The evening breeze on the terrace carried laughter, the soft chiming of anklets, and the faint hum of city sounds below. Fairy lights wrapped around the railings like little fireflies, and the Singhania family had gathered for one of those rare, unguarded moments, everyone together, happy, loud, and alive.

Kiara sat beside Aryansh’s mother, her dupatta loosely draped, her laughter slipping out more freely than it had in weeks. Even Ayush had joined in with mock enthusiasm, dramatically tuning an imaginary sitar before bursting into song.

“Okay! Okay! Next turn!” he declared, snatching the bottle from the center of the terrace floor. With a mischievous grin, he spun it. The bottle turned fast, everyone waiting in anticipation, laughter bubbling until it stopped,its mouth pointing right at Kiara.

A delighted “Ooooh!” echoed across the terrace.

Kiara froze for a second, then chuckled nervously. “Why is it always me?”

“Because fate wants to hear your voice, beta,” Aryansh’s mother teased.

Aryansh leaned back in his chair, silent, his eyes trained on her. He hadn’t seen her laugh like this in a long time, that light, effortless laugh that used to make entire rooms feel warmer.

Kiara hesitated before beginning, her voice soft at first, then growing steadier with each word. It was a song laced with unspoken pain and quiet tenderness “Bol Kaffara.” The melody wrapped around the terrace, slow and haunting, carrying something raw in its rhythm.

The family swayed to it, clapping lightly, but Aryansh just sat there motionless, his jaw tight, eyes locked on her. Every note felt like it was pulling at an old wound, reopening something he’d buried under layers of composure and guilt.

She didn’t look at him once. She didn’t need to. The meaning was clear enough.

When she finished, everyone applauded, Ayush the loudest of all. Kiara smiled politely and passed the bottle. But Aryansh couldn’t shake off the tightness in his chest. It wasn’t just the song, it was her. The way she still held herself with grace, even when her words and silences cut like glass.

A few more rounds went by, laughter and teasing floating through the air. Then, inevitably, the bottle landed on Aryansh.

Ayush’s grin widened. “Now it’s your turn, Mr. Business Tycoon. Let’s see if your voice can handle emotions too.”

Even his mother chuckled. “Come on, beta, one song won’t hurt.”

Aryansh gave a faint sigh. “Alright then.”

He sang “Asaan Nahi Yahan,” his voice low, roughened by exhaustion and something deeper  regret, maybe. The song spoke of brokenness, of fighting for something that was already slipping away. Every line hit too close to home.

Kiara didn’t move, didn’t blink. She just watched him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her throat constricting as his voice filled the evening air. The others might not have noticed, but for her every word felt like a confession.

When he finished, silence lingered for a heartbeat too long before his mother softly clapped, breaking the tension.

“That was beautiful,” she said warmly. “I can finally see my old Aryansh again”

He looked down, forcing a smile. “Maybe.”

The evening faded into soft chatter again until Kiara leaned toward his mother, her voice low. “Aunty, I think I’ll rest for a bit. My leg’s starting to ache.”

“Of course, beta,” his mother said gently, then turned to Aryansh. “Take her to your room, she shouldn’t walk alone.”

Kiara started to protest, but his mother’s tone left no room for it. Aryansh nodded silently and rose to help her. The laughter from the terrace faded behind them as they walked down the stairs slowly, the sound of their footsteps the only thing between them.

When they entered the room, the silence grew heavier. The fading evening light streamed through the curtains, bathing everything in gold. Kiara sat on the bed, carefully unwrapping her bandage.

Aryansh stood near the door, watching her for a moment before speaking quietly. “I know the song was for me.”

Her fingers stilled, eyes fixed on the bandage. “I never said that…” she murmured.

He let out a dry laugh. “I’m not that gullible, Mrs. Singhania.”

Her head snapped up. “Stop calling me that. I do not take you as a husband.”

He looked at her then calm, steady, unflinching. “When you wear that mangalsutra and that sindoor, both in my name… when we took those seven pheras together that makes me your husband, Kiara.”

His tone wasn’t cruel, just… resigned. As if he wasn’t trying to win, only to remind her of something she wanted to forget.

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. The words caught somewhere between anger and disbelief.

He crouched down briefly to check her leg, his fingers gentle, his gaze deliberately averted. “It’ll heal soon,” he said, standing up again. “Don’t strain it.”

