10. FORGET ME NOT

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•••••••••

The havan fire had died to embers. Ash from the final ahutis floated lightly into the air like blessings—prayers gone upward, delivered.

The family had begun to shift, the rhythm of ritual softening into murmurs.

Then came Shivansh, full of breeze and barefoot imbalance, hopping down from the temple steps..

"I'll come too—" , but before he could get more excited, Rudra cut him in with low authority..

"Bas kar, champu. Go, help Maa & pass this to her."

He extended a folded red chunari..

Then he turned to Rida, who had just returned from helping Dev..

"Bhabhi..." Rudra said, tone low, respectful, quite..

"Can you just... accompany Bhai till the steps? He won't ask. But someone needs to hand him the towel..Or the shirt."

She looked fabric in Rudra's hands.Her hands were already occupied with Prakhar's shirt, which had somehow been passed to her earlier..

But nodded, silently.

So, she moved—wordless beside him..

The path to the ghat wasn't long but felt sacred, like descending into a myth.The sand underfoot, the faint wind catching the edge of his dhoti & angavastram.The river ahead glistened with that eternal quiet only holy waters know.

His silhouette— broad-shouldered, composed seemed carved from dusk and devotion. His masculinity wasn't in how he walked—it was in how he carried things..

Regal. Calm. Intimidating.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he.

Reaching the edge, water met his feet like a memory returning—cool, constant. He descended into the river slowly. Deliberately. Each step a ripple of grace.

Then he paused & stared at the Kalash—not in submission, but in something deeper.

Remembrance.

Inside, the boli floated gently—a marigold petal curled around a coin, Akshat (grains of rice) softened by turmeric, betel nut, a red thread soaked gold, and a folded leaf with someone's prayer scrawled inside.

He exhaled once...

A slow, measured breath—as though with it, he was letting go of every word he'd never said out loud.

Then, with silent precision, he tipped the kalash.The contents slipped out not rushed..

Just Released.

He watched it go.

Not with tears. Not with regret.

But with that haunting calm only men who've lost something and chosen to live anyway can carry.

Then, he crossed his arms over his chest, spine curved with fluid control—he submerged.

The angavastram, soaked and heavy, floated around him like white smoke in water, translucent now, rippling softly in the holy current.

And then—

He rose.

Not abruptly but like the river itself had chosen his return..

Water cascaded from his head dripping down the sharp line of his jaw, off his nose, and straight from his lips like unsaid truths.That sacred Yojanapavita across his chest pulled tight, rising higher with each movement like a mark of both manhood and dharma.

Each time he took a dip, his wet hair swept back then fell forward, clinging to his temple and forehead rebelliously in a way that was almost cruelly poetic..

He looked like someone forged in stormwater and firelight.

Divine. Untouchable.

Like he didn't belong to this century.

Behind him, she stood few steps away on the near edge of the river, her dupatta fluttering..Arms full of fabric that smelled like him and fire.

She could hear Akansha's voice calling out to Shivansh, teasing him over something.They had followed her a few moments later, walking barefoot on the sand, trying not to disturb the sanctity of the moment, though Shivansh was very much in his chaotic self.

She didn't look back just watched him silently..

He took another dip—

And again, the angavastram rose, floating like a halo before clinging again..

Her fingers curled around the fabric, grounding herself.

She looked away when Dadi approached her, those sacred red-yellow threads — the rakshasutras blessed by the pandit held her palm. Shivansh and Akansha had already received theirs tied loosely around their wrists, still wet with the water sprinkled by the priest.

Dadi offered her one of the thread slightly thicker, obviously meant for him..

"Yeh Sutra Prakhar ke baan-"

But a sudden stumble from Shivansh, followed by his usual animated turn, sent his elbow swinging carelessly—and the  rakshasutra slipped.

*plop*

All of them froze.

"ANSH!" , Akansha hissed.

"Kya?! Woh... main-yeh... oh shit," he fumbled, peering into the ripples below. "Sorry! sorry! sorry!"

Dadi's face went stern, not angry but disappointed. The thread had disappeared, vanishing into the current like it had been meant to.

Rida stared at the water..Without letting the moment show on her face, she did something that didn't go unnoticed by Dadi...

She took her thread from her hands & folded the thread gently in her palm slipping it inside the dry angavastram carefully tucking it within the folds..

"Mai baad mein bandhawa lungi", she said glancing at her arms..

