Chapter 9 : Aadat Se Majboor

Few days ago..

When Maan began noticing Maira’s lack of concentration—her slips during group performances and now even her fumbling in duets—he grew concerned, both professionally and personally. As the team’s coach and her dance partner, he wanted her to deliver strong performances, especially with such a major platform approaching. If she continued losing track, not only could they lose the trophy, but they might also face public criticism for fielding a contestant who wasn’t performing at her best, which could harm the academy’s reputation.

On a personal level, however, his concern ran deeper. He worried about her well-being—whether things were alright in her married life and at home amid the upcoming wedding preparations.

Determined to understand what was troubling her, he asked her friend Aanya to meet him in the rehearsal hall on the next floor.

Aanya entered and asked, “Sir, why did you call me here?”

Maan reassured her gently, “Don’t worry, Aanya. I called you here only for professional reasons. Besides, there are cameras here. I’m not the kind of person those allegations made me out to be—that accusation was false. But we can discuss that another day. Today, I want to ask you something about Maira.”

“Yes, sir. Please tell me.”

“Aanya, you’ve noticed it too, haven’t you? Maira hasn’t been focused on her routines. At first I thought it was only in group acts, but lately even our duets… she fumbles. When we first started dancing together, there was an awkward tension between us. Then, after about a month, something shifted, and our duets became seamless. But over the past five months she hasn’t been giving her best—not in group acts, not in solos, and now not even in duets. That’s alarming. She’s a talented dancer, and because of our shared history I never considered replacing her. But at this crucial stage, bringing in someone new and teaching them the routines within a month would be extremely difficult. I need you to tell me if you know what’s going on with her. We need to help her understand as well.”

“Sir, what you’re saying is right… and I’m sorry for not being a good enough friend to guide her or help her get back on track.”

“No worries. But I do need to know the reason, Aanya. I can tell you’re hiding something from me. I understand it’s personal, but I have to know too—my academy’s reputation is at stake. And if there’s anything I can do for her, whether as a coach or… as her ex, I will. This will remain strictly confidential between us.”

Aanya hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, sir. I trust you. The truth is… Maira and her husband, Dr. Ishaan, are going through a divorce. I’ve seen it myself. They’re pretending to be a happy couple until it’s finalized because they want to handle it discreetly.”

Maan’s expression tightened. “Do you know why they’re heading for a divorce?”

“No, sir. She hasn’t told me. She only says she isn’t happy about it, but that it’s for the best. She hasn’t spoken against Ishaan or blamed him for anything. She’s just… grieving the separation.”

Maan fell silent, wondering what could possibly have led to such a decision. After a moment, he said quietly, “Alright, Aanya. You can return to rehearsal now. If anyone asks, just say I called you for routine follow-up corrections. And… please, can you make sure you advise Maira to refocus and work hard during this last month? It’s crucial—for her, for the team, and for everything she has worked toward.”

Aanya nodded once, the weight of what she had confessed still trembling faintly in her eyes, and then she turned and walked out of the rehearsal hall. The soft echo of her footsteps faded down the corridor until silence settled again, wide and unbroken. Maan did not move. His gaze remained fixed on the doorway long after she had disappeared, as though the air itself might still hold the answer he had not been given. Divorce. The word did not shock him; what unsettled him was everything around it. He exhaled slowly, fingers curling at his sides as his mind began assembling possibilities with the sharp, restless precision it always possessed when faced with something it could not solve immediately. She wants it… but she’s grieving it. His jaw tightened faintly. "What kind of reason makes someone choose something that hurts them this much?" he murmured under his breath.

He replayed the past months unconsciously — Maira missing counts, smiling half a second too late, laughing without light in her eyes, dancing flawlessly yet without joy. None of it had made sense before. Now it did, at least partially. Still, something did not sit right. He began pacing once across the floor, his steps slow, controlled. "If she wants it," he muttered, brows drawing together, "then why does she look like she’s losing something she still wants to hold onto?" The question irritated him more than it should have, because it refused to leave. His thoughts circled it, pressing from different angles, searching for a crack, a hidden variable, a missing piece. Something beneath the surface remained concealed, and the fact that he could not see it unsettled his otherwise disciplined mind. He stopped mid-step, gaze drifting absently toward the large glass window overlooking the street outside the academy building.

