🌹 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕱𝖎𝖛𝖊 🌹

Next Day

Hriday's Pov

The early light seeped softly through the sheer curtains, casting a pale gold across the room where she sat, still cloaked in the simple blue salwar kameez.

I didn't say much as I placed a well-worn leather bag on the edge of the table. It was modest, but sturdy-packed with clothes, some cash, essentials she'd need on the road.

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out two crisp tickets-one for a train leaving in the evening, the other a flight departing at dawn tomorrow.

"Your choice," I said simply. "You can take the train if you want more time here. Or the plane if you want to get out faster."

She looked down at the tickets, her fingers tracing the edges as if they were fragile. Then up at me, her eyes quiet but steady.

"Also," I added, reaching behind the chair, "a phone. Preloaded. You'll need to stay connected."

She blinked. "You really are helping me."

Her voice was soft, genuine. No sarcasm, no hesitation. Just gratitude.

"I-" she started.

I cut her off gently. "You'll need those things. Take them."

She swallowed. "I can't just take all this. It's too much."

I shook my head. "It's not charity."

She hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Fine. But I will pay you back. Somehow."

I smiled faintly. "Deal."

By late afternoon, the sun had warmed the villa's courtyard, and the scent of rain-washed earth mingled with something sweet and spicy.

She had insisted on cooking for me. A gesture, she said, to thank me properly.

I had tried to protest.

"I don't need-"

She cut me off, smiling faintly.

"Just one meal. What's your favorite food?"

I shrugged. "Paneer tikka, I guess."

She raised an eyebrow, amused. "Really? You're not the type to care about food."

I shrugged again. "You'd be surprised."

"So it's settled," she said, standing with a quiet determination. "Paneer tikka, coming right up."

The kitchen filled with the rhythmic sound of chopping, sizzling, and the sharp scent of spices.

I sat in the courtyard, watching the shifting sunlight through the leaves.

After some time, she appeared, carrying a plate with a careful smile and a small bowl of dessert.

"I made this too," she said, setting the bowl down. "A little something sweet."

I tasted the paneer first.

The flavors were smoky, rich, and perfectly balanced-the kind of dish that made you want to close your eyes and savor every bite.

I glanced at her, surprised. "You're really good at this."

She shrugged, cheeks flushing. "I cook for myself sometimes. It's... calming."

We ate in quiet company, the easy kind that didn't demand words.

Then, as she stood to clear the dishes, a glass slipped from her hand.

It hit the floor with a sharp crash, shards scattering.

"Damn," she muttered under her breath.

She bent down to pick them up, fingers moving quickly.

"No," I said, standing. "Let the staff do it."

She shook her head, brushing hair out of her face. "It's just a glass. I can handle it."

But then I saw it-a small, thin line of red on her index finger.

"You're bleeding."

She glanced at it and waved her hand dismissively. "It's nothing. Just a scratch."

"Still," I said, already moving. "Sit. Please."

She opened her mouth to protest, but I was already walking back with a small first-aid kit.

She watched, quiet, as I knelt beside her and gently took her hand.

"This is unnecessary," she murmured.

"It's just a Band-Aid," I replied. "Not exactly a grand gesture."

She said nothing as I cleaned the cut and gently wrapped a strip of gauze around her finger.

"Do you do this for everyone who cuts themselves around you?" she asked, a little smile playing on her lips.

"Only the ones who cook paneer tikka like that," I replied, managing a small grin.

Her smile widened, eyes crinkling just slightly. "Well then. I guess I'm honored."

I didn't answer, just carefully taped the gauze and looked up-our faces closer now.

That's when I saw it-on her hand, the intricate henna swirling in delicate patterns.

Among the paisleys and floral vines, written in an elegant script, was my name: Hriday.

I froze.

My chest tightened.

Her hand trembled slightly as I held it.

"Your mehendi," I said finally, voice low. "It's... impressive."

She glanced down, cheeks pink. Her hand instinctively pulled back a little.

"It's from before," she said quietly. "Before all this mess. When I was still trying to believe in good things."

I nodded, though my mind swirled with questions.

Why my name?

Could she trust me with that secret?

Did I want her to?

Part of me wanted to ask, to pull her closer and unravel the mystery behind those delicate lines.

But another part held back.

Because I wasn't sure I was the safe place she needed.

Because I wasn't sure I could keep her safe at all.

She looked up again, breaking the silence.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For everything."

I forced a smile.

"Don't mention it."

She glanced down at her bandaged finger, then back at me, a little smile playing on her lips.

"If we ever meet again," she said quietly, "maybe I'll cook for you without breaking anything."

I chuckled, feeling the weight of the moment. "I'd like that. And next time, I promise to keep the bandages ready-just in case."

She laughed softly, a sound tinged with bittersweet hope.

The staff quietly came in to clear the broken glass and leftover dishes, and I stood, watching her-still a stranger, but somehow not quite so distant anymore.

The evening breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it a soft promise.

I looked at her hand - the delicate henna, the name inked like a silent promise - and felt something shift inside me.

A quiet ache, a fragile hope.

But the truth was clear: some things were meant to be held close, and some goodbyes were meant to stay unspoken.

She was leaving tonight.

And maybe, that was the safest thing of all