He sat on the sofa, trying to adjust his pillow for the fifth time.
> Arnav (grumbling):
"Khushi. I swear, if you fluff that pillow one more time, I'm going to file a case."
From across the room, she didn't even blink.
> Khushi (sweetly):
"Go ahead. But remember, your lawyer is on my side."
He scowled. She smirked.
This-this was their rhythm.
Love wrapped in snark. Healing stitched with sarcasm.
---
Sunlight painted lazy gold across the tiled floor. Khushi stood near the sewing table she'd convinced Nani to set up in the corner-one of his favorite white kurtas laid out, torn at the cuff.
She threaded her needle like it was a prayer.
Real silk thread. Golden. Delicate.
Each stitch was slow, precise.
Like she was mending not just the fabric-but the memory of blood, sirens, and screams.
He leaned on the doorframe quietly, watching her.
> Arnav (softly):
"Mending me again?"
> Khushi (not looking up):
"Always. Thread by thread."
> Arnav:
"You could've just bought a new one."
> Khushi:
"You don't throw away things that survived the worst."
She finally glanced up.
Her eyes were soft. No storm today. Just rain-soaked calm.
> Khushi:
"Besides... this tear? Happened because you shoved me out of the way and became road ke Salman Khan."
> Arnav (wryly):
"That's an insult to both me and Salman Khan."
> Khushi (teasing):
"Fine. More like Raj from DDLJ if Raj had zero impulse control and worse luck."
> Arnav (raising a brow):
"You love my impulse control."
She blinked slowly.
> Khushi (quietly):
"Not when it gets you nearly killed."
He stepped closer. Sat beside her, shoulder barely grazing hers.
For a moment, the world stilled.
Just the rustle of thread. The scent of rosewater oil. Her hair brushing his cheek like a secret.
> Arnav (whispering):
"I'd do it again."
> Khushi (firm):
"Don't. Ever."
She reached up and touched the scar just above his brow. A kiss without her lips. A prayer with her fingers.
> Khushi:
"Next time, if you feel like being a hero-write a poem. Don't jump in front of cars."
> Arnav:
"I'll consider that."
He paused.
> Arnav (smirking again):
"Does the poem have to rhyme?"
She laughed, the sound like home.
> Khushi:
"No. It just has to end with 'P.S. Dammit Khushi. I love u '"
Her finishing the final stitch. Knotting the thread gently. Folding the kurta like something sacred.
> Khushi (holding it out):
"Fixed. No holes. No scars."
> Arnav (taking it):
"It's still mine, though?"
> Khushi:
"Only if you wear it on our next fight."
> Arnav:
"Can I fight you in bed?"
> Khushi (smacking his shoulder):
"RAIZADA!"
> Arnav (grinning):
"Ow. Patient. Injured. Mishandled."
> Khushi (laughing):
"Shut up and drink your haldi milk."
Outside, the wind chimes sang again.
Inside, their laughter stitched itself around the room.
And love, like thread-soft, stubborn, and shimmering-held everything quietly together.
---
The sky wore a soft orange saree, trailing pink clouds across the horizon. Wind teased the fairy lights strung along the rooftop railing. It smelled of chai, marigolds... and magic.
Khushi stepped onto the terrace, holding two cups. She found him exactly where she expected: leaning against the railing, face tilted toward the wind.
Bruised.
But healing.
---
> Khushi (handing him chai):
"You better not have climbed stairs alone. I'll file a complaint with Nani."
> Arnav (sipping):
"You sound like HR."
> Khushi:
"I am HR. Heart Recovery."
> Arnav (smirking):
"Then I officially resign. Too much monitoring."
> Khushi (leaning beside him):
"You can't quit. This position is permanent."
---
They stood in silence for a moment, sipping chai as the city sighed below them. The wind was gentle. Like it, too, had something to say but didn't want to interrupt.
Khushi reached into her dupatta pocket.
Pulled out a folded letter-edges worn, ink slightly smudged.
> Khushi:
"I wrote this the night you were unconscious. Didn't know if I'd ever give it to you."
He turned, silent.
She handed it to him. He unfolded it.
---
📝 Letter:
> "If you're reading this, you're awake.
Which means the universe listened.
I prayed for you in every language I knew-even the ones I made up when I was a child.
You don't get to leave, Arnav Singh Raizada. Not after teaching me what home feels like.