That was when he saw it.

Across the road stood a massive hoarding, sunlight catching its glossy surface. His eyes narrowed slightly. Maysha. Her image filled the billboard — poised, radiant, camera-ready, her expression carrying that effortless magnetism the media adored. Beneath the photograph, bold lettering announced her as the Chief Guest of the upcoming NMACC Presents Indian’s Best Academy Dance Competition. For a moment, his thoughts about Maira paused — not erased, merely set aside like a file temporarily closed. He studied the hoarding more closely. He knew who she was. Not personally, but enough. Maira’s younger sister. Social media sensation. Brand magnet. Ad shoots, short films, trending presence. The kind of public figure whose association alone could tilt perception. And lately, according to media speculation, rumored to be dating the debut star player of the Indian cricket team, Ayush Luthra.

Maan tilted his head slightly, analytical gears shifting direction with quiet efficiency. "If she appears publicly linked with us…" he murmured, eyes sharpening, "that’s visibility no academy here can match." The idea formed cleanly — a dance reel featuring her. Not merely publicity; strategy. Judges noticed traction. Sponsors noticed numbers. Audiences noticed familiarity. And in competitions where margins were razor thin, perception could weigh almost as heavily as performance. His fingers moved before the decision had fully settled. He pulled out his phone, scrolled to a saved contact, and pressed call. The line rang twice.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Alok," Maan said smoothly, voice professional but warm. "This is Team Ignite’s coach from Nrittarang Dance Academy."

"Arre Maan sir! Yes yes, tell me."

"By any chance," he continued casually, gaze still resting on the towering image across the street, "do you have the manager’s number of the chief guest, Maysha Wadhwa?"

There was a brief pause, then a chuckle. "Networking already, sir?"

"Preparation," Maan replied evenly. "Competition’s close."

Keyboard sounds crackled faintly through the call. "Haan mil gaya. Ready?"

"Go ahead."

Alok read out the number. Maan saved it instantly. "Cool," he said. "That’s great… forever grateful, Alok."

"Anytime, sir. All the best for the competition."

"Thank you."

The call ended. Maan lowered the phone slowly, his gaze lifting once more to the billboard. For a moment his expression revealed nothing at all. Then, very faintly, the corner of his mouth lifted — not a smile, but a calculation.

The present day

After the second confirmation message from her manager assuring her availability, the day had finally arrived for Maan to meet Maysha in person and create something electrifying—something that could lift his academy’s reputation, something that could tilt the odds of the upcoming competition in his favor. He had cleared his entire rehearsal schedule, booking the hall exclusively for the shoot, ensuring not even the faintest echo of a stray dancer’s footsteps would disturb the atmosphere. Now he waited, pacing once, twice, then pretending to check the mirrors as if their alignment mattered more than his anticipation.

The glass doors slid open, and she walked in.

For a second, the world simply… stopped.

Maysha entered with the calm authority of someone accustomed to eyes turning toward her. She wore a chic green-and-white designer dress that hugged elegance rather than flaunted it, her hair pulled into a sleek ponytail with a few deliberate strands framing her face. The makeup was minimal—barely there, just enough to glow under lights—and a soft lipstick completed the illusion of effortless perfection. She looked breathtaking. Maan’s breath caught before he could stop it. His mind, traitorous as ever, whispered that now he finally understood why Maira used to say, back when they were together,that the moment her adoptive parents suggested to legally adoptive her, her parents planned to have another child which resulted to Maysha's birth because her parents wanted to fill the void of Maira.Standing before him, Maysha truly did feel like a living reflection of her elder sister—as if her parents created Maysha from the fragments of Maira’s essence and shaped it anew. She really is her miniature, he murmured inwardly, still lost in the realization.

He was still staring when she waved a hand lightly in front of his face. “Mr. Reality Dance Show Winner… kahaan kho gaye?” she teased, one brow lifting. “Jeetne ki aadat ho gayi hai kya? Already dreaming of winning NMACC’s India’s Best Dance Academy Competition? Or did you call me here just to add some extra value to your score?”