Dadi said nothing. But her aged eyes lingered for a second longer.

The river flowed with the same calm. Rida stood there still carrying his shirt & dhoti, pressed against her chest..

Nearby, a delicate stole of fresh flowers lay floating strung together with marigolds, jasmine, sunflower, lily and Forget-Me-Not flowers —her mother has once planted in their garden under the apricot tree..

Her gaze fell on them.A memory cracked through her like thunder. Her fingers ran through the flowers softly..

( Flashback •

The rain was falling in soft, steady sheets, drumming on the rooftop like a lullaby of old love stories.

Rida, no more than five, stood by the glass window, her nose squished against the large foggy pane, eyes squinting through the blur.

And there he was—her father, Vikram Thakur—in the backyard garden, in the middle of a storm, completely drenched… but not in distress.

He was smiling. Focused. Crouched under the apricot tree with a basket in his lap.

She gasped softly, eyes widening as she watched him pick one blue flower after another—forget-me-nots—with careful, almost reverent fingers.

“Paaapa’s in the rain,” she whispered in a scandalized baby voice.

“He t-touching Mama's fwowwers!”

“M-Mama’s gonna beat him with rolling pin,” she whispered in horror.

But she couldn’t look away.

Her tiny fingers clutched the window’s edge..Her pigtails bobbed with every angry breath she took.

By the time he came in—dripping, freezing, proud—Rida was on full alert. She watched him sneak back in, hiding something behind his back..

Her mother—Vridhi Thakur, seated peacefully in the veranda with a blanket around her and a mug of chai in hand, looked up as he entered.

“Where have you been..You are all soaked...If you’ll catch a cold, I am not gonna make soup for you tonight,” she warned.

"Then I hope this makes me worth the sneeze,” he smiled, pulling out a small wooden box from his pocket.

Inside it lay a delicate bracelet—threaded in shades of indigo & lavender, a single pressed forget-me-not encased in resin at its center.

Her mother blinked.

“It's your favorite,” he whispered, slipping it onto her wrist.

“You’re insane.”

"I’m just in love," he spoke..

And just then—

“W-WAIT A MINUUUUTE!!”

Little Rida came storming in her tiny feet slapping the cool floor. She had her hair tied into messy pigtails,wearing her favourite oversized pink raincoat halfway buttoned despite being very much indoors, socks missing..Her hands were fisted, cheeks puffed out with rage..

“You g-give Mama pwesent!? You n-no give me!!” she yelled, lower lip trembling.

“You was in rain a-and didn’t even c-c-caww meee!!”

Her father turned slowly—like a man who just realized he forgot his daughter’s tea party appointment and might not survive the fallout.

“I-It was… it was for your Mama—”

“NO!!” she stomped her tiny foot on the floor in anger..

“M-mama gets fwower thingy… Rida gets nuffing!”

Her mother bit her lip, trying not to burst into laughter.

And that’s when he did it.

In one swift move, her father scooped her up into his arms, spun her around, and kissed both her chubby cheeks with loud smooches.

“Mwah!”

“Mwahhh!”

“My Princess! Forgive your foolish king!”

She squirmed but giggled, caught in a mix of rage and love.

Then, with a smirk, he pulled something from his other pocket—A small, slightly wet, flower crown—woven hurriedly from forget-me-nots, uneven but perfect.

“I made you a crown,” he said, slipping it onto her head.

“Because you don’t need a bracelet… you deserve a throne.”

She froze. Eyes wide.

“Fwower cwown?” she whispered, fingers brushing the petals.

“Only the bravest queens get one,” he winked.

She sniffled, then looked him dead in the eyes…

…and bit his nose.

“OW!” he yelped.

She giggled hysterically.

“B-bad Papa,” she teased, then leaned forward and kissed the spot.

“See? Kissie now. No pain, wight?”

“Right,” he whispered, melting. “You always fix me.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, mumbling sleepily now.

"Ith's biyotiful"

"Just like you—messy, wild, impossible to ignore,"  he said softly, brushing her back..

"One day you’ll also make one just like this for someone who makes your heart beat like thunder in a monsoon... and you’ll know he’s the one only if you want to walk into the rain for him without a second thought", he whispered slightly..

• / Flashback )

Her vision blurred with suppressed ache.

Her throat tightened.

But just then—

A boy shouted, "Mummy! She's stealing the flowers!", pointing directly at her and rushed to her..His voice was sharp and unsure.Others nearby turned their heads.