And then, without waiting for a response, he left the room, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

Kiara stared after him, heart pounding with irritation and confusion. He was infuriating, calm where she wanted him angry, patient where she wanted him gone. She pressed her lips together, breathing out sharply.

But then, her eyes flickered with something colder.
She remembered something: a memory, an opportunity.

If he wanted to play the part of a perfect husband, then she’d play her own part too.
It was time she started her plan.

And this time, she’d make sure Aryansh Singhania would never see it coming.

The night had settled gently over the Singhania mansion. The faint hum of crickets outside blended with the soft chime of cutlery as the family gathered for dinner. The long mahogany table was filled with laughter and easy chatter,Ayush cracking jokes, their mother serving food despite the helpers hovering close, and Aryansh, as usual, sitting at the head of the table, composed and silent.

He had just begun to reach for the serving bowl when he noticed movement beside him. Kiara   was slow, graceful, hesitant , she walked around the table and sat beside him.

For a brief second, the clatter of plates seemed to fade.

She had never done that before. Not since… everything broke between them. Normally, she’d take the farthest seat possible, always making sure there was space physical, emotional, deliberate. But tonight, she sat next to him without being asked, without even glancing his way.

It wasn’t much  just a simple gesture.
But to Aryansh, it felt like the first light after a long storm.

He tried not to look, but his eyes betrayed him. She was quietly helping his mother pass dishes down the table, her voice soft and even. She laughed at something Ayush said, and for a fleeting moment, she looked… at peace.

And in that quietness, Aryansh felt something shift,not between them, but inside him.

Maybe, just maybe, she was giving this marriage their marriage, another chance to breathe.

He kept his gaze low, scooping rice onto his plate, though his heartbeat was louder than it should have been. Every small thing she did tonight, the way she leaned slightly toward him to reach the bowl, the faint scent of sandalwood from her hair, the way her bangles brushed against his wrist every detail carved itself into his mind.

His mother, ever observant, smiled softly from across the table. Ayush caught her expression and smirked.
“Finally, peace at the dinner table,” he teased.

Kiara shot him a look, but even that was softer than usual. “Eat your food, Ayush.”

Aryansh bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this her voice mingling with the small domestic noises, her presence close enough to feel.

As dinner went on, he found himself stealing glances at her more than once.
The way she occasionally frowned when Ayush spoke too loudly.
The way she listened patiently to his mother’s stories.
And the way her hand, when it brushed against his by accident, made his breath hitch.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he was sitting across from a stranger wearing his wife’s face.
For the first time, she wasn’t just tolerating his presence she was… sharing it.

When everyone finished, his mother rose to bless them both with a smile too knowing to be innocent.
Kiara turned slightly toward him. “You should eat more,” she said quietly, gesturing toward his barely touched food.

He looked at her, eyes softening, voice almost a whisper. “If this is what giving me a chance looks like, I’ll take it… no questions asked.”

Her lips parted, but she said nothing.

And yet, she didn’t move away.

For the rest of the evening, they ate side by side two people who had once been everything to each other, now sitting quietly, trying to remember what it felt like to belong.

And somewhere deep inside, Aryansh thought
Maybe she hasn’t closed every door yet.

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, painting the room in a muted gold. The faint clatter of utensils came from downstairs Ayush arguing with the cook again about too much salt, their mother humming an old bhajan under her breath.

Kiara stood by the mirror, tying her hair into a loose braid. The scent of freshly brewed tea and cardamom reached her, grounding her in that familiar domestic rhythm she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time. When she stepped out of the room, Aryansh was already in the dining hall, reading something on his tablet, dressed in his crisp charcoal shirt and watching glinting faintly under the morning light.

“Good morning,” she said softly, more out of politeness than warmth.

He looked up immediately, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. “Morning.”

His mother, standing by the table, clapped her hands together. “Finally! Both of you ate breakfast like a normal couple.”

“Ma—” Aryansh started, but Kiara hid a small smile behind her teacup.

Breakfast was simple toast, fruit, and conversation that lingered somewhere between polite and pleasant. Every now and then, their hands brushed while reaching for something, and neither pulled back as quickly as they might have before.

When it was time to leave, his mother handed Kiara a small tiffin. “Just in case you both get hungry on the way. Highway food isn’t always reliable.”

Kiara nodded, touched. “Thank you, Ma.”

