Part 57
The soft light from the home theatre flickered across the room.
Geet was nestled against the pillows, her wrist propped gently on a cushion, eyes fixed on the screen — and laughing.
Not loud. But the kind of breathy, reluctant laugh that slipped out when you were too tired to hold it in.
Maan paused at the doorway, tray in hand.
Onscreen, a dramatic confrontation played out in a garish living room. A woman slapped another. Music blared. Zoom-ins happened. And in the corner of the scene—
Geet.
Younger, heavily made-up, in a bad saree and worse lighting, offering a tearful monologue about family values and betrayal.
Geet groaned and covered her face.
“Oh no. This episode. Please don’t tell me you walked in during this scene.”
Maan said nothing.
He walked over slowly, set the tray down beside her — soup, her meds, a protein bar she’d never asked for but he insisted she finish.
When she peeked at him, she caught the way he was looking at the screen.
Too still.
Too focused.
“Maan?” she asked suspiciously. “Why are you watching it like it’s... Shakespeare?”
He finally looked at her.
“You don’t remember the next line, do you?” he asked quietly.
She blinked.
“What?”
“You fumble your cue in the next scene. But cover it. You change the line mid-take.”
Geet gawked. “How the hell do you know that?”
He didn’t answer. Just picked up the bowl, blew on the soup gently, and offered it to her.
She took it slowly, still watching him.
“You’ve seen this before?”
Maan’s voice was flat, like stating a weather update. “All your episodes. All your ads. Even the ones that ran once and got pulled. I had to pay for a few recordings. They weren’t exactly... good television.”
Geet stared.
“But... why?”
He didn’t blink. “Because it was the only place I could still see you.”
The soup nearly spilled.
She didn’t know what to say. Her voice dropped, quiet. “Even the saree & shampoo commercial?”
He looked dead serious.
“You blinked into the wrong camera. But your smile stayed. I replayed it twenty-seven times.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You’re insane.”
Maan shrugged, as if to say — tell me something new.
She flushed. “…Crazy.”
He leaned down, voice low.
“Obsessed,” he corrected. “Get it right.”
“You replayed my shampoo commercial… twenty-seven times?”
Maan didn’t blink. “It was the only one in HD.”
Geet looked scandalized. “I said two lines in that one!”
“You said it with conviction.”
She gave him a flat stare. “It was ‘ab tak the baal chipke, ab rahenge silky silky’.”
Maan looked straight at her. “National award–worthy delivery.”
She snorted.
It was low, unwilling laughter—but it slipped out anyway.
He handed her the soup spoon without a word. She tried to lift it, but her wrist throbbed. He noticed before she said anything.
“Give it,” he muttered, gently taking it back.
And just like that, he was feeding her again.
Bite by bite. Wordlessly.
Geet chewed slowly, watching the screen flicker. Her younger self was mid-melodrama now—fake tears, an overdramatic zoom, a slap that didn’t quite land.
“Oh God, not this scene,” she groaned, pressing a hand to her eyes. “This aired? I begged them to cut it.”
Maan didn’t look away from the screen. “They didn’t. It aired. I watched it.”
She lowered her hand. “You did?”
He gave a slow nod, eyes still on the screen. “You wore green. The dupatta was wrinkled.”
Geet blinked at him. “You really watched all this?”
His eyes flicked to hers. “Some scenes I skipped.”
“Oh, thank god.”
“The romantic tracks.”
She froze. “…What?”
“I didn’t like the idea of someone else putting their arm around you.” His voice was quiet now. “Even if it was fake.”
Her lips parted.
“Maan—”
“I know it’s work,” he said calmly. “I know it wasn’t real. But I still couldn’t watch it.”
There was a pause.
The spoon still hovered between them.
“…I was a terrible actress,” she muttered, looking away.
“You were not.”
Geet turned sharply to him. “You never saw me in person back then.”
“I didn’t need to,” he said. “The screen was enough. Barely.”
Her cheeks burned.
He reached for another spoonful of soup.
“Eat,” he said simply.
She took it from his hand but held it halfway. “You didn’t eat either.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She gave him a warning look.
“I’ll share,” she offered. “Unless you skipped dinner for dramatic effect.”
Maan sighed like she was the difficult one.
Then he took the spoon and ate the bite she held out.
Not with any performative gesture. Not with flirtation. Just trust. Quiet routine. Shared warmth.
They passed the spoon back and forth until the bowl was nearly empty. The television flickered. The credits rolled.
Geet leaned her head back against the pillows, the pain meds making her limbs feel heavier.
He started gathering the tray, but her voice stopped him.
“Maan.”
He glanced back.
“…Thanks,” she said softly. “For not forgetting me.”
He didn’t answer.
Just looked at her for a long moment.
Then he walked back.
Leant down.
And kissed the crown of her head—so lightly she almost didn’t feel it.
When he pulled back, his hand brushed a stray lock from her cheek.
“You act like I ever could,” he said, almost inaudibly.