A couple of murmurs flickered in the background.

Rida turned, startled-eyes wide, mouth parting..

She took a step back, shielding her emotions behind silence.

A few elders glanced toward the scene. One woman stepped closer. Another muttered something under her breath, "Dekhne mein to bade Ghar ki lagti hai.."

Shivansh stepped forward like a lightning bolt.

"Excuse me?! That's my bhabhi. She didn't steal anything..So mind your tongue before throwing around words like that."

Still, Rida's fingers trembled slightly. The weight of old wounds was heavier than anyone there knew.

"I... I didn't take anything," she whispered, softly, truthfully...

Akansha stepped forward, pointing at the boy, “She didn’t steal anything. She was just standing there, watching them.”

The child's mother, visibly embarrassed now, knelt to her son and said, "Say sorry to didi. She didn't steal any flowers.These are ritual flowers, not toys.."

Her eyes briefly flicked to the Rida, a hint of nervous recognition in them..

But Rida didn't even hear it.

Prakhar who was almost done motioned subtly to Kaizan nearby—his calm presence enough to settle the chaos. Kaizan moved quickly, stepping between the crowd and Rida with quiet control, making sure no more murmurs passed.

The woman pulled her child back, muttering apologies.

And then—

His shadow fell beside her.

Still wet from the river..

His beard still dripped faintly.

His lips—reddened slightly from cold water—remained unspeaking.

But his presence was loud.

Solid.

Unshakeable.

He didn't speak to her right away.

He just... looked.

And in that moment—her flustered breath, her stormy eyes, the way she gripped his shirt like a barrier between her and the world—he saw it all.

Unspoken pain.

Not from the accusation.

But from something older. Deeper. Something that didn't heal with time.

She only moved when Prakhar extended a hand—not to her—but to take towel, his shirt & dry dhoti from her arms.

Their fingers brushed.

He didn't say thank you.

He didn't need to.

As he took the fabric from her, his eyes held hers—not accusing, not questioning—just seeing.

In that moment something ancient in him recognized something broken in her.

..............

Down below, beside the line of black cars, Rida stood with a quiet purpose, her fingers closed around a single Rakshasutra.

Her eyes flickered to the distance—

where he stood, leaning against the farthest car.

Tall.

Composed.

He had just dismissed Kaizan with a curt nod, fingers still curled loosely around his phone.

She walked toward him.

He looked up.

Eyes dark. Brows slightly furrowed—not in anger, but with the subtle surprise of a man who hadn’t expected something and yet didn’t mind it.

She said nothing.

Just extended the thread forward—red and yellow glinting softly against her skin.

He glanced at the rakshasutra. Then at her.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did she.

Instead, her fingers reached for his wrist —the one still holding the phone loosely...

He didn’t resist.

Didn’t say a word.

And in that one moment, without asking, without waiting—she tied the thread herself.

Gently.Precisely.

He stared at the knot.

Not at her.

And yet, something in his jaw clenched—not in annoyance.

In wonder. In Awe..

He hadn’t expected her to be bold enough...

She hadn’t expected him to let her.

A few steps away, Badi Dadi & Dadi stood under the temple arch, half-shadowed, half-lit by the temple flame.

Dadi just smiled to herself—like someone who knew all the stories before the pages turned...

...........

[ AT OFFICE ]

The digital clock on the wall blinked in silence. Prakhar leaned back in his chair, the weight of his stare cold enough to freeze fire. His fingers drummed against the armrest. He picked up his phone and dialed Neil.

Neil picking up instantly, "Sir."

"Did you find her?," he spoke..

Neil’s voice filtered through the speaker, cautious yet efficient.

“Yes, sir..She’s from AR’s team. That day she was personally here to deliver the flagship project's file—the one we signed with them...Turns out..It's her work.I’m already reaching out to her colleagues. I’ll be there in your cabin shortly.”

A long pause.

Prakhar’s jaw tensed.

"Either bring that girl or my bracelet.."

With that he ended the call with a sharp flick of his thumb, jaw set, eyes narrowing with quiet calculation....

............

[ 10 Minutes Later.. ]

"SIR THAT GIRL IS NONE OTHER THAN...MRS RATHOD..."

"She used to work at AR."

That was all Neil said before quietly exiting the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Prakhar stood still, the words echoing in his mind like a cruel reminder etched into the walls of fate.

His chest felt too tight.

Her. Again.

Why did it always come back to her? He thought..