Maan blinked back to reality and laughed softly. “Not exactly. I wasn’t lost dreaming of the trophy already. But you’re right about one thing—winning has given me the motivation to win again. And if a few reel views with the beautiful lady standing in front of me give me an upper hand, then why not?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she shot back, folding her arms, though the corner of her lips twitched.

“Oh? Or are you scared I might hurt your rumored boyfriend’s feelings? Rising cricket star Ayush might not like someone flirting with his girl.”

Her expression shifted instantly, shrinking into something tighter, guarded. “There is nothing between me and Ayush. The rumors are false.”

Maan tilted his head, amused but observant. “If they’re false, then why does every Instagram post of yours seem to be from countries where Team India has played? Semi-final and final I understand. But every match? That seems… suspicious, doesn’t it?”

She exhaled sharply, defeated by his deduction. “Okay, Sherlock Holmes. Yes. But it’s over. And I won’t do your reel to boost your engagement if you don’t promise me you’ll keep that to yourself.”

He raised both hands in surrender. “Yes, mademoiselle. These lips are sealed.”

She studied him a moment, measuring sincerity, then nodded and let out a relieved breath.

“By the way,” he added casually, eyes scanning her look again, “how did you manage full makeup for the reel when I haven’t even started mine?”

“That’s because I value time, Mr. Coach,” she said with a light laugh. “A little better than you, actually. I got it done in the parking lot. Wore the outfit from home itself. Planning, you know. But I guess you might need some time so both our complexions match for the camera.”

Maan smirked, unfazed. “Confidence suits you.”

“And punctuality would suit you,” she replied sweetly.

Maysha’s lips curved faintly as she said it, folding her sunglasses and handing them to her manager before glancing around the studio with professional ease. Then, as if something had just occurred to her, she added, "I’m not actually part of your crew though, am I?"

"Yes, you are," Maan replied automatically, then paused, a flicker of confusion passing through him. The makeup artist dabbed a brush along his jawline while his thoughts shifted gears. She doesn’t know? he realized. The discovery intrigued him more than it should have. Keeping his tone casual, almost idle, he asked, "So… how did Maira take it? Coming back to a place where… you know… a controversy happened and she had that major breakup with her ex?"

Maysha shrugged lightly, unaware of the careful stillness that had settled over him. "I knew Di was dating someone from her own crew and that he cheated on her. But I don’t know who he is, and I’ve never seen his picture. I just know that before joining back she was a bit unsure about returning to the academy. Ishaan jeeju convinced her… and yes, even Rudra bhai. They told her she was doing the right thing."

Something unreadable crossed Maan’s eyes—gone before anyone but him could feel it. So that’s why, he thought slowly. That’s why she isn’t awkward around me. She doesn’t know. The realization settled like a secret advantage in his chest. He had only ever known of Maysha through Maira’s stories, had never seen her face until that hoarding caught his attention. After that, curiosity had done the rest—Wikipedia pages, interviews, Instagram posts, brand shoots, reels, speculation threads. He knew enough about her public world to step into it convincingly.

A faint smile touched his mouth as the makeup artist stepped back. He then said to himself "Then I’ll meet her as the man she thinks I am," he decided. "Not Maira’s past. Not her mistake. Just Maan—the charming, accomplished, six-pack coach of Team Ignite, single, confident, and entirely unburdened… also maybe kind of a sugar daddy to her, given the fact that I’m twelve years older than her". If sparks were meant to fly during the sizzling salsa reel, he would let them.

"Ready?" he asked, rising and offering his hand with effortless ease.

Maysha placed her fingers in his, her grip light but assured. "Always."

Music spilled into the studio, low at first, then swelling as they took position. Professional smiles replaced conversation, bodies aligning to rhythm, breaths syncing to counts. Whatever truths stood between them remained unspoken, hovering quietly at the edge of the mirrored room, while under the lights the rehearsal began—precise, electric, and just dangerous enough to promise that something far more complicated than a reel might unfold.”

