I manage to hide my excitement as we slip out, using the old "I need some fresh air" ruse. Romil's hand rubs lightly against my back, and I cover my mouth like I'm seconds away from being sick. With a quick nod and a forced smile at the doorman, Romil ushers me outside, and as soon as we're out of sight, we break into a run.

By the time we stop just outside the hotel, we're doubled over, laughing and clutching our sides, trying to catch our breath. We straighten up, make eye contact, and immediately burst into laughter again.

'That was some cool bit of acting we did there,' Romil says between gasps, his face lit up like a kid who just got away with stealing candy.

I grin, still breathless. 'You weren't so bad yourself. We should really consider making this a regular thing.'

He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. 'You joke, but I had to step in because I heard something far more alarming.'

I raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. 'Oh really? And what was that?'

'Your stomach,' he says with a mock-serious tone, his eyes sparkling with mischief. 'It was growling so loud, I thought we were about to get kicked out for disturbing the peace. I had to do something before things got ugly.'

My mouth falls open in playful disbelief, and I lightly shove him. 'Excuse me? You did not hear my stomach growling. That's a serious allegation, and I demand a retraction.'

'No way.'

I roll my eyes, but can't help the smile tugging at my lips. 'You're impossible.'

He smirks, eyes softening as he teases, 'Impossible? Or just incredibly attentive?'

'Let's stick with impossible,' I quip back, laughing.

We walk around the Jawahar circle as I say, 'But if you heard my stomach, then I guess I owe you for the heroic save.'

Romil turns to me, grinning. 'Are you going to give me some treat?'

I don't have to mull over the options, because something has caught my eyes. Just ahead, a baraat—complete with drums, a groom on a horse, and a crowd of people dancing in bright lights—makes its way into a wedding hall. An idea takes form into my head, the kind of wild one that sends a thrill down my spine.

'Actually...' I say slowly, a mischievous smile forming, 'how do you feel about crashing a wedding?'

Romil's eyebrows shoot up. 'Wait—what?'

'We're dressed for it,' I say, pointing at his tux and my fancy dress. 'We'll blend right in! Come on, you've never done it?'

He looks both sceptical and intrigued, his lips twitching with a disbelieving smile. 'I'm not sure this has ever featured on my to-do list.'

'Well, now it has,' I say with a grin, tugging him forward. 'You can finally cross "gatecrashing a wedding" off your recently updated to-do list.'

Romil hesitates for half a second, but then I see it—the spark of excitement flickering in his eyes. 'Alright, lead the way,' he says, his voice amused.

We approach the crowd, and I seamlessly slip into the throng of dancing guests. Romil follows suit, looking more nervous than I've ever seen him, but I give him a reassuring nod. The beats of the drums are infectious, and within minutes, we're both dancing with the baraatis, twirling and laughing under the night sky.

I spot one of the baraatis handing out pink turbans, and before Romil can even say anything, I grab one. I fix it on his head, his eyes fixed into mine as I smile at him. He is completely buying into the moment, and with the pink fabric contrasting sharply against his dark curls, he looks absolutely handsome, like he came straight out of a Punjabi movie.

He shoots me a look. 'I'm really doing this, aren't I?'

'You bet you are,' I laugh. 'And you look fantastic in that turban, by the way.'

He grins, still a little unsure, but the joy of the moment takes over, and he gives in. We dance with the crowd until the baraat reaches the entrance of the hall. Romil's eyes dart nervously as we step inside. 'And now what?'

'Now we eat, drink, and be merry,' I say, casually. 'Follow my lead. I've done this before.'

'You've crashed weddings before?'

'Of course,' I wink, not explaining things in details. Those are for some other days. 'Stick with me, and no one will ever know we weren't invited.'

With that, we slip into the wedding hall like we've belonged there the whole time. The thumping beat of the DJ from the baraat still reverberates in the distance as we make our "grand" entrance. I tell Romil to keep his hands folded in a constant namaste until we're safely in the garden where the food is. He nods, obediently bowing and flashing polite smiles to everyone we pass, like he's some distant cousin on the groom's side.