No matter how many walls he built or how coldly he played the part—

the universe had this twisted obsession with bringing her back into his orbit.

He hated that.

And yet... it wasn’t hatred burning in his chest. It was something far more dangerous. Something he refused to name. His eyes flicked toward the window, lost in memory.

To that day...The bracelet..The collision.

( Flashback •—

That day, he had been on his way to meet a high-profile investor— his mind razor-focused, his stride sharp as ever, echoing through the polished marble hallways of Rathod Corporation..The corridor was restricted—meant only for CEOs and upper management. No one else was allowed here.

And yet, a sudden flurry of movement from the left caught his attention.

A girl.

Clearly flustered —was rummaging through her bag in haste, oblivious to her surroundings.

Her long hair veiled her face completely, shielding her identity.

She didn’t know she had wandered into forbidden territory.

She didn’t see him.

And before he could react—they collided.

It was a sharp, sideways impact. Her shoulder brushed hard against his chest, her momentum throwing her off balance.She gasped.

Her heel wobbled.And then her slender form spiraled downward, like a petal caught in the wind seeming to sink into the ground..

And something in him snapped—instinct taking over as he reached out. His arm circled around her waist, pulling her back against him before she hit the floor.

For a heartbeat, everything stopped. Her hair, soft and cascading like silk, slapped his face and her scent— it wrapped around him like a ghost.

As she struggled to regain her balance, one arm instinctively wrapped around his, while her other hand clutched his wrist with a gentle yet firm pressure.The warmth of her touch seeped into his skin, unexpected and intimate.

For a fleeting moment, they stood suspended in time. Her back pressed against his chest. Her heartbeat fluttering close enough to feel.His breath slowed. The scent of her hair wrapped around him..

She adjusted herself slightly, clearing the strands of hair that had fallen over her face. Her voice laced with apology, drifted through the air.

"I’m sorry… It was—"

But he didn't give her a chance to finish. His words, born from the urgency of the moment, cut through the air. "Watch out!"

The words were rough, an echo of his urgency—more brusque than intended.

He hadn't even bothered to glance at her face, to acknowledge the person behind the accidental collision.

He pulled back abruptly, irritated by the delay—

but in doing so, something tugged.

She winced. Her head jerked slightly.

His retreat had yanked her hair harshly, unintentionally.

He didn’t apologise.

He didn’t even noticed..

Unbeknownst to either of them, a few strands had caught in the buttons of his shirt....

—• /Flashback )

He exhaled—slow, heavy.

Then, without a word, picked up his coat from the armrest. Straightened it and headed out of his cabin..

The elevator hummed softly as it brought him to the ground floor.

The lobby was quiet. His car waited outside.

But the glance at end of the hallway—stilled his steps.

To Obsidian Suite..

No nameplate. No instructions. Just a matte-black door with his fingerprint burned into its existence.

Not hidden. Just unreachable.

He turned.

Walked in.

The lights warmed.

The door clicked shut.

Sleek charcoal interiors. A long black leather bench. Spotlights.

A wardrobe lined with tailored suits in pristine plastic wrap. His initials stitched in every collar.

A backlit mirror—silent until he walked in.

Italian marble floors, veins of obsidian running like secrets beneath his steps.

A mini-bar. Scent diffuser. Custom shoe rack. A central island where his cufflinks, watches, and tie pins lay like weapons—measured, precise.

There it was.

Just beyond the lounge chair—

A linen shirt, half-slid between the console and the armrest, crumpled awkwardly where someone had probably meant to throw it away—but never did..

The one he’d thrown months ago, when Rishabh had walked in with that damn smirk.

“Tere shirt ke button mein yeh kiski zulfon ka silsila chhupa baitha hai, mere bhai?”

“Batana padega… yeh toh headline banegi. CEO Rathod caught—with a strand of evidence!”

“Tu toh ladkiyon se door rehta tha na, bhai? Tu toh bada Tej nikla!”

He remembered it now—

Rishabh had laughed at the hair curled around his top buttons back then.

He hadn’t answered then. Just stripped the shirt off in irritation, tossed it, grabbed a fresh one, and left for investors like nothing happened..

But now, months later… the shirt still lay there.

Silent. Soft.

Because It’s his exclusive personal room.While it’s dusted, mopped, and reset by a trusted staff member, they don’t touch his personal belongings...

Back then, he wasn’t married, he never figured out whose it was because to him it didn’t matter..

