It wasn't thunder that stirred the sky,
But the echo of unspoken things,
Of glances that lasted a breath too long,
Of touches that hummed like violin strings.
Rain kept returning like a memory,
Always when hearts stood at the brink.
Maybe the heavens knew what we denied—
That love doesn’t wait. It only sinks.

Shivangi’s POV

He hadn’t texted me since morning. Not that I was keeping track… but I kind of was.

Okay, I absolutely was.

I sat curled on the recliner, laptop in front of me, pretending to work on the third chapter of my upcoming novel. I’d reread the same paragraph five times in the last ten minutes. Every sentence somehow sounded like Samarth. The way he spoke, the way he cared. How had I even written a male lead before I met him .

I opened WhatsApp. No messages.

Then, instinctively, I opened our last conversation. He’d sent me a silly meme about “salad-haters anonymous” at 11:46 PM last night, and I had laughed like an idiot. Today, not even a “Good morning.”

Ugh. This wasn’t me. I was not the girl who pined or stared at her phone screen. I was a bestselling author, dammit.

Still… my fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Me (unsent): Hey, need your opinion on a line from the new book. Got a minute?

I stared at it. Deleted it. Typed it again. Deleted.

When did this become such a tug of war?

And then, as if summoned by sheer manifestation, a message popped up.

Samarth: Did you eat something? Don’t forget your 3 PM supplements.
Also… headache today? I found something you might like. Dropping by in the evening?

That’s it. That’s all it took.
My entire ribcage squeezed itself into a heart.
Me: Yes. Yes to all of it. Also… you coming at dinner time?

Samarth: Yep. Got something for you. Hope it works.

He was coming. That meant two things: one, I needed to hide my stupid smile; two, I needed to make something he loved. Even if it took all afternoon.

I rushed to the kitchen, tied my hair into a hasty bun, and pulled open the fridge like a woman on a mission. My phone rested on the slab, YouTube already open.

I searched: "How to make Chicken Rara – restaurant-style."

He had mentioned it once, during a long drive when we were arguing over paneer vs chicken supremacy. “Nothing beats Chicken Rara,” he had said, eyes dreamy. It had stuck.

The recipe said it’d take 90 minutes. I rolled up my sleeves.

Onions, ginger, garlic—chopped. Tomatoes—blanched and pureed. Whole spices sizzled in hot oil, and the aroma wrapped around me like a warm hug. I carefully browned the chicken, stirring in the masala like it was poetry. The kitchen turned into my sanctuary, every spice a punctuation to the feelings I wasn’t brave enough to speak aloud.

As the dish simmered on low heat, my fingers itched for my phone again. I clicked on the recorder. And before I could overthink it, I started talking.

"Hey… so, I was thinking. About the way you show up. With your random memes, your supplements reminders, and the way you somehow just know. It’s annoying, actually. How easily you get under my skin. And how I… miss you when you go silent for hours. I’m not supposed to feel this way. But I do."

Silence.

Then I added softly, "I think I’m falling for you, Samarth."

I stared at the waveform on screen, heart hammering. My thumb hovered over “Send.” One breath. Two. Then I sighed and hit delete.

He didn’t need to hear that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

I turned back to the stove, stirred the gravy, and tasted a spoonful. Perfect—warm, rich, slightly spicy, just like he liked it.
I didn’t need grand declarations tonight. Just the sound of his footsteps at the door, and the smile he gave me when he said, "Smells like home."
That would be enough. For now.

Samarth’s POV

I had tried. I really had.

To focus.

To not smile at my phone like a fool when her name popped up.
To not think about the way she looked when she was concentrating—lower lip tucked in, brows furrowed.

But even Arjun from Radiology had noticed.

“You’ve been grinning at your screen all day. Tell Bhabhi I said hi,” he smirked, sipping his god-awful vending machine coffee.

I blinked. “Wait—how do you know it’s your bhabhi?”

“I don’t,”

he shrugged.

“But any woman who gets that look from you? Has to be bhabhi-level serious.”

I rolled my eyes, but my silence said enough.

“Dude,”

I muttered, half-laughing, half-panicking.

