Siri's POV
The cold blast of the office air conditioner was no match for the warmth pooling under my skin. I sank into my swivel chair like gravity had finally caught up with me, limbs heavy, face flushed, heart refusing to calm down even though the ride had ended twenty minutes ago.
I pressed my cheek against the surface of the desk. It was cool and smooth—probably cleaned with that lemon-scented spray Rhea was obsessed with. My breath fogged a little circle on the laminate, and I just lay there, forehead resting on the one safe, still place in the world.
My lips twitched.
No, not twitched—curved. Slowly. Like the truth slipping out before I could swallow it back.
A smile.
A stupid, dreamy, god-I'm-an-idiot smile.
"I can't believe I actually did that," I whispered into the desk.
The words felt both ridiculous and so very true.
I, Siri Kannan, had faked losing my bike keys.
And for what?
For a ten-minute ride on the back of his bike.
Ten minutes I would now replay in my head like a favorite movie scene. Every moment. Every breath of it.
I felt weightless. Like I'd flung myself off a cliff and landed in a safety net made of warm air and soft laughter.
My phone buzzed. Loud against the quiet hum of monitors and tired typing fingers. I squinted at the screen.
> Rhea: Why do you look like you've been possessed by a lovesick ghost?
I groaned and didn't move.
Another buzz.
> Rhea: You're smiling. That weird serial-killer smile you do when something very specific and very embarrassing has happened.
I dragged a finger toward my phone, flipped it up, and typed lazily.
> Me: Nothing happened. I just overslept.
Her reply was instant.
> Rhea: Lies. You oversleep every day. But today you look like you made out with a daydream.
> Me: Shut up.
> Rhea: sends a GIF of a suspicious cat peeking out from behind a curtain
I peeked over the edge of my cubicle, and there she was—head poked up like a prairie dog, chewing on the edge of her pen and watching me like I was a ticking time bomb.
I rolled my eyes and flipped my phone back over, face-down, cheeks already heating up.
But I couldn't stop smiling.
Every detail from this morning had carved itself into my bones.
Bhargav showing up in that disheveled hoodie, hair a sleepy mess, wearing mismatched socks like it was a fashion statement. That lazy smile when he saw me. The way he didn't question a thing—not even when Amma nearly exposed me in high-def 4K mother-level scrutiny. He just stood there, calm as a lake, like he knew exactly what I'd done and didn't mind being part of it.
His voice echoed in my memory:
"Just for today."
"Wear your helmet, Siri."
"And yet… here you are."
God.
I was gone.
---
Evening, 6:00 PM
I got off work early. Just fifteen minutes.
But those fifteen minutes were everything.
I spent them loitering near the security booth, pretending to check my phone, pretending not to count every passing second like it was proof that maybe I'd been wrong. That maybe this morning had been a one-off moment, and now life would snap back to its regular programming—me with my scooter, him with his own day, and this whole blurry almost-thing between us forgotten.
But then I heard it.
That familiar low purr of his bike. Not the kind that screamed for attention. It was subtle. Confident. Like he was.
He turned the corner just as the sky broke into golden flames, the sun dipping behind the line of buildings like it was giving him a dramatic entrance. His silhouette looked carved out of dusk—sharp, backlit, calm. One hand on the handlebar, the other pulling off his headphones. His hair was still a little messy, curls resting against his forehead like they belonged there. His eyes lifted slowly, scanning the crowd until they landed on me.
He didn't smile big. Just nodded. A small gesture.
But it was enough.
I walked up to him, trying not to overthink every step.
He looked at his watch. "You're early."
I raised an eyebrow. "So are you."
He smirked. "I said six. It's six."
"Okay, okay," I muttered. "I'm early."
"Tch. Desperate," he teased, looking away, feigning nonchalance.
I smacked his arm. Light. Familiar.
He laughed, that low buzz in his throat that sent goosebumps dancing down my spine.
I climbed on behind him, my knees neatly angled, my dupatta fluttering slightly in the breeze. I tried not to touch him too much. Just enough. My fingers rested just near the back handle. Not gripping. Not holding.
But close.
He pulled into traffic, and for a few moments, the city swallowed us.
Then, without looking back, he asked, "Find your keys today?"
"Nope."
"Still lost?"
"Tragically."
He chuckled. "They're probably lonely."
"They're probably gone forever. Abandoned. Betrayed by their owner."
"Shame," he said. "So cruel."
"Excuse me?" I gasped, feigning offense. "They knew what they signed up for."
"Right," he muttered. "You and your selective memory."
I narrowed my eyes. "You think I lied."
"I know you lied," he said, smiling at the road ahead. "Your face gave you away this morning. You nearly choked when your mom brought up your bag."
I groaned. "Okay, fine. I panicked. I forgot I'd put them there."
He laughed again. "You're terrible at lying."
"You didn't seem to mind."
He didn't respond right away. His eyes stayed on the road, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
"No," he said finally. "I didn't."
That silence came again—the one I was beginning to love. The kind that wrapped around us like music with no lyrics. Just sound. Just breath. Just this.
"Hey," I said after a beat. "Remember one day when I was in twelfth and you were in ninth. You came to school without your shoes?"
