feels too heavy to step into. My limbs are still, my breathing slow, but my thoughts… they don’t settle completely.

They move.

Softly.

Endlessly.

I remember crying.

Not the kind that breaks you open and leaves you gasping, but the quieter kind—the one that slips out without permission and settles deep inside your chest like it had been waiting there all along. The kind that doesn’t ask for attention, doesn’t demand comfort, but aches all the same.

And I remember him.

Not clearly. Not in full.

Just pieces.

His hand resting against my head, steady and warm, as if he understood something about me I hadn’t yet found words for. The slow movement of his thumb against my forehead, back and forth, patient, unhurried—like he wasn’t trying to stop the tears, just… stay through them.

And his voice.

Low. Close.

Not distant like everything else in my life had always been.

Close enough to feel.

Somewhere in between those memories, sleep must have claimed me fully, because when my eyes finally open again, the darkness is gone.

Morning has already arrived.

It doesn’t rush in.

It never does here.

It slips quietly through the curtains in soft gold streaks, touching the edges of the room first—the wardrobe, the chair, the corner of the bed—before finally reaching me, like even the sunlight knows better than to be abrupt in this space.

For a few seconds, I don’t move.

I just lie there, staring up at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle inside me.

Everything feels… different.

Not wrong.

Just changed.

My body feels lighter than it should after last night. My head isn’t heavy, my chest isn’t tight the way it was before I fell asleep. Even my breathing feels steadier, like something inside me has shifted without asking me first.

And then—

it comes back.

Slowly.

Not all at once.

The memory of holding onto his sleeve.

My fingers curl slightly into the bedsheet at the thought, heat rushing to my face before I can stop it. I turn my head and press my cheek into the pillow, letting out a soft, embarrassed breath into the fabric.

Why did I do that?

Why did I—

I stop myself before the thought finishes.

Because I already know the answer.

Because it was him.

That’s it.

That’s the only reason.

And somehow… it doesn’t feel as embarrassing as it should.

It should. It really should.

But instead, there’s something else sitting quietly beneath the warmth in my cheeks.

Something softer.

Something that feels dangerously close to… comfort.

I push myself up slowly, the blanket slipping down as I sit against the headboard. My movements are careful, not because I’m weak, but because everything inside me feels… delicate. Like even a sudden breath might disturb something I don’t fully understand yet.

My eyes drift around the room.

Familiar.

That’s what it is now.

Not strange. Not someone else’s.

Mine.

The word settles deeper than I expect.

Mine.

I swing my legs off the bed, my feet touching the cool marble floor, grounding me instantly. The faint chill travels upward, steadying me just enough to move.

By the time I reach the wardrobe, my thoughts have quieted again—at least enough for me to function without overthinking every little thing.

My fingers brush over the fabrics, pausing when they land on something softer, lighter.

Lavender.

I pull the anarkali out slowly, holding it up for a second longer than necessary. The color feels calm. Gentle. Like the morning itself.

By the time I finish getting ready, the house has begun to wake.

Not loudly.

Never loudly.

Just small sounds—utensils, footsteps, distant movement—that remind me I’m not alone.

I pause at the top of the stairs.

Not because I’m unsure.

Because something inside me feels… new.

Like I’m stepping into the same place, but not as the same person.

It’s strange.

Unfamiliar.

But not uncomfortable.

So I don’t question it.

I just take the first step down.

Then another.

And another.

Voices reach me before I even enter the living area.

Kireet, of course.

“…I’m telling you, this is exactly why no one lets you do anything alone,” he’s saying, already halfway dramatic. “You disappear for five minutes and suddenly the house feels empty. It’s disturbing.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Devik replies calmly.

“I’m not exaggerating. I’m observant.”

A small smile forms on my lips before I even step into view.

“I don’t think the house notices that much,” I say softly.

Both of them turn.

Kireet reacts first, his expression shifting instantly. “There she is,” he says, placing a hand over his chest as if relieved. “The reason behind the emotional instability of this household.”

“I wasn’t missing,” I mumble.

“You were,” he insists, walking closer. “Spiritually. Aesthetically. Energetically.”

Devik exhales, though there’s the faintest hint of amusement in it. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I say honestly.

