Something About Us- MG || (Part 61|Page 61) - Page 61

Hi Nilanjana

hope you are well

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Part 61

The rain had turned to mist by the time they finished.
The city outside glowed under it — silver, diffused, soundless.

Maan carried the plates to the counter himself. He needed the motion. Something to do with his hands while the words she’d said replayed in his head.

They don’t call anymore.
Families always protect the wrong person.

He rinsed the dishes like he was trying to wash the image out of his mind — her voice, steady and too quiet, the way she didn’t cry when she said it.

When he came back, Geet was still at the table, fingers tracing idle circles on the rim of her glass. The light caught the curve of her cast; her eyes looked far away.

“You should rest,” he said.

She nodded, but didn’t move. “In a minute.”

He waited.

Finally, she spoke — not looking at him.
“It’s strange,” she murmured. “I used to think if you lost everything, at least your family would be the last thing to go. Now I know… sometimes they’re the first.”

He leaned against the doorway, arms folded. “People like to believe blood means loyalty. It doesn’t. It just makes betrayal easier.”

Her head lifted. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“It’s the truest thing I know.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “You sound like you’ve said it before.”

He gave a half-smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “I have. Usually to myself.”

The silence after that wasn’t heavy — it just sat between them, unhurried, inevitable.

When he finally walked her to the bedroom, he didn’t speak.
He helped her settle, adjusted the pillow behind her brace, switched the salt lamp on. The amber light slid across the wall, softening everything it touched.

“Who is in your family, Maan?” she asked quietly.

Maan didn’t answer right away.

He stood by the side of the bed, gaze dropping to the edge of the blanket he’d just pulled over her knees. Then his hands came to rest on the headboard, knuckles taut.

Geet watched him. The hush between them deepened — not uncomfortable, just... careful.

“Legally?” he said finally, voice dry. “Two people. Both with my last name. Both obsessed with appearances. Neither qualified for the title.”

Her brows knit slightly.

He glanced at her. “My parents,” he clarified.

“Oh.”

She didn’t push. But her silence invited more.

Maan walked to the window, drew the curtains just enough to let the skyline spill across the floor. “They wanted a son who would continue their legacy. Attend the right parties. Invest in the right people. Say the right things at brunch.”

“You did none of that.”

“Worse.” A faint smile, bitter-edged. “I got there without their help.”

She blinked. “So they resent you... for succeeding?”

“They resent me,” he said, “for not needing them.”

Geet didn’t speak, but something softened in her expression. A quiet knowing.

“They show up at board meetings,” Maan continued, tone even. “Host fundraisers in my name. Smile for pictures. And if you ever meet them, they’ll tell you how proud they are that I took over the company they never ran.”

Her lips parted. “You took over the company?”

“At twenty-one.” He didn’t look proud. Just matter-of-fact. “It was crashing. I fixed it. That’s what I do.”

She studied him for a beat.

Then: “That sounds... lonely.”

His shoulders shifted.

“I thought I liked it,” he admitted. “For a long time, I did.”

“And now?”

He turned. His eyes were darker in the amber light.

“Now you’re here,” he said simply.

The words landed like a weight.

Not heavy. Just real.

Geet lowered her gaze, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I’m not exactly a parade.”

“No,” he said, voice quiet. “You’re not noise. You’re... quiet I can breathe in.”

She blinked.

That one hit too close.

Maan didn’t move closer. He just leaned against the wall, arms folded again — not defensive this time, just... present.

“You’re not scared of silence,” he said. “Most people are.”

“I like silence,” Geet murmured. “It’s where the real things live.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You talk like a writer.”

“I act,” she corrected softly.

“I know,” he said. “But the things you say — they sound like footnotes you never published.”

She smiled at that. “And you sound like a man who’s read too many manuals and not enough poetry.”

He raised a brow. “Is that an insult or a diagnosis?”

“Both.”

They smiled.

A beat.

Then, gentler: “Do you ever miss them?” she asked. “Your parents, I mean.”

He didn’t blink. “No.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s allowed.”

He watched her.

