चाँदनी में झलकते तेरे ख्याल,
चाँदनी में झलकते तेरे ख्याल,
एक नज़र में बसी अनकही मिसाल।
सन्नाटा बोला और आँखों ने पहचाना,
दो दिलों का सफर धीरे धीरे बनाना।
The evening air in Mumbai smelled of rain. Clouds had gathered, heavy and dark, as if waiting for the right moment to break. Trisha stood nervously by the window of her small bakery, smoothing down the apron she hadn't bothered to take off. She wasn't sure why she had agreed when her mother announced Abhineet wanted to "meet her properly."
"Don't say anything foolish," Anjali Mehra had instructed that morning, her tone sharp. "Let him see you're serious, that you'll be a good wife."
As if she were auditioning for a role.
The bell above the bakery door chimed, pulling her out of her thoughts. She turned, and there he was—Abhineet Khanna, tall enough that the doorframe seemed almost too small for him. He wasn't in a formal suit this time. A simple black shirt and grey trousers, sleeves rolled to his elbows, veins tracing his forearms. Somehow, the casualness made him look even more intimidating.
Trisha wiped her palms on her apron. "You're here early."
He glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at her. "You're here too."
She blinked, unsure how to respond to that. Was that humor? Or just him stating the obvious? His expression didn't give her a clue.
He walked further inside, his presence filling the small space. The bakery smelled of vanilla and cinnamon, and for the first time, Trisha wondered if it was too childish compared to his world of boardrooms and business deals.
She reached for the counter. "Would you like something to try? Fresh batch of cookies."
"Which ones are your favorite?" he asked instead.
The question caught her off guard. Nobody ever asked her favorites. Not her parents, not her customers—they wanted efficiency, not preference.
She hesitated, then pointed to a tray. "These. The chocolate swirl."
Without a word, he picked one up, broke it in half, and held out the other piece to her. She stared at it, her lips parting slightly.
"You already know how they taste," she said softly.
"And yet you chose them." His tone was calm, but there was an edge of quiet insistence. "Try it with me."
Her heart stumbled. It was such a small thing, a shared cookie. But as she took the piece from his hand, their fingers brushed—warm, firm, brief. She quickly popped the bite into her mouth, pretending not to notice the spark that zipped through her nerves.
For a moment, silence stretched, but not the heavy silence she knew from her parents. This one felt... safe.
Abhineet leaned against the counter, studying her. Not the way others did, trying to dissect or criticize, but as though he was trying to understand without forcing her to speak.
"You don't talk much," he said finally.
Her instinct was to apologize, but something in his tone—neutral, not accusing—stopped her. Instead, she whispered, "I was never given much room to."
The words slipped out before she could catch them. Heat flushed her cheeks. She braced for the judgment, the follow-up questions.
But none came. Abhineet only nodded once, his eyes steady, like he had already expected that answer.
He changed the subject. "Do you want this bakery to grow?"
Trisha blinked. "Grow?"
"As a business." His gaze swept the small space—the chipped wooden tables, the modest display case. "Do you want it bigger? More customers? Or do you prefer it just like this?"
The question made her chest ache. She had dreams once, of owning a real café, a place filled with laughter and books and the smell of pastries. But her parents never let her speak of them. To dream was to invite ridicule.
She lowered her eyes. "I don't know."
Abhineet's expression shifted—something unreadable, but it felt like quiet understanding. He didn't push, didn't tell her what she should want. He simply said, "Think about it."
The rain finally broke outside, heavy drops drumming against the glass. Trisha moved to shut the window before the wind could scatter the napkins, but the latch stuck. She tugged harder, frustration rising.
Without a word, Abhineet stepped behind her. His arm brushed hers as he reached up, one effortless motion sliding the latch into place.
She froze. He was too close. She could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint cologne mixed with rain.
"Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
He stepped back immediately, giving her space again, but his eyes lingered on her face. "You don't need to thank me for small things."
Small things. He didn't know how much small kindnesses meant to her, how rarely she received them.
Her heart raced, and she looked away quickly, busying herself with a rag on the counter. "You'll get late. Don't you have work?"
"I do," he said simply. But he didn't move toward the door. Instead, he picked up another cookie, half-smiled—just barely—and said, "I'll take this with me."
She almost laughed. Almost.
When he finally left, the bell chimed again, and the rain swallowed the sound of his footsteps.
Trisha leaned against the counter, pressing her hand against her chest. For the first time in years, she felt something stir inside her—something lighter than fear, quieter than pain.
Maybe it was foolish. Maybe it was fleeting. But she couldn't shake the memory of steady eyes, a shared cookie, and silence that somehow spoke louder than words.
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✨ End of Chapter 2 ✨
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