Bhargav's POV
The same line.
I blinked. The same goddamn line.
Fifth time reading it, and it still meant nothing. My eyes skimmed over the words, but my mind wasn't catching a single one. My fingers itched against the edge of the textbook, nails digging into the worn paper. The fan above creaked in lazy circles, doing little to dispel the heat that clung to my skin. Monsoon air was always this suffocating—sticky, dense, like it wanted to climb inside your lungs and settle there.
But it wasn't the weather that distracted me.
It was the way Siri smiled that morning. The way her voice trembled when she said she was fine—when she clearly wasn't. The soft laughter she gave when she bumped into the desk corner, trying to act unfazed. The guarded look in her eyes when she caught me watching.
I was so far away from this room, I might as well have been sitting next to her at work, watching over her shoulder as she typed, knowing exactly when she forced a smile.
A creak broke through my haze. The door handle turned without a knock—classic Indu—and a second later, she barged in like a storm wrapped in cotton.
"Privacy is a myth in this house, huh?" I muttered, not even looking up.
"Don't be dramatic," she said, her anklets clinking with each step. She plopped onto my bed like she was auditioning for a mattress ad, arms folded, eyes sharp.
The fabric of the bedsheet rustled beneath her, and her sigh was dramatic enough to echo off the walls.
"That sigh means one of two things," I said, finally glancing her way. "Either you're here to complain about Amma making you cut onions, or you're here to lecture me."
She didn't smile. Just fixed me with that piercing look.
"Check on Siri at work."
I straightened. Just like that.
My spine jerked to attention, muscles tightening as the words sank in.
"What?" I asked, though I'd heard her loud and clear.
"She told me Abhi texted her," Indu said, voice clipped.
My jaw clenched before I could stop it. A dull throb started at the back of my head. My fingers curled into the edge of the textbook until the paper crinkled under my grip.
"I know," I muttered after a pause. "She told me too."
Indu's gaze sharpened further. "And you acted like it was no big deal?"
I leaned back in the chair, tossing the textbook onto the floor. It hit with a dull thud. "I didn't want to push her. She looked like she was already handling enough."
"Handling?" Indu repeated, her eyebrows climbing. "You really think this is about handling something? This isn't a mild fever, Bhargav. This is him. The asshole who broke her."
Her voice cracked at the edge, and she looked away for a second.
"She blocked him," she said after a beat. "Last night. But that doesn't mean he'll stop. You know how he is."
I rubbed my hand over my face, the scratch of stubble coarse under my palm.
"You think he'll try to talk to her? At work?"
She nodded, deadly serious. "If he's smart, he'll act like he's changed. That he's sorry. Maybe even cry. Play the victim."
My stomach turned.
"She's strong," I said quietly.
"She is," Indu agreed, her voice soft now. "But strength doesn't mean immunity. Not when it comes to people who know your past. Siri's bleeding, Bhargav. She's just good at hiding the wound."
I exhaled slowly, the knot in my chest pulling tighter.
"I'll keep an eye out," I said. "Every day. Every damn second. If he so much as looks at her—"
"—he'll be dealing with you," she finished with a nod. "Good."
She didn't smile, not this time. There was too much weight in the air for that.
For a while, neither of us spoke. The fan kept turning, the trees outside rustled softly with wind, and the low hum of a scooter echoed in the street below. The kind of ordinary background noise that didn't match the storm in my head.
Then Indu tilted her head slightly, her tone gentler. "She trusts you, you know."
I looked up.
She added, "More than she even realizes."
Something shifted in me. Not outwardly. Just... inside. Like a switch flipping. A weight pressing down and lifting at the same time.
"And you?" I asked, voice lower than I intended.
Indu gave a small smile. The kind that held warmth and warning. "With her? Always. But Bhargav—if you ever mess it up, I swear to god, I'll break your knees. Don't forget I used to bat left-handed in gully cricket."
I let out a snort, eyes narrowing. "Terrifying. Truly."
She stood then, brushing off the imaginary dust from her kurti. The sunlight from the window hit the edge of her face, casting her in that familiar glow that made me briefly wonder when my little sister had grown up so much.
Just as she reached for the door handle, something tugged at my mind.
"Hey," I called.
She paused, looking back over her shoulder.
"What were you asking her earlier?" I asked. "You know… when you teased her about us."
A slow, evil grin spread across her face. I already regretted asking.
"Are you disappointed that she said you're just friends?" she asked, her voice syrupy sweet.
I gave her a glare. "You're enjoying this too much."
"She was lying, Bhargav."
My breath caught.
"She was blushing. Couldn't even meet my eyes. Her fingers were shaking a little when she picked up her coffee mug. That girl's gone. Hook, line, and centre field."
I tried to act unaffected. Failed miserably.
"It's not like that," I muttered, looking away.
"Right, right," she said in a mock-soothing tone. "And I'm secretly dating a Bollywood actor."
A pillow sailed through the air in her direction. She ducked with a laugh, skipping out of range.
But at the door, she paused again.
"Just take care of her," she said, this time without sarcasm.
I nodded. "I will."
Her eyes softened for a split second before she turned and left, closing the door with a gentle click that sounded louder than it should have.
And just like that, I was alone again.
But the silence wasn't empty anymore.
Her words echoed in my mind.
She trusts you. More than she even realizes.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands dragging down my face until my palms rested on my mouth. The textbook lay abandoned on the floor. Useless.
I picked up my phone. Opened our chat.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. Then over the voice note icon.
What was I even going to say?
"How are you?"
No. Too bland.
"Don't talk to Abhi."
Too controlling.
"I can't stop thinking about you."
Too much.
I stared at the screen until it blurred, until her name glowed like something sacred. Like something I didn't quite deserve, but couldn't stop reaching for.
Just friends, she'd said.
The words played over and over in my mind like a song on loop.
I smiled faintly. But my chest ached, slow and deep.
Just friends.
I thought of the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn't watching. The softness in her voice when she said my name. The tiny, unspoken pauses. The way her fingers brushed mine and lingered—too long to be accidental, too short to be confident.
Were we that obvious?
Was I?
And when she said it—just friends—did she mean it?
Or was it a lie meant to protect herself? A shield of words because the truth was too heavy?
I leaned back, letting the phone fall onto the mattress beside me.
The ceiling fan kept turning. The textbook was still on the floor. But nothing else felt the same.
Whatever this was… whatever it wasn't yet… I wasn't going anywhere.
Even if she never called me anything more.
Even if I stayed on the outside of her world—her colleague, her friend, her maybe—I'd still protect her. Still stand guard outside the walls of her heart like a soldier with no promise of a home.
Because she deserved that.
Because sometimes, love wasn't about being let in.
Sometimes, love meant choosing to stand watch in the rain, even if the gates never opened.
And I'd do it.
Again. And again.
For her.
Always.
To be continued...