“You?” he asked, after a moment.

Geet inhaled. Her hands picked at a thread near her cast.

“I miss... what I thought I had,” she said. “I used to believe I was lucky. That even if we didn’t have much, we had each other.”

A pause.

“Turns out,” she added, “some families are just... prolonged illusions.”

Maan’s jaw flexed slightly.

He didn’t speak again. Just walked over, adjusted her pillow one last time.

His fingers brushed her hairline.

“Sleep,” he said.

Her eyes stayed on him. “Maan?”

He turned.

“Do you think we’re broken people?”

He looked at her for a long time.

“No,” he said. “I think we were forced to survive in broken places.”

And with that, he turned off the lamp — leaving only the low hallway light seeping under the door.

A warm hush followed.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t ache.

It settled around them like a truth that didn’t need to be said aloud.

“Did you always want to act?” he asked.

Geet shook her head.

“No. Business karna tha mujhe.”

That made Maan pause — just for a beat. He leaned back slightly in the chair, lips quirking. “Business, huh?”

She gave a small smile. “Not like you, Mr. Empire.”

He raised a brow. “Disappointing. I was ready to hand over my board meetings.”

She huffed a laugh. “Mujhe apna restaurant kholna tha. That was the plan.”

Maan’s smirk softened. “That’s ambitious.”

“Not really,” she said. “My family has a mithai shop back home. Do chhoti si almirayein, ek counter, aur ek uncle jo hamesha cheekh ke bolte hain ‘baarah rupaye ke laddoo sola mein nahi milenge.’”

He grinned. “Sounds like stellar customer service.”

Geet smiled faintly. “I wanted to do something like that, but better. Classier. Maybe fusion desserts, thoda contemporary vibe, but rooted in what I grew up eating.”

Maan was still watching her.

She shrugged, eyes fixed somewhere past his shoulder. “Thought acting se thoda paisa save karungi. Then slowly invest. But I forgot to factor in the cost of breathing as a girl.”

He said nothing.

So she went on.

“I wasn’t supposed to have plans. Main bas shaadi karne ke liye bani thi. Cooking, smiling, adjusting. Restaurant ka sapna sunke log haste the. Mera bhai toh kehta tha—‘kaun khayega tere haath ka khaana, Geetu?’”

Maan’s jaw tightened.

She didn’t notice.

She was still talking, her voice calm, like she’d long since run out of fight about it.

“So I tried acting instead. Less capital, more humiliation. Same ROI.”

Maan spoke finally — low and even. “Your brother was a moron.”

She blinked. Looked up.

He met her eyes. “And an illiterate one, clearly. If he’d tasted your cooking, he’d have mortgaged the mithai shop just to brand your name on it.”

Geet let out a startled laugh. “Wow. What a compliment.”

He leaned back, folding his arms. “I meant every word. Even the insult.”

She shook her head, amused.

“You talk like your words come with consequences,” she murmured.

“They usually do,” he said.

She looked at him, head tilted. “And what would you name it?”

“What?”

“My restaurant,” she said. “If you were my investor. What would you name it?”

He narrowed his eyes, mock thoughtful. “Well. We can’t do ‘Geet’s Kitchen’ — too cheerful. ‘Sweet Karma’ sounds like an ayurvedic cult.”

She snorted.

He went on, deadpan: “We could try ‘Vengeance & Vada Pav’ — very on brand.”

Geet burst out laughing, hand instinctively reaching for her sore ribs. “Stop! It hurts when I laugh.”

He raised his brows. “But you’re laughing.”

“You’re not helping.”

He smiled — and this time, it wasn’t sarcastic.

Just… soft.

Almost like he was memorizing the sound of it.

She noticed.

And suddenly the laughter settled. Quieted. Replaced by something heavier. Truer.

“You really think I could’ve done it?” she asked, quieter now. “Opened that restaurant?”

Maan didn’t hesitate.

“You still can.”

She looked down. Her hand fidgeted at the edge of the bedsheet.

He leaned forward slightly. “Geet?”

“Hm?”

“Next time someone asks what your dream is — don’t say ‘tha.’”