On the way, we snag cold drinks and a few snacks—perks of crashing a wedding from the groom's side. Once in the garden, we blend into the crowd seamlessly, grabbing whatever our eyes land on first. Romil's staring suspiciously at the gol gappe stall, and I can't help but ask why. Turns out, he's never even tried them and has somehow already formed an opinion about it. I roll my eyes and coax him into tasting dahi papdi first, easing him into the real deal. He likes it—small victory.

Feeling triumphant, I hand him a gol gappa from my plate, grinning like a devil. His eyes widen comically as he stuffs the whole thing in his mouth, his cheeks puffing out as he tries to chew. I watch with raised eyebrows, eager for the verdict. He nods furiously and gives me an exaggerated thumbs up, letting out a muffled whoop through his full mouth. I laugh so hard I almost drop the Gol Gappa in my hand.

'You're like a kid who's yet to experience the world.' I comment, bringing an ice cream next.

Romil pauses mid-bite, lifting an eyebrow. 'Oh, really? Just because I've never gate-crashed a wedding before?' He gestures with his fork toward the plate of pav bhaji I brought him, giving me a look that's half-teasing, half-indignant.

I shrug, smiling, 'Because you've never had Gol Gappe before.'

He laughs, rolling his eyes before taking another bite. 'By the way,' he says between chews, 'what's the deal with your anxiety? I never got around to asking you that.'

I pause, caught off guard. 'What do you want to know?'

'The why?' he says, but then quickly adds, 'The How? What? Where? Since when? How do you feel at that moment? Anything you can tell.'

I sigh, putting down my spoon and leaning back in my chair. 'Honestly, I don't know the reason why it chose me but it did sort of come out of nowhere. And as far as what triggers me is concerned; I'll give you a vague answer again. Sometimes crowd, sometimes conflict, sometimes...'

'Gautam Sir's lecture?' he suggests.

I laugh, shaking my head. 'Not quite. It's more like... this overwhelming flood of thoughts I can't shut off. Sometimes I feel fine, and other times I'm spiralling, and I don't even know why. I am trying to figure it out.'

Romil nods, grabbing a plate of fried rice and Manchurian balls. He takes a slow bite, chewing thoughtfully before glancing at me. 'There's still one question left.'

I glance at him, already knowing what's coming. 'How I feel in the moment?'

'Yep.' He grins at me.

I hesitate, swirling my spoon around in my ice cream. 'I can't explain that in just a few words.'

'I'm not asking for a few words,' he says, cutting me off casually.

I freeze, caught by the weight of his words. He's not looking at me, too busy shovelling rice into his mouth, but there's something about the way he said it, so casual yet so deliberate, that makes my heart skip a beat.

The feeling is like the world slams on the brakes, but I'm the only one who can feel it. Like everything around me starts to shrink, pressing in on all sides. My skin goes from cold to hot in seconds, like I've walked into a freezer and then straight into the sun. There's this nauseous twist in my stomach, a wave that keeps rising and rising until I feel like I might be sick. And it's not just nerves—it's this awful, restless feeling, like I'm trapped in a body that suddenly doesn't fit.

And it's so much more than that. But the words that I come up with barely scratch the surface of what it really feels like.

But somehow, he gets it.

He reaches across the table, takes my hand in his, and his thumb starts tracing these soft circles over my knuckles, then the inside of my wrist. I can't help but smile, feeling myself drift back into the moment—the surrealness of it all. Romil Jain, sitting here, listening to me spill my worries as if he's got nowhere else to be, nothing more pressing on his mind.

And then, like a stubborn weed, an age-old question pops in my head—the one I've buried many times before but now feels harder to ignore.

'You wanna say something?' he asks.

I hesitate, weighing the question in my head, but it keeps pushing forward, louder than my urge to keep it buried. Before I can stop myself, it slips out. 'What are we?'

