“Love is not loud.
Sometimes, it comes in sticky notes and borrowed playlists.”

Shivangi’s POV

There was something sacred about the stillness that follows a confession.

No thunder. No epiphanies. Just silence that settles inside your bones and the way your lips stretch into a smile even before your mind can reason it.

I hadn’t even opened my eyes yet, and I knew.

Last night really happened.

I had said it. He had said it. We had said it — not dramatically, not perfectly, but in that flawed, fumbling way that makes it feel more real.
My phone buzzed against the pillow beside me.

Samarth: Did you sleep smiling like an idiot? Asking for a very obsessed friend. 😏
Also, you looked really cute when you tried to hide your blush after the rapid-fire game.

I buried my face in my pillow and groaned. How was he like this so early in the morning?

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, deleting five responses before settling on:

Me: You’re lucky you’re a doctor. Otherwise I’d sue you for emotional disruption. 😒

Seconds later:

Samarth: Ma’am, I have the same complaint. You’ve ruined me.
PS: Check your doorstep in an hour. You’re under prescription-level pampering now. 💌

I rolled over in bed, clutching my phone to my chest, and tried to calm the storm of butterflies he’d just set loose inside me.

Me: Please tell me it’s not a giant teddy bear. I have a reputation to protect in this building.

Samarth: A teddy bear would've been too basic. I have standards. Unlike someone who hoards old coffee shop receipts like they’re historical artifacts.

Me: Those receipts are memories, thank you very much. Don't disrespect my sentimentality.

Samarth: Oh, I’d never. In fact, I’m planning to frame them all one day. Title it: “The Making of a Hopeless Writer.”

Me: God. You're impossible.

Samarth: And yet… you confessed you’re in love with me. Tragic, really. 😌

Me: I must’ve been sleep-deprived. Delirious. Light-headed. Possibly drugged.

Samarth: Ma’am, I'm a doctor. I can legally confirm it was love. And you’re under strict observation now.

I bit my lip to stop the grin threatening to split my face. My toes curled under the blanket as I let the comfort of him—his texts, his teasing, his warmth—fill up my morning like sunlight slowly pouring in through the curtains.

Me: So… what’s the treatment plan, Dr. Samarth?

Samarth:Me—when can I come over and ruin your writing flow with my face?

I choked out a laugh, heart full, cheeks warm.

Me: You’re unreal. Honestly.

Samarth: I’m just yours. That’s the only real part I care about.
I let the silence settle again, this time not hollow but humming—with certainty, with sweetness.
And with love.

True to his word, an hour later, I found three courier boxes waiting for me at the doorstep. I blinked at them in disbelief, still half in pajamas and wholly unprepared for whatever emotional ambush Samarth had orchestrated this early in the day.

I dragged them inside, sat cross-legged on the hallway floor, and opened the first box.

Inside was a set of scented candles — not random picks, but impossibly thoughtful ones.

“First Rain.” “Typewriter Keys.” “Ink & Lavender.”

It wasn’t just fragrance; it was a story, a moodboard of me. Of the things I whispered in passing. The things he remembered.

The second box had customized bookmarks. I expected quotes from the popular parts of my books — the ones readers posted on Instagram stories or turned into edits. But no. These were the quiet lines. The ones tucked between mundane paragraphs, where my soul slipped in without noise.

Words I didn’t even know anyone had noticed.

Words he had underlined with invisible ink in his mind.
A sticky note fluttered out and landed on my lap. His now-familiar, slightly messy slanted handwriting stared up at me:

“You’re the only author I know whose words heal everyone but herself. Let me try.”

I swallowed hard. My fingers trembled as I opened the last box.
An annotation kit, delicate and beautiful — pastel highlighters, tabs with ridiculously specific labels like “Tension,” “Screaming Silences,” “Almosts,” and “Hearts Breaking Softly.” Each one a reflection of how deeply he had read me, beyond my books.

There was a folded letter inside. Just one line, but it shattered something soft inside me:

“For every time you write a heartbreak scene, I’ll write you a moment that feels like home.”

I didn’t even realize I was crying until a tear hit the lid of the candle box.

I stayed there — barefoot, messy-haired, emotionally dismantled on a Tuesday morning — clutching the packages like they were sacred. Like he had mailed me poetry stitched into cardboard.

My fingers shook as I typed:

Me: You’re ruining my emotional discipline.
Stop pampering me this much, Samarth.

The reply came almost instantly.

Samarth: You have no idea.
You ruined me first.

And somehow, that felt like the most romantic confession of all.

Later in the afternoon, just when I thought he couldn’t possibly have more surprises up his sleeve, a WhatsApp notification pinged on my screen.

Playlist shared: “Evenings and the Author Who Stole My Sanity”

I blinked. My fingers hesitated for half a second before I clicked Play.

The first song was "Everything Has Changed" — the soft strumming, the wistfulness in the lyrics. It felt like a letter passed under a pillow. Like him whispering, “Everything’s different now… because of you.”

Then came "If The World Was Ending" — that aching honesty, the raw plea, the way it crawled under my skin and made a home there.

And then the shift — the way only he could do it.

"Ranjha." My breath hitched. The haunting ache, the longing layered in every syllable — it didn’t just play in the room; it echoed in the hollow parts of me I didn’t realize needed echoing.

Next, "Kesariya." Familiar. Warm. It wrapped around me like his teasing voice, like his presence, gentle and overwhelming all at once.
I thought it would end there. But the playlist continued — and each song felt like he had handpicked a memory and wrapped it in melody.

"Heeriye." The smile tugged before I realized I was grinning. It was sunshine and chemistry and the maddening joy of falling.

