The US returned, pretentious, international cuisine lover, sometimes sweet and most of the times sour, Samrat Agnihotri bakes her a pizza for dinner, a classic Margherita that Mishti can kill or get killed for (after Chole Bhature, of course).

But that’s not the point. The point is that the man makes the dish all by himself without any help from Mishti who stands by his side cradling her wounded hand. 

He didn’t whine once. Didn’t complain. Instead, he had been sporting a natural quirk to his lips for the entire duration of the time that he cooked for himself… and her. Them.

It makes something in her chest flutter.

Times like this and Mishti wants to tell Samrat everything. She doesn’t want to hide from him, to lie to him. Times like this and a hope simmers in her heart that maybe he’d understand; understand when she’ll tell him her truth, understand that she is here on a mission, one that she had herself taken upon her to finish, solely because it meant an opportunity to see him up-close after four long years, years that she couldn't stop thinking about him.

Mishti wonders if he’ll ever realise that it was her that day, wonders if she ever wants him to realise that.

“Come on, sit,” Samrat says when he brings out the food to put it on the table, pulling out a chair for her.

Mishti eyes widen, face seeming as if she has seen a ghost.

“Me?” she asks pointing to herself, and Samrat nods with an exasperated sigh as if him inviting her to dine with him on the table is the commonest thing in the world.

“Yes, Mishti, you. Now come on, the food’s getting cold.” 

Mishti doesn’t protest. She finds no reason to and simply sits on the table with a huge grin on her face as the man takes a seat opposite her. 

It’s not that she hasn’t eaten on a massive, polished table before. In fact, the table that they have at their homes might rival Samrat’s but it is the incredulity of the situation that is amusing to her. Getting to eat the food cooked by the man who had seemed to be ignoring her past few days, on his table – Yeah, she finds plenty to grin about.

“Stop smiling,” Samrat remarks, narrowing his eyes though only moments later a small smile crawl up his lips. “You’ll be grinning much more when you’ll taste this deliciousness.” 

“Overconfident much?” 

“It called expertise. Now eat.”

Eat Mishti does, her face morphing into that of surprise as the flavours burst on her tongue, the dish competing with Raghav’s cooking. And that is saying something.

Samrat observes the reaction and smirks. “So, how is it?” he asks but before Mishti can start spouting how scrumptious the food is, an idea strikes her mind. 

Lowering her pitch, and deepening her voice she says, “It’s fine.”

It has the desired effect. 

The overconfident smile falls from Samrat’s face as he furrows his brows. “Just fine?” an involuntarily pout graces his face as he asks her that.

She deepens her voice even more, and straightens her back, trying to act even more naturally. 

“Yes, fine. The seasoning was less than my liking, the texture was a bit too cheesy while the look, well let’s just say I’ve seen better-looking dishes.” 

Samrat looks dumbfounded, his mouth closing and opening like a fish.

Mishti bites back an amused grin. 

“What? Did you think you’re the best chef on this planet?” Mishti asks, squinting her eyes, taking the napkin off her lap, and gingerly wiping her lips with it.

It is then that it strikes him, and Mishti finds delight in the way Samrat's face morphs from disappointment to confusion to an unexpected elation.

“Oh!” he exclaims, his eyes wide and mouth curving up to form into a huge grin that surpassed even Mishti's.

“You were – you were ….me? Ha! You were imitating me?” Samrat says and then does something that has her heart stopping, in an extremely pleasant way, mind you.

He laughs, his head thrown back, eyes scrunched up in genuine happiness, waves of laughter escaping one after the other from his mouth, his one hand clutching his stomach and the other unconsciously seeming to have placed itself on hers, that had been previously engaged getting itself a glass of water, making her breath hitch in her throat.

Safe to say she doesn’t need water after that, just a light pinch on her arm to check whether she’s dreaming or not, and a thorough contemplation on what Aisha had said to her about Samrat that day, because maybe, just maybe it had some truth to it.

*

Ranvi looks up from he had been shuffling through the fridge in the middle of the night to quiet down the grumbling of his tummy when he hears footsteps coming towards him.