Bhargav groaned so loudly, I nearly lost my balance laughing.
"Why would you bring that up?"
"You said you left them in the bathroom!"
"I was late and disoriented!"
"You were in socks, Bhargav. Socks."
He grumbled something unintelligible, but I could hear the smile in his voice.
"That was a genuine emergency," he muttered.
"Just like my missing keys?"
He clicked his tongue. "You and your drama."
Then, he added—so softly I nearly missed it:
"You don't need excuses, Siri."
I blinked. "What?"
"If you ever want to ride with me," he said, voice quieter, "just ask. I'll come."
I stared at the back of his head, heart rising to my throat.
He wasn't flirting.
He wasn't teasing.
He meant it.
And suddenly, my hands weren't hovering near the edge anymore. They moved—just a little—resting on either side of his shoulders.
Warmth rushed between us.
I didn't reply. I couldn't.
Because if I did, I would've said everything. I would've spilled the truth like a glass of water shaking in trembling hands:
That I didn't just like riding with him.
That it wasn't just about the bike, or the missing keys.
That it had nothing to do with convenience.
It was him.
Always him.
And maybe—just maybe—he already knew.
---
I curled up on the living room couch later that night, a thin shawl draped across my shoulders, more for comfort than warmth. A rerun of some old sitcom flickered across the screen—bright colors, exaggerated acting, canned laughter bursting at all the wrong moments. It filled the room like static, background noise to a mind already too loud.
My fingers scrolled absently through my phone, pausing at a picture someone had posted of the evening sky—orange and lavender hues melting into each other. Just like when I rode with him. I lingered on it too long, thumb hovering over the screen, heart playing its own offbeat rhythm.
That's when Amma walked in.
She moved with her usual quiet grace, a steaming teacup balanced in her hand, her favorite blue floral shawl draped neatly over her shoulders. Her silver anklet chimed softly with every step. I didn't look up. I thought maybe I could blend into the furniture and avoid any motherly insights.
She sat down beside me, one leg tucked under her. Took a sip. Stared at the TV as if she were genuinely interested in the overacted chaos on screen.
I should've known better.
"So," she said casually, setting the teacup down on the coaster with a soft clink. "What's going on between you and Bhargav?"
The words hit me like a cold slap.
I choked on absolutely nothing. "W-what?!"
She didn't even flinch. Just turned her head slowly, blinked like she had all the time in the world. "You heard me."
I fumbled to sit up straighter, pulling the shawl tighter around myself like it could shield me from this conversation. "Nothing! I mean—why would you even say that? What do you mean?"
She didn't answer immediately. Just tilted her head, eyes narrowing the way they always did when she was about to say something that would ruin me in the most affectionate, maternal way possible.
"You two used to argue like enemies in a soap opera. Now you're gliding through traffic together like it's your morning ritual."
My heart—dear god—my heart launched into a full sprint.
She sipped her tea again. "You should see your face right now."
"I don't have a face right now," I muttered, trying to sink into the cushions.
"So," she continued, tone dangerously casual, "Did something… good happen?"
I paused.
The air felt too warm all of a sudden, like the room was holding its breath along with me. I looked down at my phone, the sky photo still open. Bhargav's smirk still alive in my mind like a watermark.
Good?
No.
Worse.
Because I wasn't supposed to feel this way.
Not about him. Not about the guy who used to make me want to scream into a pillow. Not about the boy who once compared me to a storm cloud during group projects. Not about the same boy who now made silence feel… like comfort. Like something alive.
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Amma didn't press. Just sat there, her presence steady. Her patience louder than the sitcom still chattering away on TV.
Then she added, almost as an afterthought, "He's younger than you, you know."
I snapped my head toward her, too fast. "What does age have to do with anything?!"
She raised both brows this time, clearly entertained. "You tell me."
My mouth opened, ready to fire back, but the words refused to cooperate. They just spun in circles behind my lips.
She chuckled—soft and knowing. "I'm not judging, kanna. I'm just… noticing."
"Notice less," I muttered.
"Impossible. I'm a mother. It's literally my job."
I groaned and covered my face with both hands. "Ammaaaa…"
She stood up with her empty teacup, heading toward the kitchen like the conversation was over.
I peeked through my fingers.
And then it happened.
She turned just as she reached the hallway, looked at me over her shoulder.
And winked.
"Amma!" I yelped, shooting up from the couch. "Why did you wink?! What does that even mean?!"
She didn't reply.
Just that same, infuriating, utterly self-satisfied smile before disappearing into the kitchen.
I collapsed backward again, the cushions swallowing me whole.
Mortified.
Flustered.
And completely, entirely undone.
Had we really become that obvious?
Had I?
And worse—
Did I want him to notice?
Because something about that bike ride… about the way my hand had hovered near his shoulder, the way I didn't mind leaning in when the traffic grew loud, the way my excuses weren't even excuses anymore…
It was all beginning to feel dangerously close to the truth.
And Amma—damn her and her sixth sense—had smelled it like perfume on my skin.
I buried my face in a cushion, groaning like it could somehow erase everything.
But that stupid smile crept back anyway.
To be continued...