He studies me for a second longer before nodding. “Good.”

Kireet leans slightly, lowering his voice just enough. “Any crying today?”

I shake my head.

“No.”

“Good,” he says quickly. “Because I’m not mentally prepared for another emotional breakdown.”

A small laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

And for a moment— everything feels light again.

Normal.

Easy.

Until— footsteps.

Measured.

Familiar.

I don’t turn immediately.

But my heartbeat changes anyway.

And when I finally do—

he’s there.

Kabir doesn’t rush.

He never does.

He walks in like the space already belongs to him, like nothing in the world has the right to disturb his pace.

His eyes find me instantly.

And just like that— everything else fades a little.

“You’re awake,” he says.

“I am,” I reply, softer than I mean to.

Something unreadable flickers in his gaze.

Not distant.

Not cold.

Just… aware.

Kireet groans dramatically behind me. “Yes, she is awake. We’ve established this already. Thank you for confirming.”

Kabir ignores him completely.

“I had work,” he says, still looking at me.

“I know.”

The words slip out too easily.

Too naturally.

And the moment I realize it— my cheeks are warm.

I look away quickly.

But it’s too late.

He’s noticed.

Of course he has.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

The morning doesn’t feel hurried, even after everything that has already been said. It lingers around us gently, like it has decided this moment deserves more time than usual. The breakfast table empties slowly, not all at once, and the quiet that follows is softer than silence—it feels lived in, like something has just passed through and left warmth behind.

I don’t realize when we drift toward the garden. It isn’t a decision made out loud. It happens the way small, important things often do—without announcement, without urgency. One moment I’m still sitting there, my thoughts wrapped around everything he said, everything I said, and the next I’m following him out through the back doors, the air shifting around me as soon as I step outside.

The garden looks different in the morning.

Not because it has changed, but because I have.

The grass still holds traces of dew, tiny droplets catching the sunlight like they’re holding onto something precious before it disappears. The trees stand tall and still, their leaves barely moving in the light breeze, and the sky stretches wide above us, clear and soft in a way that feels almost unreal.

I slow down without meaning to.

Maybe because everything feels too calm.

Maybe because I’m trying to hold onto this feeling for a little longer.

Kabir doesn’t walk too far ahead. He never does. There’s always this quiet awareness in him, like he knows exactly where I am even without looking. When he stops near the stone pathway that curves through the garden, I stop too, a few steps behind him at first before I move closer.

Neither of us speaks immediately.

And for once, it doesn’t feel like something is missing.

It feels like something is settling.

I fold my hands lightly in front of me, my fingers playing with the edge of my dupatta as my eyes drift across the garden again. It’s strange how something so simple can feel so… new.

“I didn’t know mornings could feel like this,” I say quietly, more to myself than to him.

His gaze shifts toward me, not questioning, just listening.

“Like what?” he asks.

I think about it for a moment, trying to find the right words, but they don’t come easily. Not because I don’t know what I feel—but because it feels too big to explain simply.

“Peaceful,” I say finally, though it still feels like I’m only touching the surface of it. “Not empty. Just… calm.”

There’s a small pause after that.

“Is that new for you?” he asks.

I let out a soft breath, my eyes lowering slightly.

“Yes.”

The honesty in that word sits heavier than I expect.

Because it’s not just about the garden.

It’s about everything.

I shift my weight slightly, my sandals brushing lightly against the grass as I take a small step forward. The lavender anarkali I’m wearing moves gently with me, the fabric light against my skin, the color soft enough that it feels like it belongs to this morning.

“I think I’m still getting used to it,” I admit after a moment. “When things are quiet, my mind keeps waiting for something to go wrong.”

I don’t look at him when I say it.

I don’t need to.

I can feel his attention shift completely.

“Nothing is going to happen here,” he says, his voice low, steady, carrying that same certainty he always has when he speaks about safety.

I believe him.

And that’s what unsettles me the most.

Because trusting someone like this… it’s not something I’ve done before.

I nod slowly, even though he can’t see my face fully.

“I know,” I say softly. “It just takes time for the feeling to match that.”

The wind picks up slightly, brushing against my face, moving a few strands of my hair across my cheek. I tuck them back absentmindedly, my fingers lingering there for a second longer than needed.