Undeniably, it's with a spoon of ice cream still stuck in his mouth that he confronts the person who turns out to be his part nemesis and part sibling a.k.a. Tara.

He finds her amusedly staring at him, cocking her eyes to her side before raising her brows.

“Midnight snacks?” she asks, and he gives her a grin, spoon still in his mouth.

“You want some?” he offers her the ice-cream tub with a muffled voice to which she grins back and rushes to his side.

Two foodies in the kitchen, they might empty up the fridge.

“Hell yes!” Tara shrieks, quickly taking her place beside him.

“Oh wow, this one's my favourite one. I have eaten this ice cream once before.” She remarks casually, but Ranveer doesn't pay mind to it.

“Who counts the number of times they have eaten ice-cream, Tara.” He says good naturedly.

"The ones who don't get to have them often. Let me rephrase my statement, I have eaten any kind of ice cream only once before.”

This time Ranveer  isn't too quick to ingest the information.

“What?”

“Yes, the ones who adopted me made me buy it on my twelfth birthday. After then they didn't care much and when I started stealing, I always had only enough for food. Not desserts.” She tells, her lips smeared with the Choco-chip ice cream that she is eating.

Ranveer gulps tightly, quickly taking out another box of ice cream from the freezer, this time a mix of vanilla and strawberry and a tissue that he hands her.

“For your mouth," he getsures to her lips, then points to the ice-creams. “Here, you can eat as much as you want. We'll bring more for you tomorrow!” He says.

“Oh, and because Mihir is a dieting freak, these are all sugar-free, so you can eat as much as you want, and it won’t even hinder your diabetes!” Ranveer reveals with bright eyes and Tara grins pinching his cheek.

“Aww, you're such a thoughtful kid, Ranvi!”

“Hey!”

That’s how they spend the first half an hour of their talk. Though the same can’t be said about the next half an hour.

“Ranvi…”

“Hmm?” 

Ranveer turns towards Tara, giving her all his attention and raises his brows in question.

“Remember you told us that you had put that microphone bug and camera in Samrat’s house?” Tara asks and he nods.

“Yeah, I had installed them in his garden,” Ranveer confirms, pouting thereafter. “But I couldn’t put them inside his house.”

Tara shakes her head at that, waving a nonchalant hand in the air. “That doesn’t matter, even the bare minimum would do. I – I just want to see that lady. The one who chose me for the job. I have always been curious of what she did and why she did. I want to see her up-close once.” She explains and Ranvi nods, getting up and immediately bringing his laptop from the room.

“Here, these are the clips from the past two weeks. You can forward them, zoom in and out to your liking.” Ranveer says, handing her his laptop that Tara accepts gratefully.

The next minutes that pass go in utmost silence with both the individuals staring intently at the laptop as Tara quickly forwards the video. 

When Tara sees Mishti after all those years through that blurry video, an automatic smile comes on her face.

“I never got to apologise to Mishti.” She says regretfully, but Ranveer just pats her back with his ever so hopeful smile.

“Don’t worry about it. Our Mishti is not someone to hold a grudge against you for something you did when you were a kid. We all did mistakes, and yours even wasn’t one. You just told her the truth, just a bit abruptly. But that’s ok. She would understand whenever you guys would meet again.” He consoles and Tara nods, giving him a grateful smile.

“I'd love to see her again.”

Tara's fingers pause on the space bar next when she sees a lady coming out of the car, dressed in a suit, her shades covering her face. 

“This is it. I guess she is his mother.” Tara exclaims and Ranveer hums, agreeing.

Though the moment she zooms in the video, to get a proper look at the woman’s face before she enters inside the house, she freezes, and when her fingers don’t move on the keypad, Ranveer looks at her, only to find her staring at the screen with wide eyes, a slight sheen of water glistening on her eyes. 

“Tara?” he says gently, but the girl doesn’t look at him.

“Tara....” he nudges her shoulder to make her look at him, but this time when she finally does, she doesn’t wait for him to ask her any questions and just gets up from the spot, his laptop in her hands, rushing towards her room.

Ranveer, despite his impulsive self, decides not to follow her.