The moment they stepped onto the dance floor, the studio seemed to grow quieter, as if the mirrors themselves were waiting. Maan demonstrated the opening sequence first—precise turns, sharp pauses, a fluid glide that showed years of discipline. She watched without interrupting, her gaze steady, absorbing not just the steps but the rhythm beneath them. Then they tried together. The first run was careful, exploratory; the second, instinctive. By the end of it, their movements slipped into alignment as though they had rehearsed for weeks instead of minutes.

He blinked, genuinely surprised. "I didn’t expect you to pick that up so fast. And your flexibility… we synced in just two tries."

She lifted a brow, amused rather than flattered. "Well, apart from being a content creator, I’m also an actress. Short films, music videos—hours of shoots. And an actress has to dance when a scene demands it. So this isn’t talent by accident. It’s practice." She tilted her head slightly. "Definitely not because I’m Maira’s sister. Five years ago Di didn’t even know the D in dance."

Her tone stayed matter-of-fact, not bitter, simply stating history as she knew it. "Usually for any video or performance, actors rehearse properly before shoots. Even for award shows. This is just a reel. If we mess up, we reshoot. So I figured we could rehearse on the spot."

Maan let out a soft, impressed breath. "Remind me never to underestimate you again."

They paused for quick touch-ups—powder brushed lightly across skin, a strand of hair pinned back into place. Someone handed them water bottles; they drank, refreshed, and stepped back into position.

The music started. This time there was no hesitation.

Chhuti Nahi Rehti Dil Ki Baatein
Ishaare Sahmjo Kabhi
Yunhi Nahin Hui Mulakaatein
Hogi Wajah To Koi

The salsa ignited instantly—spins that snapped like sparks, dips that hovered just long enough to feel dangerous, eye contact that flickered between challenge and invitation.

Dillaggi Hai Tumse Apna Tu Lage

Kyun Kehta Man Mera Kaisi Uljan Mein

Do Pal Thehrja Ab Sun Dil Ki Dhun

Their bodies moved with a shared tempo that felt less rehearsed than remembered, as though the choreography had been waiting inside them all along.

When the track ended, silence rushed in behind it. The cameraman lowered the device slowly.

"Cut," he said, almost reverently. "It's fabulous One take and am impressed."

Maan stepped toward the screen as the playback rolled. On it, they looked electric—lines sharp, chemistry undeniable, every beat landing clean without a single visible flaw. He watched, transfixed. It wasn’t just the precision. It was the way she filled the frame, how the lens seemed to lean toward her without realizing it. Dedication glowed through every movement, through the way she held posture even between steps, through the focus in her eyes that never once wandered.

For a brief, unguarded moment, he forgot entirely that she was Maira’s sister.

All he could see was Maysha. And the realization that he was beginning, dangerously, unmistakably, to be drawn to her.

The recording ended, yet Maan did not look away immediately. The glow of the screen lingered in his eyes, but his attention had already shifted—away from the choreography, away from the precision of steps and counts, toward her. She stood beside him, still catching her breath, shoulders rising and falling in a rhythm softer than the music that had just faded, her presence carrying that strange afterglow certain people possessed—the kind that made silence feel like an audience.

He turned his head slowly.
"You realize," he said, his voice touched with quiet amusement, "most professionals take weeks to build chemistry like that."

Maysha folded her arms, though the faint curve at her lips betrayed her satisfaction.
"Are you complimenting me as a coach… or as a man impressed?"

"Does it have to be one?"

The question settled between them, unhurried, unforced. She did not answer at once. Instead she shifted her weight slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair back as though buying herself a second of thought. He noticed everything—the pause, the breath, the way her gaze hovered near his before retreating. None of it spoke of indifference.

So he stepped closer.

"You know," he said lightly, "reels don’t usually end after one shoot."

Her eyes flicked up. "Oh?"

"No. Usually they lead to planning the next one." A beat. "Which would be difficult… if I don’t have your number."

Her brows rose, skepticism glinting faintly. "You could ask my manager."

"I could," he agreed. "But I’m asking you."