You barged into my world like a storm... and now I can't imagine the sky without thunder.
So come back. Not for me. For yourself. Because you deserve every second of the life you've saved with your bare hands."
---
His fingers tightened around the letter.
> Arnav (softly):
"I didn't know you wrote like this."
> Khushi (quietly):
"You were unconscious. I had no one to fight with."
> Arnav (stepping closer):
"Fight with me now."
> Khushi (mock glare):
"Do you even hear how romantic you sound?"
> Arnav (dead serious):
"Not trying to be romantic. Just trying to stay in this moment... with you."
He pulls her close, tucking her gently under his chin.
They watch the sun slip behind the skyline.
Above them, wind chimes sing like old friends.
Below them, the world spins-faster, louder.
But up here?
It's just needles, thread, and hearts stitched whole again.
----
Raizada Mansion
Rooftop
The Delhi night sky, usually smudged with city haze, had polished its stars to a diamond clarity just for this moment. They blinked down like ancient, approving witnesses, their silver light mingling with the warm, buttery glow of a hundred fairy lights strung across the weathered wooden trellis overhead. The air itself was a silent conspirator, carrying the sweet, nostalgic scent of rosewater .
And the rooftop? It was a love letter written in light and petals and magic.
Strings of delicate fairy lights spilled like captured constellations across the beams, casting intricate lacework shadows on the smooth stone floor.
Dozens of candles flickered safely inside glass jars, their flames painting dancing golden halos on the surrounding air. A narrow, meticulous trail of vibrant marigold blossoms – like scattered sunshine – led unerringly towards the heart of the transformation: a humble, chipped, deeply beloved wooden sewing table. Its surface, usually a chaotic mosaic of creativity, was carefully arranged.
Swatches of silk and cotton fanned out like exotic feathers, rolls of satin ribbon gleamed, and Khushi's collection of well-worn thimbles stood sentinel. It wasn't just a table; it was *them*. Sturdy, scarred, functional, yet filled with the potential for beauty.
And there she stood at the entrance, framed by the archway leading from the stairs.
**Khushi Kumari Gupta.** Barefoot, feeling the cool stone beneath her feet, the silk of her simple salwar kameez whispering against her skin. Suspicion warred with awe in her wide, dark eyes as she took in the scene.
Stunning, even in her bewildered state, the fairy lights catching the gold in her bangles and the confused furrow of her brow.
> Khushi (eyeing the setup, hands on hips):
> *"Arnav Singh Raizada, if this is another sneaky boutique launch disguised as… as *mood lighting*, I swear I'll bean you with a spool of Anchor thread. Heavy duty."*
A distinct, poorly stifled *"Hmph!"* followed by a sharp *"Shhhh!"* drifted from behind a large potted fern heavy with monsoon growth. Khushi's eyes narrowed, darting towards the sound.
> **Arnav (stepping out of the shadows, voice smooth):**
> *"What if it's not commerce, Ms. Gupta? What if it's just… a forever kind of promise?"*
She turned sharply, the marigold petals yielding softly under her feet. And there he was, stepping into the pool of light cast by the nearest candle jar.
Arnav Singh Raizada Crisp white kurta, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms finally free of the stark white bandages that had been his armor for weeks. The faint, healing lines of his ordeal were just visible in the soft light.
His dark hair, as always, looked like it had staged a valiant, if ultimately futile, rebellion against gravity.
But his eyes… His eyes were the true revelation. Gone was the usual flinty sharpness, the guarded distance. In their place was a softness, a profound surety, and an intensity focused solely on her. He held something small and gleaming loosely in his hand.
> Arnav
> "Sit."He gestured towards the cushioned stool placed before the sewing table.
> Khushi (crossing her arms ):
> *"You don't suddenly get to boss me around like some Mughal emperor just because you decided to play chicken with a speeding Ambassador and *survived*."*
> **Arnav (smirking):**
> *"Actually, Gupta, that's *precisely* why I get to. Near-death experience privileges. Now sit. Please."*
The slight softening of his command, the unexpected 'please', disarmed her more than any order.
She sat. Slowly. Arms still loosely crossed, but replaced by a tremulous curiosity. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. He moved then, but sinking gracefully to one knee on the floor. In his hand wasn't platinum or diamond, but a simple, full spool of pure gold thread.
The world seemed to hold its breath.