She stilled.

“Say hai,” he said.

The silence that followed was different this time — not heavy, not sharp. Just full. Of breath. Of belief. Of something that didn’t need a label yet.

Geet nodded slowly.

And then — softly, teasingly — she added, “Investor toh milega… but ‘Vengeance & Vada Pav’ won’t survive Zomato rating.”

Maan raised a brow. “Excuse you. That’s Michelin-star branding.”

“Please. Sounds like a crime documentary with chutney.”

He grinned, hand on his jaw. “Okay. You name it then.”

Geet’s eyes twinkled.

She pretended to think. Then—

“‘Maan & Masalas.’”

His grin faded.

He blinked.

She smirked. “See? Main bhi punch maar sakti hoon.”

He just stared.

Then — quietly — “That’s dangerous.”

She tilted her head. “The name?”

“No,” he said. “You.”

And for a long, silent moment, they just sat there. A girl with a broken wrist, a man with a burning empire, and something between them that tasted suspiciously like a beginning.

The rain had slowed outside. The glass walls blurred the city into a shimmer of mist and light.

Geet sat propped against the headboard, casted arm supported, a blanket pooled over her lap. The air smelled faintly of lemon balm from the herbal tea he'd insisted she drink after dinner. Maan sat on the chair beside her, long legs stretched, one arm slung lazily over the rest.

She turned to him after a moment of companionable silence.
“What was the first thing you ever built?”

He glanced at her, one brow rising. “Define built.”

“Something that came from you,” she said. “Not assigned, not inherited. Something that was yours.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned his head back against the chair, the underside of his jaw catching the lamplight. Then—

“A demolition.”

Geet blinked. “…What?”

He looked at her now, mouth tugging into a dry smile. “The first thing I ever built was the collapse of my uncle’s logistics company.”

She stared. “I’m sorry?”

“I was seventeen. Interned with him one summer. Saw the numbers. Saw how he was hiding losses by shifting inventory reporting across branches. Three weeks in, I submitted an anonymous report to his primary creditor.”

Geet’s jaw dropped. “You took down your uncle’s company?”

“He was laundering money through fake import manifests. I just pointed it out. Quietly. Efficiently.”

“Why?”

Maan’s gaze was unreadable. “Because no one else was going to. And because he looked at my mother like she was a failed investment.”

Geet’s expression shifted. Her voice gentled. “So it wasn’t revenge.”

“It was correction.”

She was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “You scare people, Maan.”

“Good.”

“I said scare. Not intimidate.”

He tilted his head. “Do I scare you?”

Geet considered that. “No.”

“No?”

She smiled faintly. “I think I scare you.”

That pulled a dry laugh from him. “You’re in a rib brace and half a cast.”

“And you just admitted to corporate sabotage at seventeen.”

He chuckled again, but slower this time. “Touché.”

Geet tilted her head. “But really—what was the first thing you created that didn’t involve destruction?”

Maan leaned forward, elbows on knees.

“A paper I wrote when I was twenty. On undervalued regional brands. I tracked patterns of stagnation, showed how to split and rebrand them for niche market resurgences. One of the biggest retail conglomerates picked it up. Six months later, they acquired a dying spice company and made it the top-selling organic label in North India.”

Geet blinked. “That was you?”

He nodded once. “Uncredited. But yes.”

Her smile spread slowly. “You make resurrection sound like war.”

He shrugged. “It is. Every dying business has one shot at survival. And it usually costs blood.”

She sipped her tea, watching him. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“That nothing worth saving survives without a fight?” Maan’s eyes met hers. “Yes.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it shimmered with understanding.

After a moment, Geet said, “You know, I used to think business was boring. Numbers and jargon and endless coffee meetings.”

“And now?”

“I still think that. But I also think… maybe it’s your art form.”

Maan gave a quiet laugh. “You’re the only person who’s ever said that.”

“You’re the only person I’ve met who destroys things just to rebuild them cleaner.”

He looked at her.

And something softened in his gaze.

“You were never just acting, were you?” he said. “You always wanted to run something.”