The simplicity of it disarmed her more than any elaborate line could have. She stilled, fingers tightening faintly around the bottle in her hand. For a moment she said nothing, and the hesitation wasn’t flirtation—it was memory. Something recent, something unresolved, something that still echoed when silence stretched too long.

"You’re very direct," she said at last.

"I prefer clarity," he replied. "Saves time."

She studied him properly then, as though reassessing the man she thought she had already understood. The confidence didn’t feel rehearsed. The charm didn’t feel performed. He stood like someone accustomed to attention and utterly unafraid of it.

"So this is your way of asking me to be your date or your dance partner?"

"You take your pick," he interrupted, gentle but certain. "It’s my way of asking what you’d like to be."

Her gaze searched his face, testing for insincerity, for ego, for calculation. She found none she could name. Only steadiness. Only interest that did not try to disguise itself as anything else.

Inside her, two instincts pulled in opposite directions. One remembered the feeling of being around Ayush and her choices and the ache of not yet recovered from the breakup. The other—quieter, braver—wondered whether endings were sometimes just doors that pave way for a brighter future.

"You know I just had a breakup, right?" she murmured.

"But isn’t it worth the risk? We’re both single… and interested." When he said interested, he leaned closer to her ear, sending a chill down her spine. "Have you ever tried a rebound?"

"No, I haven’t."

"Then why don’t you experience it?"

That earned him a small smile—real, unguarded, almost reluctant.

She pressed her lips, swallowed and then asked "And what would this be?".

"A conversation," he said. "A possibility of another romance?."

The air shifted.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just enough to be felt.

Her pulse fluttered once, sharp and surprising. "You don’t waste time, do you?"

"Not when I see something worth arriving early for."

For a second she simply looked at him, and something in her expression changed—not surrender, not certainty, but permission. Not for him. For herself.

She unlocked her phone took his number down.

"Fine," she said, typing. "But if you turn out to be disappointing, Coach, you’re blocked."

His phone vibrated in his hand. He glanced down, then back at her, satisfaction flickering briefly across his face. "Noted."

She stepped a little closer then, close enough that he caught the faint citrus warmth of her perfume.
"And Maan?"

"Yes?"

"This doesn’t mean I’m easy to impress."

His smile deepened, slow and assured.
"Good," he said. "I don’t enjoy easy victories."

Somewhere in the quiet space between music and silence, between caution and curiosity, something new had begun to breathe.

Maan tilted his head slightly, as though arriving at a decision mid-thought.

"I’ll drop you home," he said, tone casual, as if the offer had simply occurred to him that second.

Maysha blinked. "You will?"

"Yes."

She studied him, suspicion flickering with amusement. "That was fast."

"I told you," he replied smoothly, slipping his phone into his pocket, "I don’t like wasting time."

Her gaze narrowed a fraction—not displeased, just measuring. "What about my team?"

He didn’t even glance toward the corridor where her manager and stylists waited. "They’ll be dropped," he said easily. "My crew will handle it. And your car will be sent to your place."

The confidence with which he arranged other people’s logistics might have sounded arrogant from anyone else. From him, it sounded inevitable.

"You planned that already?" she asked.

"I planned wanting to spend more time with you," he corrected. "The rest is just coordination."

For a moment she said nothing. A wiser version of her—the one that still carried the quiet imprint of a recent ending—whispered that this was quick, impulsive, perhaps reckless. But another voice, softer and far more persuasive, reminded her that she had spent months being careful. Months measuring words. Months adjusting herself into smaller shapes for someone else’s comfort.

Maybe reckless was exactly what breathing felt like.

"You don’t believe in slow beginnings, do you?" she murmured.

"I believe in honest ones."

That answer lingered.

She exhaled, the faintest laugh escaping her as she shook her head. "You’re dangerously convincing, Coach."

"I’ve been told."

He extended his hand—not commanding, not insistent, simply there. Waiting.

She looked at it.

Then at him.

Then, with a small, decisive movement, she placed her fingers in his.

"Fine," she said. "You can drop me."

His thumb shifted just slightly against her knuckles—barely a touch, yet intentional enough to be felt. "Good," he murmured.