Romil doesn't rush to answer. His fingers pause for just a second, then pick up again, tracing slow figure eights on my skin. His touch feels cooler now, but somehow, it still sends a spark through me, igniting every nerve, lighting up my whole body like a switch.

Romil's fingers pause for another beat, and I brace myself for a joke, something to turn my question into a punchline. But when he looks up, his expression is serious.

'We're... more than friends. At least, I want us to be.'

His words land between us like a dropped stone, making everything around me go quiet. His hand tightens around mine, the faintest pressure, and I forget to breathe for a second.

'I don't just want to be the guy who makes you laugh, or the one you call when you need something,' he says. 'I want to be the guy who gives you everything. The one who's there for you, through... all of it.'

My heart pounds in my chest, his words pressing into me, each one pulling me further into this moment, this possibility.

'I'm not asking you to say something huge,' he continues, his voice soft but steady. 'But I need to know what's in your heart. Because I know what's in mine.'

His eyes search mine, and it feels like time has stopped.

'I want to make you happy,' he says, his voice quieter now, but full of something real, something that makes my pulse race. 'I want us to be real.'

I feel the warmth come back to his hands, and the way his fingers are interlaced with mine, like he's waiting for me to pull away. Or to hold on tighter.

'What do you want?' he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. 'Because I'm all in, Maithili. If you are.'

I inhale deeply, knowing I have to get this off my chest. 'Okay, before we move forward. No more expensive gifts. I'm serious, Romil. I don't want to feel like I owe you anything.'

His smile fades, replaced by a small frown. 'Maithi, they were just—'

'I know,' I cut him off, my voice softer. 'But I'm not... I can't keep up with that. I'm not... like you.'

He shifts uncomfortably, but does not draw back his hand. 'I wasn't trying to make you feel like you had to keep up. I just thought... I don't know, that you'd use it. It'd be easy.'

I nod. 'I did. The dress is beautiful, and the phone—it's way more than I could ever afford. But I don't want to feel like I'm some project you're throwing money at.'

He opens his mouth to argue but stops, clearly struggling to find the right words. At last, his hands retreat, and he runs his hands through his hair. 'You know, it's not like that. I didn't even think twice about it.'

'And that's exactly the problem,' I say, my voice tightening. 'You don't have to think about it. But I do.'

He looks down, jaw tight. 'I just want to make you happy.'

I touch his hand, my fingers brushing his lightly. 'You do. You already do. But, I'm gonna pay you back, slowly.'

His head snaps up, his eyes widening in surprise. 'Pay me back? But I thought you were paying me back with those Sundays.'

I shake my head. 'It's no longer a payment if it was ever one to begin with. Besides, I need to feel like I can stand on my own in this. And I don't wanna feel I'm with you for all that. I'm with you because... because I want you.'

He then stares at me for a moment, like he's trying to process this. Then his face softens, all traces of resistance draining away. 'Fine. If that's what you need, I'll accept it. No more gifts, no more big gestures. But you're keeping everything I gave you and I am not getting any payment back. It's not how I work. And it's final.' He adds the last sentence when I open my mouth to protest.

I relent with a nod and a small, 'Okay.'

He laughs, shaking his head. 'I don't want to weigh you down, Maithi. That's the last thing I want, but please keep these things for my sake.'

I nod, looking into his eyes.

'You're sure I cancel the private jet for our date tomorrow?' He raises an eyebrow, his grin turning mischievous.

I laugh, swatting his arm. 'Romil!'

He catches my wrist mid-swat, pulling me closer, eyes pinning me with his gaze. Before I can react, he's tugged my chair right up to his, the space between us shrinking to almost nothing.

'So, girlfriend,' he whispers, his breath tickling my ear. Goosebumps rise in an instant. 'Let's seal it with a kiss.'

'What?'

But before I can even process it, his hand is already at the back of my neck, gentle but firm, pulling me closer. And then his lips are on mine—soft, warm, and completely sure of themselves. The kiss lingers just long enough to make my heart race, and when he finally pulls back, his grin is infuriatingly smug.

'Sealed,' he says.