*WARNING: - Mature Content Ahead ⚠️🔞

Read it at your own risk.

DO NOT REPORT IT. 

"Naseeb se mila jo yeh tera saath hai
Har pal mere honthon pe teri hi baat hai
Adhoora tha main, ab poora hua
Jab se tu mera ho gaya"
~ Naseeb Se:- Vishal Mishra, Payal Dev

~January~

January arrived quietly, the way months do when you're too busy living to notice the calendar turning.

The penthouse had settled into a rhythm. Aadya's music in the mornings, slightly too loud. Aadyant's coffee, exactly two cups before he became a person worth speaking to. My sketches spreading across the dining table by afternoon, overtaking whatever space wasn't being used for anyone else's things, until someone gently relocated them to my room and I relocated them back out again.

"You know there's a desk in your room specifically for this purpose," Aadyant said one evening, moving my fabric swatches aside to set down dinner.

"The light's better out here."

"The light is identical—"

"It feels different. Creatively."

He looked at me. I looked back.

He moved his own textbooks to make room for my swatches.

That, I thought, watching him, was love in its most ordinary and astonishing form.

College had resumed in the second week of January with all the momentum of a freight train nobody asked for. My spring semester was heavy—three studios, a textile history seminar, and the showcase preparation that Professor Chen had already started calling "the most ambitious collection in her current cohort." I didn't know whether to be proud of that or terrified.

"Both," Dr. Patel suggested, during our first session of the year. "Pride and fear aren't mutually exclusive. They often live in the same room.

"That room is very crowded."

"Then let's air it out. Start with the fear. What specifically?"

"What if it's not enough? What if I've built this whole concept around my experience and people look at it and just see—fabric? What if the personal part doesn't translate?"

"And the pride?"

I was quiet for a moment. "I think it's good. I think it might be the best thing I've ever made. And that terrifies me more than the fear does."

Dr. Patel smiled. "That's growth, Kashvi. Believing in your work enough to be afraid of how good it is."

Aadyant, for his part, was buried.

His spring courseload had escalated—advanced corporate strategy, international trade law, a business ethics seminar that he found alternately fascinating and infuriating. His father called twice a week now, always about something related to the company. The calls were polite, productive, and left him slightly quieter afterward in a way I had learned to read.

"How was the call?" I asked one evening in late January, not looking up from my sketchbook. He'd come back from the balcony with that particular set to his jaw.

He sat beside me on the couch. "Fine. Dad wants a report on my trade law coursework. He's mapping it to some international deal they're negotiating."

"That sounds like more than coursework.

"It's always more than coursework." A pause. "It's fine. I knew this was the deal.

"Knowing the deal doesn't mean it can't be heavy sometimes.

He looked at me sideways.

"Did you just use my exact words from three months ago back at me?"

I pay attention.

He put his arm around me and pulled me into his side. I went without argument, tilting my sketchbook so I could still see it.

We sat like that for a long time. Him thinking about whatever his father had asked of him. Me working through the drape on a sleeve that wasn't behaving.

Comfortable. Real. Completely ours.

~

February settled in with cold mornings and a warmth inside the penthouse that had nothing to do with the heating.

The group found its rhythms too. Movie nights on Fridays, migrated now to the penthouse permanently since Kashvi lived there. Study sessions that were sixty percent studying and forty percent everyone arguing about what to order for dinner. Ritika's ongoing project of making Vihaan read at least one serious book, which was failing spectacularly. Aashika documenting everything quietly with her camera. Shivansh being the person who somehow knew where everything was and what everyone needed before they asked.

Kashvi threaded herself through all of it with the ease of someone who had decided, somewhere between these months, to simply let herself belong.

It wasn't a decision anyone witnessed. There was no announcement. But Aadya noticed it first—the way Kashvi stopped waiting to be invited into conversations and started joining them. The way she'd started keeping snacks she knew everyone liked, not just herself. The way she called Ritika to vent about a professor before she called anyone else, because she'd figured out that Ritika was the one who would listen first and give advice second.

"She's settled," Aadya told Aadyant, in the kitchen while Kashvi was still asleep.

"Yeah."

"Like—properly. She's not performing comfort anymore. She's actually comfortable."

"I know."

"It's everything, right?"

He looked at his coffee. "It's everything."

~

~February 14th 

"I don't do Valentine's Day," I announced at breakfast, my voice sharper than I intended.

Aadyant looked at me over his coffee, his dark eyes unreadable. "Okay."

"I mean it. I think it's a manufactured holiday designed to make people feel inadequate. I have strong opinions about this."

"I'm just saying. Don't do anything elaborate. Please."

"Kashvi—" His voice was low, almost a warning.