They hadn’t changed out of their reel clothes—she still in that chic green-and-white dress, him in the open denim they reached the parking lot and he opened the door for her to settled in and he went and sat in the drivers seat and they put their seatbelts on and he adjusted the rearview mirror before he moved onto the road.

For a long stretch they let the silence sit between them like something warm and private; not awkward, not empty—just a room of its own. Then, as if the night itself wanted to decorate the moment, Maan reached for the radio and, with a careful thumb, let a soft song thread through the car. “Khamoshiyan gungune lagi.” The melody folded around them, a private soundtrack that made her laugh the tiniest, most flattered sound. She leaned back, eyes catching his in the rearview mirror, and something in the air rearranged itself.

He didn’t look at her immediately. Instead, his thumb shifted against her fingers—slow, deliberate—like he was memorizing the shape of her hand rather than just holding it. The steering wheel stayed steady beneath his right palm, the road stretching ahead in a quiet ribbon of headlights and shadow, but his awareness was no longer on the drive. It was on the warmth curled into his left hand.

She noticed.

Her gaze dipped from the mirror to their joined fingers, lashes lowering just a fraction, and the smallest breath left her lips.

The song hummed softly between them, he shifted gears once.Their hands didn’t separate.His fingers loosened just enough to move the stick, then slipped back into place with an ease that made it feel instinctive, natural—as though they had always driven like this, always existed like this, always belonged like this.

Her lips curved.

“Maan,” she murmured, voice barely louder than the music.

He glanced at the mirror again. “Hmm?”

“You’re driving.”

“And?”

Her eyes flickered with quiet mischief. “You’re not supposed to be distracted.”

His jaw tilted slightly, that familiar almost-smirk ghosting across his mouth. “I’m not distracted.”

Her brows lifted, amused. “Our hands are literally—”

“I know where the road is,” he cut in gently, tightening his fingers around hers, his tone calm but threaded with something deeper. “But right now…”
a beat, softer—
“…this feels right.”

The words didn’t land loudly. They settled.

She stilled, breath catching so faintly it was almost invisible. The music continued to play, her thumb slowly brushed against his knuckles.And neither of them spoke again for a long time until they were almost at her building when she broke the quiet, voice low. “For now,” she said, “I don’t want Di to know I’m dating you. Not until after the event—maybe after Rudra bhai’s wedding. For now, I just want to explore this… us.Her fingers fiddled with the hem of her dress, an absent gesture that felt suddenly intimate in the car.He then nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “I was going to say the same. Private for now.” He kept his tone even, but something in his chest eased at the agreement.

“Good,” she breathed. “I felt the spark as well and I won’t deny the chemistry.” The confession came out soft and honest, and it made him check the road with a steadier hand.

He reached just outside her villa’s gate and had just parked the car when a sudden crack of thunder split the night.

Maysha startled. Without thinking, she caught the edge of his jacket and leaned into him, her face brushing the warmth of his chest. Rain began to fall in thick, sudden drops, drumming against the windshield. He shifted slightly, one arm instinctively circling her shoulders, his voice low and calm. "Hey… it’s just thunder. Nothing to be afraid of."

She stayed there a second longer than necessary, breathing him in, then slowly lifted her face. Her lashes rose, her eyes searching his. Up close, she swallowed, gaze drifting—first to the sharp line of his chiseled jaw, then lower for a fleeting second where the open denim revealed the firm abs beneath, impossible to ignore. She quickly brought her eyes back to his.

Rain blurred the world outside into silver streaks. Inside the car, time seemed to thin and slow.

Bheege Hont Tere, Pyasa Dil Mera

Lage Abr Sa, Ha Mujhe Tan Tera

"Maysha," he said softly.

Just her name. Nothing more. But his eyes asked the question.

She answered in a breath. "Yes."

Only then did he lean in.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It was careful, searching—like both of them were confirming something they had already sensed hours ago but hadn’t dared admit. Her fingers tightened slightly in his jacket as their lips met, rain filling the silence around them like applause no one else could hear.