Geet nodded slowly. “A restaurant. I told you.”

He tilted his head. “Still want to?”

She looked surprised. “You think I can?”

Maan leaned back again, but his voice was low and serious. “If you wanted to build an empire selling nothing but masala chai, I’d fund it blind.”

Geet laughed, a flush rising to her cheeks. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re underestimating yourself.”

She didn’t answer, but her fingers curled softly around her glass. A pause passed.

Then—

“What was your username on the site where you leaked your uncle’s records?” she teased.

His mouth twitched. “Disruptor_17.”

She broke into laughter. “Oh my God.”

Maan shrugged, eyes gleaming. “Accurate.”

“You need help.”

“Apparently,” he drawled, “you signed up for the job.”

She looked at him.

Not with surprise anymore.

With knowing.

With warmth.

With the kind of recognition that didn’t need explanation.

They stayed like that, just looking. Letting the quiet speak.

Until the light dimmed itself on the timer, and the sound of the city slipped back in like a lullaby.

“I like this. I like knowing more about you, my industry acquirer. Tell me more.” She mutters softly

Maan gave a low chuckle, settling into the armchair across from her bed.

“More? You’re oddly curious for someone who used to avoid talking to me.”

Geet rolled her eyes, cradling the edge of her blanket. “I wasn’t avoiding you. You were terrifying.”

He raised a brow, amused. “Still am.”

She tilted her head. “Not when you’re pouring soup and adjusting pillows.”

“That’s all part of my villain rebrand,” he deadpanned. “Soft menace. I lull you into security before delivering harsh feedback on your posture.”

She smiled despite herself. “You do give unnecessary posture notes.”

“It’s called structural integrity. You’re like a badly parked tripod half the time.”

“Excuse me!” she spluttered, half laughing. “I have a broken rib and one functional wrist.”

“And still somehow sit like a wilted lettuce leaf.”

“Maan!”

He bit back a grin, fingers tapping against his knee. “You wanted more. I come with commentary.”

Geet let the moment stretch, letting her smile settle.

Then, quietly: “Were you always like this?”

He looked at her, question lingering.

“This,” she clarified. “Sharp. Sarcastic. Unreadable.”

His lips twitched. “Some say I was born with a snide remark.”

She waited.

He sighed, leaning back.

“I wasn’t always unreadable. Just… observed too much. When people expect things from you, you learn to manage expectations before they’re even spoken. And then eventually, the real version of you becomes—excessive.”

Geet watched him closely. “Excessive how?”

“Too sharp. Too impatient. Too honest. People call it arrogance.” He met her gaze. “I call it clarity.”

She didn’t speak for a moment. Then softly:
“You’re not arrogant. You’re… blunt. In a way that’s sometimes comforting. Like a bitter pill.”

“That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever received.”

Geet smiled. “I mean it.”

He tilted his head, watching her again like he was still adjusting to the idea of being understood.

Then: “What about you?”

She blinked. “What about me?”

“Were you always this… persistent?” His voice dropped a little. “Even when everything cracked, you just kept going.”

Geet shifted, the question unexpectedly tender.

“I think,” she said slowly, “I just didn’t know what else to do. You’re allowed to stop if you have someone to catch you. I didn’t.”

Silence settled between them again. But it wasn’t awkward.

It felt like two people leaning a little closer to something invisible — an understanding neither had words for yet.

Maan rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “You do now.”

She looked at him.

He didn’t flinch.

“Catch you, I mean,” he added, like it needed clarifying. “Not emotionally mollycoddle you. Just—prevent a fall.”

Geet’s throat tightened — the honesty in that single phrase louder than anything grand or poetic.

“You’re very bad at sounding comforting.”

“I know.”

“But it works.”

“I know that too.”

She smiled, leaned her head back against the pillow.

“I like this,” she said again, quieter this time. “Us. Talking.”

He didn’t reply right away.

Just looked at her for a long beat, eyes unreadable.

Then finally:
“Don’t get used to it. I only do this for premium clients.”

She snorted. “I’m on the elite package?”