"I mean it."

"I heard you." He stood, his movements deliberate as he rounded the table. Instead of pressing a kiss to my head like usual, he leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear. "I'm not doing anything elaborate." His warm breath sent shivers down my spine. "I'm just making your favourite for dinner tonight. That's all."

I stared at the table long after he left, my body humming with awareness.

Dinner was Kadhi Chawal, made exactly the way I'd once mentioned my grandmother used to make it—with a specific spice ratio I'd described once, casually, four months ago, apparently while both of us were half-asleep.

He had written it down. He had remembered.

I sat across from him, the bowl warming my hands, and looked at him for a long moment. The candlelight flickered across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the way his lips curved slightly as he watched me watching him.

"You are the most annoying person I have ever met," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Because I made your favourite?" His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand where he'd reached across the table.

"Because you remembered. Because you always remember." I swallowed hard. "It's very inconvenient for someone who's trying to maintain healthy emotional detachment."

"Are you still maintaining healthy emotional detachment?" His fingers slid between mine, lacing them together.

"Absolutely not." My voice caught. "It's completely your fault."

He grinned—the real one, the undignified one that made my stomach flip. "Happy Valentine's Day, My Love."

"Don't push it."

But I was already smiling as he stood and pulled me to my feet, his hands settling on my waist. The space between us vanished, and I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with the spices from dinner.

"I love watching you try to resist me," he murmured, his lips hovering just above mine. "You're terrible at it."

"Someone has to maintain standards," I breathed, but my hands were already sliding up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

"Let them go," he whispered, and then he was kissing me—slow and deep and devastatingly thorough. His tongue swept against mine, tasting of cardamom and desire. One hand moved from my waist to the small of my back, pressing me flush against him until I could feel exactly how much he wanted me.

I melted into him, my fingers tangling in his hair as I kissed him back with all the longing I'd been trying to suppress. The dinner could wait. My principles could wait. Everything could wait except this—except him.

He broke the kiss just enough to speak against my lips. "I love you."

And I realized, with startling clarity, that my manufactured holiday speech had been exactly that—manufactured. The truth was, I had never felt more loved than I did right now, in this moment, with this man who remembered everything about me, right down to the spice ratio in my grandmother's recipe.

"I love you too," I whispered, and pulled him back down for another kiss.

This time, there was no holding back. His hands roamed down my back, cupping my ass and pulling me even closer as he deepened the kiss. I could feel his hardness pressing against me, and a soft moan escaped my lips.

"Bedroom," he growled against my mouth, and I nodded, unable to form words.

He lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me from the dining room. The world became a blur of motion and sensation—his lips on my neck, his hands supporting my weight, the friction of his jeans against my thin leggings.

He laid me down on the bed gently, his eyes dark with desire as he looked down at me. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw.

I reached up, pulling him down for another kiss as my hands found the hem of his shirt. I tugged it over his head, my fingers exploring the familiar landscape of his chest and abs. He shuddered under my touch, his muscles tensing as my nails scraped lightly against his skin.

His hands slid under my sweater, pushing it up and over my head. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of me in my simple black lace bra. "Fuck, Kashvi," he breathed, his thumbs brushing against my nipples through the thin fabric.

I arched into his touch, my body aching for more. "Aadyant," I moaned, my hands fumbling with the button of his jeans.

He chuckled, a low, sexy sound that vibrated through me. "Eager, are we?"

"Shut up," I gasped as his mouth closed over one nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak through the lace. My back bowed off the bed, pleasure shooting through me like lightning.

He made quick work of my bra, his mouth returning to my now-bare breasts as his hands slid down my body, hooking into the waistband of my leggings. He peeled them off slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, until I was lying before him in nothing but my lace panties.

"So perfect," he murmured, his fingers tracing the edge of the lace. "All mine."

"All yours," I agreed, my voice breathless.

He knelt between my legs, his hands parting my thighs as he lowered his head. The first touch of his tongue against my clit made me cry out, my hands fisting in the sheets. He licked and sucked with practiced skill, his fingers joining in, sliding inside me and curling against that spot that made me see stars.

The tension built quickly, a coil of pleasure tightening in my core. "Aadyant," I gasped, my hips bucking against his mouth. "I'm close."

"Come for me, love," he murmured against me, his tongue working faster, his fingers pumping deeper.

And I did. My orgasm crashed over me in waves of intense pleasure, my body trembling as I cried out his name. He didn't stop, drawing out my pleasure until I was a quivering, boneless mess beneath him.

He moved up my body, kissing his way back to my lips as he positioned himself between my legs. He took out a condom from the nightstand and rolled it along his length. I could feel his hard cock pressing against my entrance, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

"Please," I begged, needing him inside me.