Jamke Barsa De, Mujh Par Ghataein

Tu Hi Meri Pyas, Tu Hi Mera Jaam

When they parted, they didn’t move far. Their foreheads hovered close, breaths mingling as though neither of them quite agreed with the separation.

For a breath, they stayed close.

Kabhi Mere Saath, Koi Raat Guzaar

Tujhe Subha Tak Mein Karoon Pyar

Maan’s thumb lingered near her mouth, brushing softly across her lower lip, feeling the warmth still left there from the kiss. His own breath was uneven, and he drew it in through his nose, pulling his tongue briefly over his lips before pressing them together, steadying himself. She looked—there was no other word for it—irresistible. Rainlight shimmered faintly across her skin, her lashes still lowered halfway, her expression caught somewhere between surprise and want.For a moment he simply held her gaze.And then he leaned in again.

Wo… Oh…Ohhhh…

This time the kiss was deeper, surer, no hesitation left between question and answer—

Knock. Knock.

The sharp sound against the glass shattered the moment like a stone striking still water.

They broke apart instantly.

Maysha blinked, dazed, her pulse still racing as she turned toward the window. Outside, beneath the rain, stood Shayaan holding a large umbrella over his head, water cascading off its edges. His brows were drawn in protective concern, his free hand raised from where he had tapped on the glass.

She exhaled softly, half amusement, half embarrassment. "That’s my brother."

Maan leaned back slightly, composure returning, though the warmth in his eyes hadn’t faded. "Efficient timing."

"I texted him," she admitted, brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek. "Told him I was reaching home with my reel client. He tracks my location. Must’ve seen I was outside and came."

Outside, Shayaan gestured gently, silently asking if she was ready.

Maysha nodded once, then turned back to Maan. She unfastened her seatbelt with a soft click, the sound oddly loud in the quiet car. Before opening the door, she gave him a look—a small, knowing glance that carried promise, something unspoken that lingered longer than words could have.

He understood it.

She opened the door.

The rain roared louder instantly, cool air rushing in. Shayaan stepped forward at once, angling the umbrella so not a single drop touched her as she stepped out. His movements were careful, practiced, instinctively protective. He shut the car door gently once she was clear, then guided her toward the gate, keeping the umbrella tilted entirely over her even though his own shoulder was getting soaked.

Maan watched through the side mirror.He didn’t start the engine.Not yet. Only when he saw Shayaan lead her safely through the gate… only when the villa door opened… only when she disappeared inside—then he finally drove away.

Inside the villa, at the backdoor entrance window that overlooked the neighboring houses rather than the main road, Shaira stood with her arms folded, watching the sudden rain lash across the dimly lit back lane. From here, the front gate and driveway weren’t visible—the main entrance faced the road on the other side of the house, where Maan had just dropped Maysha. But the storm had caught her attention before anything else could.

Thunder cracked sharply.

Shaira’s brows knit at once.

“Look, Mayank—bin mausam barsaat(unseasonal rain), aur woh bhi badal k garajna bhi (and that too with thunder) … something is going wrong somewhere. I can feel it.”

Her voice wasn’t loud. It carried that quiet certainty that didn’t need volume to be taken seriously.

Mayank glanced outside, then at her, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Baby, it’s just global warming,” he said lightly. “We should blame people for harming nature so much that even January brings rain in Mumbai now.”

She turned her head slowly and gave him a look—half warning, half reproach.

“Make fun, Mayank. When things really happen, then you will understand nature’s warning.” Her gaze drifted back to the rain, thoughtful, almost distant. “A mother always gets signals before something changes… and nature is also a mother.”

The teasing smile on his face softened a fraction. He watched her profile instead of the storm now, noticing the seriousness she rarely voiced unless she truly meant it. Outside, lightning flickered again, briefly lighting the glass in silver.

He didn’t argue this time.

Instead, he reached out and gently slipped his hand around hers, thumb brushing the back of her fingers in quiet reassurance.

“Alright,” he murmured. “If nature is warning us… we’ll listen together.”

Shaira didn’t reply, but her hand tightened slightly in his—her attention still on the rain, as if she were trying to read something written between the drops.