“I think I’m in trouble.”

“In love, you mean?”

I didn’t answer. The word sat in my chest like a secret I wasn’t ready to say out loud. But yeah… I think I was.

She’d sent a voice note earlier—then deleted it before I could hear it. It gnawed at me. What had she said? Why did she take it back?

By the time I reached her apartment that evening, a different thought took over.

The smell.

Warm, spiced, comforting. Like home.

I knocked, and she opened the door with that messy bun, apron still on, flour smudged on her cheek.

“Hi,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hey,” I smiled, holding up a brown paper bag. “I come bearing gifts.”

“Scented candles?” she guessed, eyes lighting up.

“Lavender. And some aromatherapy oil too. Might help with your migraines.”

She stared at me, genuinely stunned. “You remembered?”

“Of course I did.”

A blush crept onto her cheeks as she stepped aside. “Come in. Dinner’s almost ready.”

I followed her into the kitchen, where the aroma intensified. She lifted the lid of the pot and steam curled out, carrying the scent of slow-cooked spices and chicken.

“Is that… Chicken Rara?”

She bit her lip and nodded. “I watched three different YouTube videos. Took me over an hour and a half.”

My heart swelled.

We sat down at the table, and I took the first bite.
I looked up immediately.

“Shivangi,” I said, genuinely awestruck, “this is… incredible.”

She smiled nervously. “Really?”

“I’m not exaggerating. It tastes like something straight out of a five-star kitchen. No—better. It tastes like someone made it because they care.”
She looked away, her smile softer now.

We ate slowly, comfortably. No phones. No distractions. Just the clink of cutlery and the unspoken ease between us.

When we were done, I leaned back and exhaled. “I don’t remember the last time I had a meal this good.”

“Well,”

she said, standing to clear the plates, “you better remember it now.”

I got up and took the plates from her hands.

“You know… if you keep feeding me like this, you’re setting the bar really high.”

She laughed, and that sound—God, that sound—stayed with me long after I left.

Shivangi’s POV
We settled on the couch, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire playing quietly in the background, the sky outside painted in hues of grey as rain tapped gently against the windows.

I had the blanket wrapped around myself at first, but when I noticed him shiver, I hesitated—then scooted closer.

“Cold?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“A bit,” he admitted with a half-smile.

I offered the other half of the blanket. “Here.”

He didn’t argue. Just slipped under it with me.

Halfway through the movie, sometime between the Yule Ball and the second task, I found myself leaning into him. Maybe it was subconscious. Maybe it wasn’t.

He didn’t pull away.

By the time Fleur dove into the Black Lake, my head was on his shoulder, warm and safe like it belonged there.

And he let me stay.

Samarth’s POV

I didn’t want the moment to end.

Her scent was all I could breathe in—something soft and lingering, like jasmine with a trace of coffee. Her head rested so effortlessly on my shoulder, like it had always belonged there.

I tilted my head toward her. “Want to do something fun?”

She blinked, looking up lazily. “Hmm?”

“Rapid fire.”

She grinned, already intrigued. “Now?”

“Now.”

She sat up slightly, tucking her legs beneath her. “Okay. You start.”

I smirked. “One word that describes you best.”

“Complicated,” she replied, without hesitation. “You?”

“Consistent.”

“Favorite childhood memory?”

“Riding my bicycle down the colony slope with no hands. Yours?”

“Writing my first story on the back of my math notebook.”

“Coffee or tea?”

“Tea. Always.”

“Weirdest habit?”

“I talk to my laptop. Loudly.”

I laughed. “I talk to my steering wheel. Full-on conversations.”

“Oh, you win.”

“Favorite movie?”

“Sita Raman. You?”

“YYHD.”

“Fear you haven’t told anyone?”

“Dying unnoticed.”

She blinked, quiet for a second, then nodded slowly. “Same.”

“Favorite color?”

“Grey. Like monsoon clouds.”

“Pet peeve?”

“People who chew loudly.”

I chuckled. “Can’t stand it.”

“First crush?”

“Mrs. D’Silva. My art teacher. Yours?”

“Sidharth Malhotra in Shershaah.”