He picked it up and paused.

The button was still slightly loose.

His thumb brushed over her hair...

Still there.

Tangled

Dark. Fine. Familiar.

Not just anyone’s.

Hers.

From a time before they were anything.

Before vows. Before silence.

Before the war of distance that would soon follow.

He plucked it gently. Rolled it between his fingers.

And thought—

"So it was you… even then.."

...........

[ At Rathod Mansion ]

As he entered the hall, the familiar stillness of the Rathod mansion settled around him like an old cloak—but today, it carried weight. Tension. Purpose.

His steps echoed softly on marble, deliberate and calm, yet something beneath the surface simmered.

Near the side, arranging the silver trays stood—the family’s most trusted housekeeper. An mid-aged woman with hair neatly tied in a bun..

ROSE

She had served the Rathods for over eight years. Quiet, loyal.. She knew every corner of this home & every rhythm of those who lived inside.

And the moment she turned and saw him, something flickered in her expression.

She bowed instantly, spine straight, voice soft and precise.

“Sir… you’re early.”

He didn’t respond with pleasantries—he rarely did.

"Where’s Rida?",  he asked curt and straight to the point..

She straightened, replying with soft respect—the kind reserved for a man whose silence weighed heavier than most voices.

"In the sitting area. With the family."

He nodded once and moved past her. His coat brushed against his side with each step he took Calm but Resolute. His phone still loosely gripped in his hand..

The muffled murmurs from the sitting area faded as he approached.

As he entered the room, the shift was palpable.

The casual chatter paused mid-sentence. His presence drew every gaze. It wasn't a dramatic silence—just that unnatural stillness that follows when someone unexpected enters..

Rida sat beside his mother, her hands clasped on her lap, the corner of her dupatta slipping slightly down her shoulder.Her fingers paused mid-adjustment..

His eyes found her and locked on her.. Unblinking..

Her brows slightly drew together in confusion..

And then, without thinking, he stepped toward her.

She blinked visibly flustered & instinctively looked toward his mother then to badi dadi who already looked unimpressed..Her fingers twitched nervously on the edge of her dupatta..

Her body tensing as his presence drew closer..

But his focus didn’t waver.

He stepped forward.

And then—without warning, without asking—he reached for her wrist.Not roughly. Not with fury. But with a quiet intensity that made her stomach flip.

His fingers curled around her softly..

Her Eyes widening slightly. Her breath was caught somewhere between surprise and heat as if processing what just happened. Her gaze dropped to his hand on her skin… then back to his face and looked around, embarrassed, flustered..

From the way his touch ignored the room around them.

This was the middle of a family gathering. Eyes were on her. On them...

But he didn't care..

His thumb moved slightly, gently. Unintentional..

“Come on…!! ”

His voice followed—low, unplanned—a murmur meant for her ears alone.

Not a command.

Not a request.

It slipped from him like reflex. Natural. Inevitable.

And then—

He pulled.

Gently. Smoothly. But with a fire that crackled beneath the surface.

She didn’t even lift her eyes.

Couldn’t. Her lashes fluttered downward, cheeks flushing with that helpless kind of embarrassment—the kind that comes when you’re too aware of being watched..

Akansha watched the scene unfold with a sheepish grin, biting her lower lip to suppress the giggle brewing in her chest.

Shivansh, always the instigator, raised his brows, impressed, his grin spreading like wildfire.

He jabbed Akansha playfully in the arm.

"Damn... that was smooth," he whispered teasingly, loud enough for her to hear.

Akansha chuckled under her breath, hand over her lips.

His mother noticed. And a small smile ghosted across her lips—gentle, knowing.

The elders said nothing.

Yet she followed him.

Drawn into his gravity, breath trembling, mind spinning.

But just as he led her across the threshold, badi dadi’s cold voice sliced through the air like a blade..

Not loud.

Not angry..

But laced with layered meaning.

"Besharam."

Rida flinched slightly.

She couldn’t even look back. Her mind was a swirl of embarrassment, confusion, and something deeper she couldn’t name. Her wrist still burned under his touch.

Shivansh leaned back dramatically, throwing his arm over the backrest, and called out theatrically—

Shivansh couldn’t help himself— "Newlyweds, badi dadi! You want him to wait for an appointment slip?"

Akansha gasped, slapping his arm...

.................

As soon as they stepped inside their room, his grip loosened from her wrist like a leash released—only for him to whirl around and face her with a sharp gaze.His voice, deep and calm, almost too controlled.

