The next morning began like a secret.

The rain hadn’t returned, but the sky was bruised with clouds, heavy and low, as if still considering it. Aanya sat at her window, legs tucked beneath her, sketchbook balanced on her knees. Her fingers were smudged with charcoal again. The drawing was not of a candle, or hands, or storm-washed silhouettes.

She was sketching Rihan’s eyes.

Not exactly, not a portrait. Just that gaze. Focused, restrained, threaded with quiet unrest—like a flame behind glass. It had stayed with her through sleep, flickering in her dreams.

Every word he said last night had taken root inside her. “I dreamed it. Then I waited.”

Waited for her.

She had no idea how to explain to her family what that meant.

“Breakfast,” her mother called through the door.

Aanya startled slightly and closed her sketchbook, wiping her hands on the cloth beside her. She descended the stairs slowly, her thoughts tangled in charcoal and rain.

In the kitchen, her mother was folding parathas on a hot skillet, Sophie on the opposite counter peeling oranges.

“You’re glowing,” Sophie muttered without looking up. “Must’ve been some candlelight dinner.”

Their mother looked up, amused. “Did something happen last night?”

Aanya busied herself pouring tea. “We talked. Just a little.”

“Just a little?” Sophie raised an eyebrow. “You’ve barely spoken more than two sentences about this guy since your engagement was announced.”

“He’s not the type you can summarize,” Aanya said, surprising even herself.

Her mother set the pan down, hands on hips. “We’ll need to finalize the wedding date this week. The Mehras are ready to announce it publicly. Are you?”

Aanya hesitated.

Was she?

She thought of his voice saying her name. The drawing of them in the rain. The quiet strength in his posture. The way he noticed her scar.

And then she thought about the silence that still hovered between them like a held breath.

“I think so,” she said slowly.

“Good,” her mother replied, already satisfied. “We’ll need to visit the jeweler this week. There’s also the engagement ceremony arrangements—Sophie’s been assembling mood boards.”

“Of course she has,” Aanya murmured, smiling into her cup.

Sophie grinned. “I’ve already got the theme: Modern Monsoon. Pale greys, rose-gold accents, crystal candleholders. You’re welcome.”

But Aanya wasn’t listening anymore.

Her phone buzzed beside her plate.

A message.

“Will you come to the gallery with me?”

She stared.

Gallery?

She hadn’t even known he visited them.

When? she typed.

Now.

The ride was quiet.

Rihan didn’t speak much, not in the car, not over the steady hum of traffic. But he watched her hands, her profile, the way she glanced out the window. She noticed.

When they arrived at the gallery, it wasn’t what she expected.

It wasn’t a grand exhibit hall or curated studio—it was a quiet, sunlit space on the second floor of an old bookstore, filled with rotating installations and local showcases. The walls were raw white, the floors aged wood, and the air smelled like coffee and turpentine.

“This is your place?” she asked.

“Not mine. But it’s where I go when I want to see things without being asked to talk about them.”

She nodded slowly. That made sense.

They walked in silence. The current exhibit was of photographs layered with translucent ink washes—faces obscured, features blurred until only emotions remained. One was of a woman’s silhouette, her back to the camera, an entire city painted around her shoulder blades.

“She looks like you,” he said suddenly.

Aanya turned.

He wasn’t looking at the piece anymore. He was looking at her.

“You’re not afraid of being seen,” he continued. “But you don’t want to be explained.”

She didn’t know what to say.

So she stepped closer to the painting, trying to steady the flutter in her chest.

Rihan stood beside her, a respectful distance apart, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the energy of stillness.

Then he asked, “What do you do when people don’t understand your work?”

She hesitated.

“I don’t try to explain it,” she said. “But I watch who leans in anyway.”

His head turned slightly. “And?”

She smiled softly. “You leaned in.”

They didn’t speak much after that.

They just walked—past the portraits and experimental ink, past suspended installations and old poetry scribbled on glass. At one corner of the room, someone had hung a mobile made of broken mirrors. The light that scattered through it bathed them both in fractured prisms.

Rihan paused there.

“I used to think love was a room you had to build before someone walked into it.”

Aanya looked at him, startled by the honesty.

“And now?”

He glanced down. Then up.

“I think sometimes, someone just opens the door you didn’t know you built.”

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

But her hand found the edge of his sleeve, lightly brushing his wrist. The contact was fleeting—but she felt his breath catch, ever so slightly.

That evening, as they stood at the bookstore entrance, Rihan handed her a small envelope.

Inside was a sketch.

It was the painting from earlier—the woman with the city on her back.

But this time, he had redrawn her.

And standing behind the figure, hand hovering just above her shoulder, was him.

Eyes closed.

Not touching.

Just there.

Waiting.

And beneath it, a single handwritten line:

“I don’t need to speak to stand beside you.”