It was not a casual kiss.
Not light.
It was quiet, but it was not small.
His mouth lingered there—barely a second. But his breath stayed a moment longer.
Geet didn’t move.
Her body stayed still, curled into the pillows, but her fingers—her uninjured hand—lifted.
Almost uncertainly.
And then she touched his wrist.
Not to stop him.
Just to feel.
He was still crouched beside her, hands braced on either side of the tray, head dipped. But now his eyes flicked up—slowly—meeting hers.
And in that inch of space between them, something shifted.
She looked at him like she could feel it too—that impossibly quiet tension that never really left them, only curled deeper under the skin.
Geet let her fingers trail lightly from his wrist to the side of his jaw.
His stubble was sharp. He hadn’t shaved in days. But she didn’t flinch.
Her fingertips brushed along his cheekbone, a slow, soft movement, pausing at the place just under his eye.
He didn’t move. Not an inch.
His breath was shallow. His eyes—darker than the city behind him—stayed fixed on hers.
“You watched all of it,” she whispered, not as a question anymore.
He didn’t deny it.
“And you skipped the romantic scenes?”
His voice was low, gruff. “I didn’t like seeing someone else touch you. Even if it was fake.”
Her hand was still against his cheek.
“Maan…”
“You were never a bad actress,” he said, tone flat. “You just weren’t given anything worth performing.”
She stared at him.
His fingers closed around the edge of the tray—but he didn’t pull away.
“You were carrying every frame on your back,” he added. “While everyone else overacted around you.”
Her chest tightened.
“And still,” he said, almost to himself, “you were the only one I believed.”
The silence was so heavy it could’ve cracked.
Her hand slid slowly down from his cheek.
But just as it reached his collarbone, he caught it.
Held it.
No words.
No explanations.
Just her palm in his, his thumb pressing lightly into her skin like an anchor.
“Maan.”
He paused.
Geet swallowed.
The air in the room had changed.
It was no longer filled with sitcom laughter or soup steam or the distant hum of the city.
It had stilled.
When he finally turned, it wasn’t sharp or abrupt.
It was deliberate.
And when their eyes met again, there was no flicker of banter, no sarcasm hiding in the corners of his mouth. There was only stillness.
And something else.
Something quiet.
Something unguarded.
He moved toward her slowly, as if pulled—not by decision, but by inevitability.
There was no smirk on his lips. No practiced seduction in his body.
Just focus.
And restraint.
So much restraint.
Geet’s breath caught as he stopped by the bed.
He didn’t sit.
Didn’t kneel.
He just leaned forward, both hands braced lightly on the sides of the mattress, his frame folding toward her—but stopping short.
Close.
Too close.
Her lashes lowered instinctively, but she didn’t pull back.
Didn’t shy away.
He was inches from her now.
She could feel the warmth of his breath skimming her cheek.
Could see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes searched hers like a question he didn’t know how to ask.
And then—
His forehead came to rest against hers.
Soft.
Unbelievably gentle.
His skin was warm. His stubble grazed her temple. And Geet... Geet forgot everything else.
The ache in her ribs.
The weight of her cast.
The quiet ache she’d carried for a year.
It all faded.
Her hand moved before her mind caught up.
Slow. Uncertain. Almost trembling.
She let her fingers trail up his forearm, over the rolled cuff of his shirt, until her palm found the edge of his cheek.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t look away.
His breath slowed.
So did hers.
Their noses brushed, barely, a ghost of a touch.
She felt his lips hover—hover—just above hers. Not touching. Not teasing. Just waiting. Suspended in that narrow, unbearable space between hunger and hesitation.
One breath.
Two.
She could feel his heartbeat in the tension of his arms. Could sense the war waging beneath his skin—between all the parts of him that wanted to protect her, and all the parts that had spent a year starving for her.
Geet’s lips parted just slightly.
Her hand pressed a little more firmly against his jaw, grounding him.
And just as he leaned in—
A sharp, jarring ringtone shattered the silence.
They both froze.
The phone. From the hallway console.
Loud. Abrupt. Unforgiving.
Maan’s body tensed instantly, like a wire snapped taut.
He didn’t pull away. Not at first.
His forehead still rested against hers. His eyes still burned into hers.
But the moment had been broken.
His breath came a little harsher now.
Geet didn’t move, her hand still at his jaw, but she whispered, “You should get that.”
He closed his eyes. Just once.
Then pulled back.
Only slightly.
His hands pushed off the bed, posture stiffening as he rose to his full height.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t offer any apology.
Just turned toward the door.
And walked out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Geet stayed still.
The air was too warm. Her chest was too tight.
Her fingers curled into the blanket where he’d just been.
And for a long, breathless moment, all she could think of was how close they’d come.
Not just to a kiss.
But to something deeper. Something that wouldn’t be undone by a single phone call.
She pressed her hand lightly to her mouth.
Her lips still tingled.
Even without the kiss.
Especially without it.
475