Aryansh waited by the car, the driver having been given the day off. It was a four-hour drive to the site he had to visit, and though Kiara hadn’t planned to accompany him, his mother’s gentle insistence and Aryansh’s quiet glance had been enough to make her agree.

She opened the car door and instead of sliding into the backseat as she usually did, she sat in the passenger seat beside him.

It startled him for a second. A subtle shift unspoken, but loud in meaning.
He didn’t comment. He just started the car, the corners of his mouth curving ever so slightly.

The road stretched ahead, lined with trees swaying in the gentle wind. Music played softly from the stereo old Bollywood classics that his mother loved. For a while, they both sat in comfortable silence, broken only by the hum of the tires and the rhythmic beat of the wipers when it began to drizzle.

At one point, she glanced at him. “You could have brought a driver. You’ve been driving for hours.”

He shrugged lightly, eyes on the road. “You don’t drive fast enough to make it interesting.”

She scoffed. “That’s because I prefer living.”

He chuckled quietly, the sound surprising even himself.

The rain began to pour harder, the drizzle turning into a rhythmic downpour that danced across the windshield. The sky had turned a shade of soft gray, the air cool and fresh. A roadside dhaba appeared up ahead, its tin roof glistening with rainwater, steam rising from a massive kettle of chai.

“Let’s stop,” he said, parking under the shade of a neem tree.

Kiara nodded, pulling her dupatta closer as they stepped out. The earthy smell of rain hit instantly wet soil, chai, and smoke blending into something oddly nostalgic.

He ordered tea and pakoras while she stood near the edge of the dhaba, watching the rain hit the puddles.

And then, without thinking, she stepped forward.

Her sandals splashed lightly in the water as she tilted her face up toward the sky, letting the rain soak her. For a moment, she closed her eyes, the droplets tracing her cheeks, her lips parting slightly as if she were breathing in freedom itself.

Aryansh stood by the dhaba door, half-shielded under the awning. His gaze softened, caught between awe and ache. The sight of her hair plastered to her skin, eyes closed, smiling faintly like she hadn’t in years did something to him.

He remembered that version of her.
The girl who once dragged him into the rain just because “the world looks prettier when it’s drenched.”

Now, watching her, the corners of his mouth lifted unconsciously. There was something painfully beautiful about the moment like the rain had washed away the walls between them, even if only for a heartbeat.

She turned then, catching him staring.

“What?” she asked, voice half a laugh.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, looking away. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“I’ve had worse,” she replied, that small smile still lingering on her lips.

He didn’t answer but when he handed her the cup of tea, his fingers brushed hers, warm despite the cold rain.

Neither of them spoke after that. The storm around them softened, but the one between them — quiet, fragile, unspoken only grew louder.

She stood in the rain, her hair clinging to her face, droplets glimmering on her skin like scattered diamonds. Aryansh was still inside, dry and motionless, one hand around his cup of tea as he watched her part amused, part exasperated, part completely undone.

The dhaba had emptied out almost entirely; only the owner and a sleepy helper sat huddled near the counter. The sound of the rain drowned out everything else the honking trucks, the distant chatter, even their own thoughts.

Kiara turned to look at him, her lips curving mischievously.

“What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, trying to sound unaffected.

“You,” she said, walking back toward him, droplets gliding down her cheeks. “Standing there like a stranger.”

“I’m being sensible,” he replied dryly, though his eyes didn’t leave hers. “It’s pouring.”

She smiled wider. “Mister, have fun.”

And before he could step back, she caught his wrist and tugged him forward.

He stumbled a little, his hand tightening instinctively around hers and within seconds, the rain hit him full force. Cold, sudden, relentless.

“Kiara–” he started, but she only laughed.

A full, unrestrained laugh that reached her eyes, echoing through the storm. She twirled once, arms spread wide, the hem of her kurta swirling in rhythm with the downpour.

He blinked, water dripping from his lashes, a startled smile breaking through his composed facade. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” she said, turning to face him again. “But at least I’m not bored.”

He shook his head, the faintest chuckle escaping him as he pushed his wet hair back. The sight of her radiant, laughing, alive made something tighten in his chest.

“You’ll catch a fever,” he murmured, stepping closer.

“So will you,” she shot back, taking another step toward him, close enough that the rain between them turned into mist.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world around them seemed to slow droplets falling in lazy arcs, thunder rumbling faintly in the distance. His gaze dropped to her lips before flicking back up, restrained.

“Kiara,” he said softly, her name almost lost to the sound of the storm.