He entered me slowly, stretching me deliciously as he filled me completely. We both groaned at the sensation, our bodies fitting together perfectly. He stayed still for a moment, letting me adjust, his forehead resting against mine.

"Move," I demanded, my nails digging into his shoulders.

He started to move, his strokes slow and deep at first, then faster, harder. The room filled with the sounds of our lovemaking—the slap of skin against skin, our ragged breaths, my soft cries of pleasure.

He shifted his angle, hitting that spot inside me that made me see stars again. "Right there," I gasped. "Don't stop."

He obliged, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chased his own release. I could feel another orgasm building, this one even more intense than the first.

"Come with me, Kashvi," he groaned, his voice strained with pleasure. "Come with me now."

His words were my undoing. I shattered around him, my body convulsing with pleasure as he followed me over the edge, his own release pulsing deep inside me.

We collapsed together in a tangle of limbs, our bodies slick with sweat, our hearts pounding in sync. He rolled off me, pulling me into his arms and holding me close.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to my temple.

I snuggled closer, my head on his chest. "You're still the most annoying person I've ever met."

He chuckled, his chest vibrating against my cheek. "I know."

"But I love you anyway."

"I love you too, meri Jaan. More than you know."

And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, I knew my resistance had been futile from the start. I was his, completely and utterly, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

~March~

The email from my father came on a Tuesday in March.

The third one this year. Each one slightly different from the last—more measured, less performatively apologetic, as though he was learning, slowly, how to speak to me without expecting anything back.

This one said:

I know you don't owe me a response. I'm not asking for one. I just wanted you to know I think about you. That I'm in therapy. That I'm trying to understand what I failed to be. You don't have to forgive me. I just needed you to know I'm not the person I was three years ago, even if you never see that for yourself.

I read it three times.

Then I put my phone face-down on my desk and went to find Aadyant.

He was at his desk, working through something on his laptop. He looked up when I came in and read my face immediately.

"Sit down."

I sat on the edge of his bed. He turned his chair to face me.

"My father emailed."

"What did he say?"

I told him. He listened without interrupting.

"How do you feel?" he asked when I was done.

"I don't know. It's—it's different from the other emails. It's not asking for anything."

"Does that make it harder or easier?"

I thought about it properly. "Easier, I think. When he was asking for things, I knew what to do with it—I could refuse. This I just have to sit with."

"What does Dr. Patel say?"

"That I get to decide on my own timeline. That there's no right answer. That forgiving someone and allowing them back in are different things and I don't have to conflate them."

"She's right."

"I know." I looked at my hands. "I don't think I'm going to respond. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I read it and I didn't spiral, which feels like—something."

"That's enormous, actually."

"It doesn't feel enormous. It feels like a Tuesday."

"Growth always feels like that. That's how you know it's real."

I looked at him.

"When did you get wise?"

"I've always been wise. You just never noticed because you were busy being intimidated by my face."

I threw a pillow at him.

A week later, I wrote a response to my father.

Short. Careful. Setting out clearly what I needed, which was space and time and no pressure. Telling him I had read his email. Not inviting further contact yet, but not closing the door entirely.

I showed it to Bua before I sent it.

She read it twice. Her eyes were very bright when she looked up.

"This is you," she said softly. "On your own terms. On nobody else's timeline."

"Is that okay?"

"Beta, it's more than okay. It's exactly right."

I sent it.

Then I put my phone away and didn't think about it again for the rest of the day.

For the first time in three years, I had said what I needed to say to my father without my hands shaking.

That was enough.

~

~April~

"India," I said, over dinner in the second week of April.

Aadya looked up. Kashvi kept eating, but the quality of her attention shifted—I could always tell when she was listening more carefully.

"Maa called today. She and Baba want us to come for two weeks in May. After Kashvi's showcase."

"Us?" Aadya said.

"All three of us."

A beat.

"India," Kashvi said. Quietly, testing the word.

"Jodhpur. The palace. The whole—" I watched her face. "—everything."

"I've never been to Jodhpur."

"I know."

"I haven't been to India since—" She stopped. "Since everything. Three years."

"I know that too. Which is why I'm asking, not telling. It's completely your call. If you're not ready—"

"I didn't say I wasn't ready." She looked at me steadily. "I said I haven't been. There's a difference."

"Is that a yes?"

She was quiet for a moment. Then she looked at Aadya.

"Do you want to go home?"

Aadya's expression softened into something very real. "More than anything. But not without you."

Kashvi looked at her plate. Then back at me.

"After the showcase," she said. "Show me Jodhpur."

~

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