When I finally look at him again, he’s already watching me.

Not in a way that makes me uncomfortable.

In a way that makes me feel… seen.

And suddenly, I’m very aware of everything again.

The way I’m standing.

The way my hands are moving.

The way my heart is beating just a little faster than it should.

I look away first.

Of course I do.

My gaze drops to the path beneath us, my toes pressing lightly against the edge of the stone as I try to gather my thoughts again.

There’s something I still haven’t said.

Something that has been sitting quietly in the back of my mind since yesterday.

Since last night.

Since everything.

“Kabir…” I start, my voice softer now, more hesitant.

He responds immediately. “Hmm?”

I swallow lightly, my fingers tightening around the fabric of my dupatta.

“When you said… that you chose this,” I begin, my words slower, more careful, “did you mean it like… something that stays?”

The question feels small when I say it.

But it doesn’t feel small inside me.

It feels like something that matters more than anything else I’ve asked so far.

I lift my eyes to him again, even though it takes effort.

“I don’t want to misunderstand,” I add quietly.

There’s no immediate answer.

And for a second, that silence makes my chest tighten.

Not out of fear.

Out of anticipation.

Kabir takes a step closer.

Not enough to overwhelm me.

Just enough that I feel the shift in the air between us.

“You think I make decisions like that lightly?” he asks, his voice calm, but carrying something deeper beneath it.

I shake my head quickly. “No, I just—”

“Then don’t question it like it’s temporary,” he says, not cutting me off harshly, but firmly enough that my words fall away anyway.

I go still.

Because there’s something in the way he says it.

Something that doesn’t leave room for doubt.

His gaze holds mine, steady, unwavering.

“If I choose something,” he continues, his voice lowering slightly, “I don’t let it go.”

The words settle into me slowly.

Not rushed.

Not forced.

They sink in, piece by piece, until I feel them fully.

And something in my chest eases.

Not completely.

But enough.

I don’t realize I’ve taken a step closer until I’m already there, the space between us smaller now, the air warmer.

My fingers loosen around my dupatta, falling still at my sides as I look up at him again.

“I think I like that,” I say softly, a small, almost shy smile touching my lips before I can stop it.

His expression doesn’t change much.

But something in his eyes does.

Something quieter.

Something… softer.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

And then, without thinking too much about it, I lift my hand slightly.

The movement is slow.

Careful.

Like I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing.

But I don’t stop.

My fingers hover for a second before they finally rest lightly against his arm.

The contact is small.

Barely there.

But to me, it feels like everything.

My breath catches immediately, my body reacting before my mind can process it. Heat spreads through me, quick and unfamiliar, and I almost pull my hand back—

But I don’t.

I keep it there.

Because I want to.

Because this… this is what I meant.

Not something that just exists.

Something that is chosen.

Something that is real.

I glance up at him again, unsure, a little shy, a little uncertain.

“Is this okay?” I ask quietly.

The question feels unnecessary the moment it leaves my mouth.

But I still need to ask it.

His gaze drops briefly to where my hand rests on him, and then returns to my face.

“It is,” he says.

Just that.

But the way he says it makes my chest feel lighter.

I nod slightly, my fingers relaxing just a little, not gripping anymore, just… resting.

The wind moves again, softer this time, carrying the faint scent of flowers from somewhere deeper in the garden. The sunlight has grown warmer now, less pale, more golden, settling around us in a way that feels almost intentional.

For a moment, I forget everything else.

The past.

The questions.

The things we haven’t said yet.

All of it fades into the background.

And what’s left is this—

Standing here.

With him.

Not because I have to.

Not because I need to.

But because I want to.

And for the first time, that thought doesn’t scare me.

It feels… right.

AUTHOR

Greetings Sweethearts,

Its been long and y’all have waited ever so patiently— Thank you so much for doing so, now that I’ve returned I promise to finish this book before disappearing again.

Also an Important Notice : Instagram has suspended all of my accounts so I’ve started my own youtube, I hope you will subscribe me there and show the same level of support as you always did on Instagram.

Youtube Handle : @ryverenx

Thank you

— Ryveren,