Then "Tu Jaane Na," and suddenly I was seventeen again — scribbling poetry in margins, never knowing how to name desire.

"Ve Maahi." My fingers stilled on the keyboard. It was soft love — the kind that doesn’t burn, just glows. Steady. Sure. Like him.

"Main Phir Bhi Tumko Chahunga."
And that’s when my heart did that thing again — that flutter that wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t peaceful either. It felt like standing at the edge of something beautiful and terrifying.

Each lyric felt like a confession he hadn’t spoken yet. A layer of his love wrapped in sound. A mirror to the chaos he had caused inside me.
I didn’t even realize when I started humming. Didn’t notice when the playlist looped again.

I ended up working on my manuscript with that playlist playing softly in the background — letting it soak into the dialogues, into the emotions, into my veins.

He wasn’t even in the room, and yet, it felt like he had underlined the entire day — in lyrics, in thought, in presence.

That evening, when he arrived, I was still humming under my breath.
He smiled the second he heard it, and I pretended not to notice.

We made tea together, like we had slipped into a rhythm older than us. He added ginger, I stirred in cardamom. I handed him the cup. He handed me warmth.

I found myself watching him.

The sleeves of his kurta were rolled up, his wristwatch glinting under the kitchen light, a strand of hair falling on his forehead.

He didn’t look at me when he said it.

“Stop looking at me like that.”
I blinked.

“Like what?”

He turned then — slowly, deliberately — and with a teasing smile, said:

“Like I’m your entire love story.”

I was caught.
Not red-handed. Red-hearted.

“What if you are?” I whispered before I could stop myself.
He looked at me.

And this time, he didn’t tease.
He just smiled. That soft, devastating kind of smile that no reader in the world could write — only feel.

Later, wrapped in the softest silence, we sat on the couch with a shared blanket draped over us like a fragile secret. The evening light fell in slanted golden beams across the room, touching the corners of my living room with the kind of warmth that only comes when you’re not alone anymore — not really.

I held my debut novel in my lap, the worn spine resting against my thigh. I glanced at him, nervous.

“I want to read this to you,”

I said softly.

His gaze lifted from the cushion he was absentmindedly toying with.

“You sure?”

he asked, gentle and careful, like he always was when it came to my work. Or my heart.

I nodded.

I flipped to the first page and began. My voice wavered at first — uncertain, too aware of his closeness — but as his arm moved behind me, and I felt the curve of his palm settle lightly against my shoulder, I exhaled. I leaned back into the steady rhythm of his chest, grounding myself in the beat of someone who had become my calm.

As I read on, somewhere between Chapter Two and Three, my fingers found his — a soft, thoughtless movement. My thumb grazed the back of his hand, over and over. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I felt him shiver beneath my touch.

“You always do that when you're nervous,”

he said, voice quiet and velvet-smooth.

I froze mid-sentence.

“Do what?”

“Rub your thumb like that,” he murmured.

“You did it the day we met. At the café. You held your coffee cup like it was a shield.”

I looked up at him then, blinking. “You noticed that?”

He held my gaze. “I notice everything about you.”

I didn’t respond. Because what could I possibly say to that without unraveling completely?

Later, he sat on the floor near the coffee table, legs folded, tablet in hand, skimming through patient records. His brows furrowed in focus while mine were drawn in frustration over my open laptop.

I was trying — and failing — to write a moment of tenderness. Something deeply emotional, almost poetic. But the words wouldn’t come.

“Need help?” he asked, catching my defeated sigh.

“Maybe,” I admitted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

“I’m stuck. I want the hero to say something... beautiful. But not cheesy. Just... true.”

He paused. Thought for a second. Then without looking up, offered quietly:

“She wasn’t lightning. She was the silence just before it — the calm that makes your heart ache before the world changes.”
My fingers froze on the keyboard.

I looked at him, stunned. “Where did that come from?”

He finally glanced up and shrugged, that lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Maybe I found the right muse.”

Our eyes held — not with intensity, but with a softness that burned.
Time stilled.

He was leaning forward slightly now, and I don’t know if it was me or him, or just gravity itself giving up, but something drew us in — an invisible thread pulled tight between the seconds.

My breathing slowed. Shallow. His eyes flicked from my lips to my eyes. And mine did the same.

There was no rush. Just a slow, aching anticipation that curled around the moment like steam from a midnight cup of tea.

I leaned in, just a little.

So did he.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears — the space between us closing, atoms aligning, breath mingling.

And then—

His phone rang.

Shrill. Loud. Cruel.

We jolted apart instantly — like teenagers caught in a moment that had no permission yet.

His face fell into a sigh as he picked up the phone, stared at the screen for a second too long, then hit silent.

We didn’t speak about it.

We didn’t need to.

The kiss hadn’t happened — not technically. But everything about us had tilted. The axis had shifted.

And even in that breathless pause between what-almost-was and what-would-have-been, we smiled — sheepish, warm, and quietly knowing.

As he stood by the door, getting ready to leave, I lingered in the hallway.
He looked at me — that same unreadable softness in his gaze.

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Night,” I replied.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

He finally stepped closer and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear.
Then, in a low voice, he asked, “Shivangi, can I hug you?”

I nodded.

He pulled me into his arms — not too tight, not too brief. Just right. My arms wrapped around him instinctively, and for that one moment, I stopped thinking. Just... existed.

Then he pulled back slightly and pressed a kiss on my forehead.

His lips lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary.

When he stepped back, he smiled crookedly.

“I wish we weren’t holding back,” I whispered.

He paused.

Then said, softly — so softly I almost didn’t hear it:

“Maybe the holding back will be worth it ?”

And just like that, he was gone.