Ayan stood before his open almirah, rows of neatly pressed clothes lined in careful symmetry—silks, cottons, suits of every shade.
His hand hovered over them, brushing the fabric absently, but his eyes weren't really seeing. His mind was caught elsewhere, circling one thought.
Tonight matters. He had to look his best.
From downstairs came Mr. Rawat's calm, composed voice, rising with a gentle firmness.
"Ayan… if you're ready, come down. They're waiting."
The sound wrapped around him like steady reassurance. Ayan's lips curved faintly, the smallest smile tugging at the corners.
"Okay, Uncle… five minutes."
His gaze returned to the almirah, scanning once more before resting on the one outfit that felt right. He drew it out carefully, fingertips lingering on the smooth fabric.
---
[ Later—Vihan's house ]
The house radiated celebration. Warm light spilled across walls dressed in golden fairy strings, balloons bobbed lazily at the ceiling, and the air carried the homely scent of spices and baked sweetness.
On the center table, a modest cake waited, surrounded by plates neatly set, while soft laughter and the clink of dishes echoed from the kitchen.
Aarav stood steady at the base of a ladder, holding it firm while Karan adjusted the last string of lights. His gaze was bright, though distracted—always drifting toward the entrance.
The doorbell rang.
Vihan darted to it, pulling it open with ease. Two figures stood framed in the doorway—Mr. Rawat, calm and dignified in a pressed suit, and just behind him, Ayan, bathed in the soft glow of the porch light.
"Come in… Papa," Vihan greeted warmly, stepping aside for Mr. Rawat.
But as Ayan moved to step in, Vihan slid subtly sideways, pressing a hand against Ayan's chest, keeping him momentarily hidden behind the frame. His casual smile masked the motion.
Unaware, Mr. Rawat strode inside and made his way to the sofa.
Across the room, Aarav's eyes flicked up immediately, searching the doorway. His face dimmed when he saw only Vihan.
"Papa… you came alone?"
Mr. Rawat frowned and glanced back. "Ayan? He was right behind me."
Vihan shifted quickly, stepping aside before Mr. Rawat could turn.
And there he was.
Ayan stepped into view, dressed in a soft, tailored blue shirt and black pant that caught the light just so, every fold and line accentuating his delicate frame. His hair had been combed with care, the faintest sheen catching at the edges, and his cheeks carried a natural glow.
Their eyes locked.
Aarav froze, breath stuttering. Ayan's lips curved into a quiet, almost shy smile, and color flushed faintly at his cheeks.
"Ayan… let them finish their work. Come here," Mr. Rawat called warmly, patting the seat beside him.
Ayan glanced one last time at Aarav before crossing the room, his steps measured, graceful, before sitting by his uncle's side.
Aarav couldn't look away. Every small movement drew him in as if etched into memory.
From the ladder, Karan smirked down. "Staring won't make him come to you."
Aarav's grip on the ladder tightened. His voice was clipped. "Just focus on your work."
Vihan chuckled, low and amused.
---
When the final decorations were set, Vihan called out, "Maa… you can come down now."
Mrs. Rawat descended the stairs, her sari flowing around her with practiced elegance, each step measured and proud. Time had only sharpened her beauty, her presence commanding yet soft.
She greeted them all warmly, laughter and wishes bubbling around her.
Her eyes swept the room, lingering on the bouquet of lilies placed carefully on the table. Something in her gaze softened, searching further, as if expecting another presence that wasn't there.
"Ayan, do you remember her?" Mr. Rawat asked gently.
Ayan faltered, shaking his head. No memory surfaced—but the woman's presence radiated warmth, oddly familiar.
Mrs. Rawat stepped close, her hand rising to cup his cheeks. "How could he? He was only three when we last met."
Emotion welled in her eyes, a weight of years condensed in that simple touch.
Mr. Rawat broke the heaviness with a clap of his hands. "Let's cut the cake first. Plenty of time to talk later."
Vihan grinned. "That's right, Maa—celebration first!"
Laughter followed, and the room filled with a harmony of joy, nostalgia, and unspoken longing.
...
[Meanwhile—Singh mansion]
Abhi lay on his bed, the ceiling above him a blur. The room was quiet, yet not peaceful. His eyes kept drifting to the door—closed, unlocked, but unmoving.
No Arun.
No evening pickup. No dinner together. No lingering presence on the edge of his bed.
"What's wrong with him?" Abhi muttered to himself, though his chest already ached with the answer.
His gaze slid unconsciously to the empty space beside him, the same space Arun had filled the night before. His breath caught.
The memory came rushing back—his own words. "For someone I love a lot."
He jolted upright, the blanket sliding off his frame. His pulse leapt painfully as realization struck. He couldn't stay here. Not with this storm in his chest.
His hand gripped the doorknob before the thought fully formed. A heartbeat later, he was already moving.
---
[Arun's Room]
On the balcony, Arun stood with arms braced against the railing, the night air brushing across his sharp features. The darkness stretched endlessly before him, quiet, unfeeling. His jaw was tense, his gaze fixed far beyond the horizon.
Then—
The door burst open, slamming against the wall.
Arun turned swiftly, startled, breath catching when he saw Abhi in the doorway.
Abhi stood there, chest rising and falling with urgency. His brows were drawn together, dark eyes restless, searching. His hair was slightly mussed from his hurried steps, his lips parted as though the words inside refused to wait.
He crossed the threshold without hesitation.
"Are you okay?" Arun's voice, usually so firm, was softer now—tinged with worry.
Abhi's eyes lifted, locking onto his. For a moment, he just stared, unable to tame the storm inside. His throat worked around unspoken words, pulse hammering in his ears.
Then, in a breathless whisper, "It's for Maa…"
Arun blinked. "Huh?"
"The bouquet… it was for Maa. I give it to her every year for her birthday." Abhi's words tumbled out, the tension in his shoulders trembling as if held too long.
The weight in Arun's chest eased, loosening its grip. Relief washed through him, steadying his breath. But his eyes narrowed slightly, catching the urgency still carved across Abhi's features.
"Why are you explaining this to me?" His voice was gentle, curious.
Abhi's gaze flickered, as though torn between retreat and confession. His lips parted.
"I… I'm…"
But the words died in his throat. His breath stuttered, his fists clenched at his sides. His mind screamed what his heart refused to admit—I didn't want you to misunderstand. I wanted you to be the one beside me. I want you to pick me up, eat with me, stay in my room.—Everything died in his throat.
Arun saw it—the struggle written across his face, the confession hovering in silence.
Without waiting for him to break, Arun stepped forward. His arms closed around Abhi, strong and certain, pulling him against the warmth of his chest.
"That's okay," he whispered, voice steady, fingers pressing lightly against his back. "No need to explain. Just stay by my side. That's all I need."
Abhi stiffened, his hands rising instinctively, hovering near Arun's shoulders. Suspended between surrender and restraint.
A long breath escaped him. He didn't run away. Not this time.