He stood, walking over to dim the overhead lights. “You’re on the ‘ruined my schedule and took over my bedroom’ package.”

As the room slipped into a soft orange glow, Geet lay back with a small grin.

“Worth it,” she murmured.

Maan didn’t answer. But his eyes softened — just for a moment — as he looked back at her.

“Say something else,” she murmured.

Maan looked at her, amused. “Like what?”

“Something true.”

He thought for a second.

Then said, “I like that you’re here.”

Geet stilled.

And then nodded, almost shyly. “Me too.”

He didn’t touch her.

Didn’t shift closer.

But the air between them felt warmer than it had all evening.

Maan didn’t move.

He just looked at her — not intense, not unreadable, just… there. Present. Like he wasn’t trying to fill the silence for once. Like this moment didn’t need fixing.

Geet shifted slightly, her shoulder brushing his bicep.

Her eyes flicked up.

He was close. But not looming. Not overwhelming. Just near enough that she could feel the heat of his body through the space between them. That space was barely anything.

She exhaled slowly. “You know what else I like?”

Maan raised an eyebrow. “There’s more?”

She nodded, solemn. “You don’t fake things.”

“That’s because I’m very bad at it.”

“No.” Her voice gentled. “It’s because you respect people too much to lie to them.”

Maan blinked. Once.

For a man so fluent in sarcasm, he never quite knew what to do with kindness.

“I’m not nice,” he said, almost warning.

“I know,” she replied, without hesitation.

He smirked. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

A beat.

Maan tilted his head back, resting it against the headboard.

“You’re strange,” he said finally.

Geet smiled. “I’m in your house. In your bed.. I think I’ve earned the right.”

He turned his face slightly toward her, and there it was again — that glimmer of a smile that barely made it to his lips, but softened everything anyway.

“Do you always say exactly what you think?” he asked.

She considered it. “Only with people who matter.”

He was quiet for a long time after that.

And then, just when she thought the moment would pass into sleep—

“You can touch me, you know,” he said casually. “I don’t bite. Unless asked nicely.”

Geet choked on a laugh. “You absolute—”

But before she could swat him, her hand found his wrist — the same one she’d brushed earlier that night at the table.

She didn’t say anything.

Just let her fingers trail along the underside, tracing the faint veins there. The skin was warm. Solid. Real.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t joke.

Just let her.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Do you like being touched?”

Maan’s jaw moved. “Only when it means something.”

She nodded, still tracing lazy, gentle lines over his wrist.

“This okay?” she asked.

He turned his hand slightly, so her palm could settle into his.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s better than okay.”

They sat like that for a long time.

Fingers threaded.

Not kissing.

Not confessing.

Just… fitting.

And outside, the city kept glowing under the mist — like it didn’t dare interrupt.

Part 61

Soft and Tender Update

Both Maan and Geet are getting to know each other

on a deeper level and this very fact with be the foundation of their

relation

Geet sees through Maan which no one else can truly do

61

smooth interaction between maan n geet

both silently confess place they hold for each other

silence become smoothing n comfortable for both

Hi Nilanjana

hope you are well

Compliments of the New Year

Part 61

Maan's thoughts were reasonable

Geet's comment was justified

well she is better off without her family

Geet's curiosity was anticipated

pleased that Maan was direct with Geet

sad that his parents resent him

admire that Maan made the company successful

of cos honest with Geet

loved their conversation

Maan was right that they were forced to survive in broken places

so Geet is interested in business

adore Maan teasing Geet

oh she wants to open a restaurant

she has brilliant ideas

angry how her family treated her

upset that they taunted her

Maan was correct about her brother

agree with Maan about her cooking skills

enjoyed their banter

now Maan told that she can still open her restaurant

liked that he said that its still her dream

Gosh Maan collapsed his uncle's company

ahh he did have valid reasons

Maan is a shrewd businessman

not surprised that he would fund her venture

glad that they getting to know each other better

update soon

This is the most they have talked. Both shared about their family issues and disappointments. Really opened up.

He will make sure she opens the restaurant. Her family did not believe in her, but he does.