She met his eyes, steady, her voice low. “What?”

He hesitated then simply said, “You’re impossible.”

“Then stop trying to understand me,” she whispered, and turned away, walking toward the car.

He stood there for another moment, letting the rain soak through his shirt, through every layer of calm he’d built. Then, with a small sigh and a hint of a smile, he followed her.

When they finally sat inside, drenched and shivering, the silence returned but it was no longer the cold kind.
It was warmer, alive, humming quietly between their breaths.

She rubbed her arms to shake off the chill, and he leaned slightly toward her, wordless, turning up the heater.

Her fingers brushed his on the dial just a second, but it was enough to make both of them pause.

Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside, something else began to stir.

The rain had mellowed into a soft drizzle, the road stretching endlessly ahead slick, quiet, gleaming under the passing streetlights.
Inside the car, the faint sound of the wipers filled the silence between them.

Kiara sat in the passenger seat, her hair damp and clinging to her neck. Drops of rain still glittered on her lashes; her bangles tinkled faintly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She wasn’t saying anything, just gazing out the window, watching the blurred glow of the world beyond.

Aryansh’s hands rested steady on the steering wheel. The cuff of his shirt was soaked; his watch glimmered faintly under the dashboard light. He didn’t speak either. But his gaze flicked toward her every now and then, not long enough to be caught, just long enough to feel the weight of her presence beside him.

When the road curved through a quiet patch lined with trees, she finally broke the silence.
“You didn’t have to come out there,” she said softly. Her voice was hoarse half from the cold, half from the things left unsaid.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes still on the road. “You pulled me out, remember?”

“I did,” she said, turning to look at him, her lips curving faintly. “And you didn’t resist.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, not a full laugh, but enough to ease the air. “I figured arguing in the rain with you would be useless.”

She looked away again, her smile fading into thoughtfulness. “It wasn’t about arguing. It was… freeing, I guess.”

He understood he always did. The rain wasn’t just rain for her. It was release, rebellion, a moment where the world couldn’t see her pain.

The hum of the engine filled the silence again. Between them, the distance wasn’t measured in space anymore. It was measured in memory.

When they finally reached home, the drizzle had stopped. The air smelled of wet soil and jasmine. Aryansh parked in the driveway, cutting the engine. The sudden silence felt strange after hours of soft noise.

He got out, circled to her side, and opened the door for her,the smallest gesture, but it made her heart skip once. She hesitated before taking his hand. His palm was warm against hers, grounding. Familiar.

Inside, the house was dim. The soft light from the corridor lamps pooled on the marble floor, reflecting the faint gold of her anklet as she walked.

“Go change,” he said quietly. “I’ll make tea.”

She blinked at him. “You?”

He raised a brow. “You think I can’t?”

“I think you’ll end up setting the kitchen on fire,” she murmured, that ghost of a smile returning.

He chuckled, just barely. “You forgot, Mrs. Singhania, who made tea every night after we fought.”

The mention of the past hung between them; fragile, aching, almost tender. Her breath hitched. “You still remember that?”

He looked at her for a long second. “I remember everything about you.”

That sentence stayed with her even as she turned away.

Upstairs, the hot shower washed away the chill of the rain, but not the lingering warmth of his words. She dressed in soft cotton, towel-drying her hair as she descended the stairs.

The faint smell of cardamom hit her first.

Aryansh was standing by the counter, sleeves rolled up, stirring two mugs. The sight was strangely domestic and painfully familiar.
He looked up when she entered. “Didn’t burn anything,” he said.

She laughed softly. “Congratulations. That’s a start.”

He handed her the cup, and their fingers brushed fleeting, electric.

They sat on the couch, one at each end. Steam curled from their mugs; rain whispered faintly against the windows.

Kiara sipped slowly. “It’s actually good,” she admitted, half teasing.

“Of course it is. I had to learn survival skills after you left,” he said, and instantly regretted how it sounded.

Her eyes lowered. The silence grew thicker, not with anger this time but with quiet memories trying to breathe again.

He set his cup down and leaned back. “You know, when you dragged me into the rain… for a second, it felt like we were us again.”

She looked at him, the light catching her damp hair. “Maybe we still could be. If we tried.”

He stared at her, searching for something in her eyes guilt, hope, love. What he found instead was exhaustion and sincerity.

“I’d like that,” he said softly.

And for the first time in months, the house didn’t feel so empty.