Kavya.

The monsoon storm had finally begun to quiet down, leaving the Mumbai skyline glittering against the rain-washed glass of the penthouse windows. For the first time in three weeks, the frantic, calculating machinery of my mind was entirely silent. I was curled sideways on the plush living room sofa, tucked entirely into Aryan’s lap. The world outside felt a million miles away, reduced to nothing more than the soft patter of rain and the rhythmic, steady thumping of his heart beneath my cheek. It was a surreal, intoxicating shift in our gravity. For two decades, I had known every single version of him—the scraped-knee child, the stressed university student, the sharp corporate climber. But this version, the one running his fingers idly through my hair with a tender, proprietary possessiveness, was entirely new, and I never wanted to let it go.

I shifted, untangling my legs slightly to turn and fully straddle his lap, bringing us face-to-face. The movement broke his quiet trance. His dark eyes flicked up to mine, heavy and warm, as a lazy, brilliant smile spread across his face.

"You better not flirt with anyone or talk too much to girls in the US, Mr. Mehra," I said, trying to maintain a stern, authoritative tone, though the breathless quality of my voice entirely ruined the effect.

Aryan chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through my chest. He didn't miss a beat. His hands moved from my back to settle firmly on my waist, his long fingers pressing gently into the silk of my emerald blouse. He tilted his head, his gaze suddenly turning incredibly focused and dangerously teasing.

"Why?" he murmured, leaning in just a fraction of an inch, his breath ghosting over my collarbone. "Will that make you jealous?"

"Yes," I admitted immediately, entirely unashamed. The time for hiding behind carefully constructed walls was over. I narrowed my eyes, leaning down so our noses practically brushed. "And like you won't be jealous if some guys at work talk to me for a long time and flirt with me."

The playful, teasing glint in his eyes vanished so fast it gave me whiplash. The shift in his expression was instantaneous, the easygoing charm completely replaced by a fierce, dark protectiveness that I had never seen before. His grip on my waist tightened just enough to pull me flush against his chest, eliminating the last millimeter of space between us.

"Don't joke, Kavya," he said, his voice dropping an octave, completely stripped of any humor. "I'm all yours, and you are mine."

The absolute, unwavering certainty in his tone sent a massive, molten shockwave straight down my spine. A hot flush crept rapidly up my neck and across my cheeks. I let out a soft, breathless laugh, entirely overwhelmed by the intensity radiating from him, and immediately hid my burning face in the crook of his neck.

Aryan.

I wrapped my arms tightly around her shoulders, burying my face in her soft, dark hair, breathing in the scent of jasmine and rain. Hearing her talk about other guys flirting with her, even as a joke, had triggered a violent, primal spike of adrenaline in my chest. I had spent three excruciating years watching her navigate the world, terrified that one day some polished corporate strategist or sharp-jawed architect would walk into her life and realize exactly what I knew—that she was the most brilliant, captivating woman in the entire city. The thought of leaving her behind in Mumbai had nearly killed me. But holding her now, knowing that the absolute worst-case scenario had been completely rewritten, a profound sense of peace finally settled into my bones.

"I'm serious, Kav," I murmured against her temple, pressing a soft kiss to her skin. "You don't ever have to worry about California. The only thing I'm going to be looking at over there is my calendar, counting down the days until I fly back to you."

She shifted slightly against my chest, lifting her head just enough to look at me. Her cheeks were still delightfully flushed, the gold flecks in her eyes catching the ambient light from the city below.

"Two weeks out of every month," she whispered, as if testing the reality of the words. "Aryan, that's going to be exhausting. Fourteen-hour flights, the jet lag, the constant switching of time zones. Are you sure you aren't going to burn out?"

"I would fly back every single weekend if I had to," I told her honestly, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "But we have a plan now. You can work remotely when things at the firm are slow, and you can come stay with me in San Francisco. We'll find an apartment near the water. We'll figure it out together. You're the strategist; I'll leave the logistical optimization to you."

A small, proud smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I can definitely optimise a trans-Pacific relationship schedule. I already have a preliminary spreadsheet forming in my head."

"Of course you do," I laughed, shaking my head. "God, I love you."

Kavya.

The words hit me right in the center of my chest, blooming with a warmth that rivaled the mid-summer Mumbai sun. He said it so effortlessly, as if it were simply a fundamental fact of the universe. I love you.

"I love you too," I replied, the truth finally settling comfortably on my tongue. "More than I ever knew what to do with."

We lapsed into a comfortable, golden silence, the kind of quiet that didn't need to be filled with nervous chatter or defensive banter. I rested my head back against his chest, idly tracing the buttons of his dark shirt, while he continued to stroke my back in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. The storm outside was finally breaking, the heavy clouds parting just enough to reveal the fractured, glowing silver of the moon reflecting off the Arabian Sea.

"So," Aryan finally spoke, his voice lazy and relaxed. "We have exactly fourteen days before my first flight out. How are we spending them?"

"Well," I started, doing the mental math. "Your parents have the massive going-away dinner planned for this weekend. My firm is wrapping up the merger on Wednesday, which means I'll actually have some free time. And, unfortunately, you still have four boxes of your junk sitting in my entryway that need to be unpacked."

"Hey, my vintage comic collection is not junk," he protested, though I could hear the smile in his voice. "And I'm not unpacking them. I'm moving them."

I tilted my head up, frowning in confusion. "Moving them where? You just said you were leaving them."

"I am leaving them," he grinned, tapping me lightly on the nose. "But I'm not leaving them in your apartment. I'm moving them into your bedroom closet. If we're going to do this, Kavya, I'm fully invading your space. I want half a drawer, at least."

A bright, genuine laugh bubbled up from my throat. The sheer domesticity of the request, the absolute certainty that we were finally building a shared life instead of just existing parallel to each other, was the greatest relief I had ever known. I leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his jawline.

"You can have half a drawer, Mehra," I conceded softly. "But the hoodies are strictly communal property."

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