“Current guilty pleasure?”

“Reading fanfiction at 2 AM.”

I grinned. “Go-to karaoke song?”

“‘Tum Se Hi’ from Jab We Met.”

“Nice. Mine’s ‘Channa Mereya.’”

She gasped. “Heartbreak much?”

“Relatable lyrics,” I said, smirking.

“Mountains or beaches?”

“Mountains. You?”

“Beaches.”

“Biggest turn-off?”

“Arrogance. You?”

“Pretending to listen.”

“Oof, that’s a big one.”

“Okay,” I said, shifting slightly to face her. “One word that reminds you of love.”

She paused. “You first.”

I looked straight into her eyes.

No overthinking. No filter.

“You.”

The word landed heavy, soft, and electric all at once.

She froze. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, and then her cheeks flushed a perfect shade of pink.

I wasn’t sure if she would laugh it off, roll her eyes, or pretend it didn’t happen.

But she didn’t do any of that.

She just smiled. Soft, stunned, and quiet.
I let the silence stretch. It felt sacred.

“Want help with dishes ?”

I asked finally, trying to keep my tone casual, like I hadn’t just confessed something that had been sitting on my chest for weeks.

She nodded, still a little pink, but glowing somehow. “Yeah… yeah, that’d be nice.”

As we walked to the kitchen, I noticed how her fingers brushed against mine—barely. Almost like a test.

And I didn’t move away.

We didn’t talk about it again that night.

We didn’t need to.

The word had done its job. It was out there. Hanging between us like something fragile and beautiful.

And she hadn’t run from it.
That was more than enough—for now.

Shivangi’s POV

We worked in rhythm—washing and drying dishes. The clinking of plates, the low hum of rain outside, the warmth of his presence beside me. A quiet intimacy wrapped itself around us. Not loud. Not dramatic. But steady. Real.

I wiped down the counter slowly, pretending to focus, but my thoughts spun. His words from earlier echoed in my chest.

“Samarth?”

I asked, turning slightly toward him.

“Hmm?”

he murmured, not looking up as he rinsed the last bowl.

“Earlier… when you said ‘you’—did you mean… me?”

He finally looked at me. His gaze locked with mine, warm and unblinking. Then he stepped closer, slowly, carefully, like he didn’t want to startle me. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers grazing my cheek. They lingered—not rushed, not hesitant, just… present.

“If I said yes,”

he whispered, voice barely above the clink of dishes,

“would it ruin us?”

I felt something in me pause. Catch. Crack open.

“No,” I breathed.

His eyes softened, and for a second, I thought I imagined the tremble in his exhale.

“I think I’m in love with you,”

he said, voice raw now, like the words cost him.

“And I don’t know how to stop. I’ve tried—God knows I’ve tried—but you’re the only thing that feels right.”

My heart thudded. I didn’t know if it was relief, joy, or sheer awe—but it was real.

“I’m in love with you too,”

I said.

“I’ve been trying to fight it, bury it, pretend it’s just comfort or infatuation—but it’s not. It’s more.”

We stood there, barely inches apart, silence wrapping around us again. And I reached for his hand—fingers interlocking without effort, without resistance.

Maybe that was enough. Maybe that was everything.

Later, when he was standing at the door, umbrella in one hand and the evening rain painting the world in silver, he looked at me again. That same softness in his eyes.

“If I kissed you now,”

he asked gently, “would it ruin us?”

I shook my head, almost smiling. “No… but—” I hesitated. “I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

He froze for a second. Not out of surprise, but something else.

Something tender.

Then he stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately. His free hand rose—not to touch my lips, not to pull me closer, but to rest gently against the side of my face. His thumb brushed my cheek.

And then, he bent down… and kissed my forehead.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t charged. It was reverent. Soft. Like a promise wrapped in warmth. Like he was telling me without words—I see you. I’ll wait.

When he pulled back, his eyes held something that made my throat tighten.

“Whenever you’re ready,”

he whispered,

“I’ll still be here.”

Then he turned and stepped into the rain. Leaving behind the soft echo of a forehead kiss that felt like poetry.