“Give me my bracelet.”

Her brows instantly furrowed.

“Which bracelet?”, she asked genuinely confused..

The way she said it—so clueless—only tightened the coil inside his chest.

“The one I lost to you when you came to my office for the first time"

His voice, low and simmering.

She blinked, confused. The corner of her lips twitched—not quite a smile. More like that skeptical curve she wore when processing too much too fast.

She said nothing. Just stared.

That silence—it scratched his skin.

“You really don’t get it?”

His voice tightened, frustration curling at the edge, his fingers twitching slightly as if holding back the urge to reach for her...

She still said nothing.

And then he stepped forward, his shadow swallowing hers—looming, silent, like a storm on the verge of breaking.

“You came to my office almost 6 months ago…to deliver those so-called file to your colleagues", his voice was low, barely restrained..

“You bumped into me. It slipped off. I didn’t realize until later—”

he exhaled slowly, jaw clenched,

“It was gone. You took it with you.”

He wasn’t accusing.

He wasn’t begging.

But something in his tone…

Made it feel like she hadn’t just taken a bracelet.

She’d taken a piece of him.

She searched his face like trying to catch up with time.

"I looked for it everywhere—but you…”, he pointed gently, index finger hovering close to her shoulder.

“You were the only one who collided with me that day.”

The memory sharpened in her mind.

Her gaze locked on him again.

Still silent. Still stunned.

But inside—her thoughts burned.

Fast. Raw. Loud.

"So, you were that Bastard!! who nearly yanked half of my hair out."

Her scalp tingled at the memory.

“I’d turned my entire office upside down, I even checked the bloody elevator camera footage, I asked the cleaning staff, I replayed everything in my head a hundred times—”

His voice caught—then steadied again,

“And every time I go back, it ends with you. Standing there. Colliding into me. And my wrist going bare after that.”

She blinked, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and disbelief—because now he sounded less angry and more haunted.

And yet—he didn’t ask. He commanded again.

“So give it back. Right now!”

He must’ve caught the flicker of recognition in her eyes..

“Where is it?” he asked, calm but commanding.

She folded her arms this time, lifting her chin ever so slightly..Then, with a single step back, she created space.

Distance. Control.

Her voice came soft—too soft...

“How do I even believe it’s yours?”

Not defensive.

Not sincere.

But cool. Mocking.

Curious in that way that wasn’t really curiosity—more like testing him.

Poking the beast to see if it still growled.

He dragged his fingers slowly across his temple. Calm. Measured. But the tightness around his mouth said otherwise.

He exhaled sharply.

“Don’t be silly. Not just anyone wears it…”

Her silence taunted him.

So he reached—gripped her arm.. Not harsh, but with pressure.

"I don’t like repeating myself.”

His eyes locked on hers.

“You had it. Six months ago..I want it. Now.”

She yanked his hand back...

“Huh!!! You think you’re special or something?"

Her voice laced with mockery, hitting his pride straight on.

His voice dropped—soft, but with that razor-edge chill.

“Don’t play games with me.”

His fingers twitched.

In one clean motion, he reached out and grabbed her arm—not with anger, but a sudden, quiet urgency.

He pulled her closing the space between them in a heartbeat. And as she stumbled into that nearness, her hand flew out instinctively to steady herself—

And landed flat against the front of his coat.

Just above his abdomen.

Her palm rested there—soft, unintentional. Right over the spot where tailored fabric barely concealed the shape of him underneath.

The height difference brought her close to his chest—

not close enough to feel caged…

but close enough to feel his presence wrap around her like heat.

Her fingers flexed slightly—reflexive, unsure.

She felt it. The ridges beneath.

The heat.

And he felt her feel it.

But he didn’t react.

Didn’t blink.

Her breath faltered.

Her silence was dangerous.

Too still. Too unreadable.

But it was her eyes—ba flicker of something in them. Uncertainty.Hesitation.

That made his chest tighten.

And then he leaned in lowering his face to hers, tilting his head until they were on eye-level. His gaze pierced through her as if trying to see through her.

And then, in a voice so soft it ached,

“Have You Lost It?”

Not accusing.

Not pleading.

Just… raw.

His grip tightened just slightly, the space between them gone now.

“Where is it?”

But something in his tone…

Made it feel like she hadn’t just taken a bracelet.

She’d taken a piece of him.

..............

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