The next week slides by, quiet and uneventful, except for the fact that it isn't. I make absolutely zero effort to acknowledge our relationship status. Not that Sakshi and Gargi have left it alone.

I told them, of course—because how could I not?—and endured their collective onslaught of Awws, We knew its, and the inevitable, "So, what base are you on?"

I didn't know what a base was, exactly, and I didn't care to ask—not with the way they grinned like cats who'd swallowed something scandalous.

Now, every time Romil walks by in class or cafeteria, Sakshi is giving me these infuriating smirks, and Gargi has started doing this exaggerated reenactment of me blushing in the bathroom before bolting out like a startled deer the first time they confronted me.

The week is a blur of project deadlines and submission dates piling up, and before I know it, Sunday is here again. Lately, it's the day I look forward to most. The day I get to slow down, breathe, stop rushing—and welcome Romil back into my world.

We never plan where we're going or what we'll do on Sundays. That's just how Romil operates, always keeping his cards close. Who knows what's happening behind that maddeningly cool exterior, the sharp jawline and lazy smirk that somehow make every room feel ten degrees warmer? He never lets me in on his thoughts, not even during those stolen moments when we walk together through the quiet school corridors after let-out.

He never answers my questions about his family or his past—just sidesteps them with a joke, pulling me back to the present. Maybe those are doors he's not ready to open, or maybe he's just better at living in the now than I'll ever be.

Either way, I'm still figuring him out. Piece by piece. Moment by moment.

When I hear the main gate creak open, I'm in the kitchen, wrist-deep in dough, flour smudged on my forearms like war paint. I glance out the kitchen window just as Romil crosses the porch in three long strides, stopping at the window to cup his hands around his eyes and peer in like a cartoon burglar.

I raise a brow at him through the glass. 'You know, that's a thief behaviour,' I call out, wiping my dough-covered hands on the nearest kitchen towel.

He leans closer, fogging up the glass with his breath, and squints dramatically. 'Good thing I'm only here to steal hearts, then,' he shoots back, making me roll my eyes.

'Original,' I mutter, crossing the room to open the door.

By the time I swing it open, he's already inside, making a beeline for the kitchen counter where the half-formed dough sits like I've invited him to critique it.

He drops a plastic bag on the counter with a casual flourish, like he's just saved my life. Inside, I find a tub of mint chip ice cream—Haagen-Dazs, no less.

I raise an eyebrow, holding it up. 'What did I tell you about no grand gestures?'

He leans a hip against the counter, crossing his arms and giving me a look like I've just insulted his honour. 'This isn't grand.'

'For me, it is,' I say, deadpan.

'Uh-huh.' His grin spreads. 'So, what's on the menu today? Besides sarcasm and a lot of attitude?'

'Methi ke Parathe,' I say, watching his expression like a hawk.

It's almost imperceptible at first—the softening of his features, the gleam in his eyes as he glances away. But I catch it, and my chest tightens before I can stop it.

'And if you're lucky,' I add too quickly, 'I might even let you eat one.'

'If I'm lucky?' he echoes, arranging his expressions quickly like I've just given him the best challenge of his life. He moves closer, standing just a little too near as his eyes flick to my hands. 'Let me guess—you're going to make me work for it?'

I glance at his clean, unsullied hands and smirk. 'Oh, absolutely. Roll up your sleeves, city boy. Let's see what you've got.'

He groans, dramatic and loud, but there's something playful in his gaze as he reaches for the towel in my hands. 'Fine, but if I mess this up, it's on you.'

'Trust me,' I say, trying to ignore the way my stomach flips when his fingers brush mine. 'I have no expectations.'

I walk him through kneading the dough, showing him how to press and fold it until it's smooth, all while mixing the methi stuffing on the side. At first, he adds too much water, and the dough turns into something resembling paste. Then, overcompensating, he dumps in so much flour that it stiffens into an unmanageable lump.

'Consistency,' I remind him, holding back a laugh as I pinch the dough between my fingers for emphasis. 'Not too wet, not too dry.'

He nods seriously, like I'm instructing him on how to defuse a bomb. I turn back to the stuffing for what feels like five seconds, but when I glance his way again, he has flour streaked across his forehead, a smudge on his nose, and even a dusting in his hair.

I burst out laughing, my stomach aching as I set down the spoon and cross to him. 'Hold still,' I say, brushing flour out of his hair.

He leans into my touch, and I realize too late how close we are—his face tilted toward mine, a teasing grin tugging at his lips. My hand falters as his gaze flicks to mine and my stomach flips, heat pooling low in a way I really wish I could control. I blink rapidly and step back, retreating like I've touched something burning.

'Uh, so,' I start, my words stumbling over themselves as I gesture to the mixture in the pan. 'I've added salt, chili, garam masala, carom seeds, and just a little bit of gram flour.'

I'm rambling. Fully aware that he's not even pretending to care about the ingredients. His focus isn't on the pan or the food—it's on me. His eyes are sharp, intense, his expression a quiet storm of emotions he's not letting me read.

Still, he nods, like he's filing away my every word. Like he's playing along with a game only I'm trying to win.

'And then,' I continue, looking resolutely at the pan. 'We cook this for a couple of minutes.'

He nods, slow and deliberate.

'Then, we let it cool.' I add, barely above a whisper.

The pan sizzles softly, but the kitchen feels anything but cool, and I don't dare look back at him. Not when the air between us feels thick enough to stir.

'I think I should put the ice cream in the fridge,' he suggests.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, my gaze fixed firmly on the pan as he steps behind me. I hear the soft creak of the fridge door, the quiet rustle of the bag, and then—of course—feel the weight of his presence.

He bends to tuck the ice cream away, and I am painfully aware of him. Every move. Every breath. I stand frozen, pretending the cooktop has every ounce of my attention when really, all my senses are on high alert.

The soft thud of the door closing snaps me out of my trance. I exhale, grabbing a dollop of dough and pressing it into a disc, my hands moving faster than they need to. I scoop the filling, tuck it into the dough, and pinch it closed, flattening and rolling it out again. My focus is laser-sharp on the paratha, but I can feel him watching me.

My back straightens, my shoulders tense, but I keep my eyes down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing what he's doing to me. When I slide the paratha onto the pan, it sizzles softly, and I let the sound ground me. Or at least try to.

Once the paratha is golden and crisp, I slide it onto a plate, pairing it with a generous dollop of curd on the side. Romil hops onto the counter beside me, the plate balanced on his lap, his long legs swinging slightly.

'It's hot,' I warn, pulling the plate from his hands before he can burn himself and setting it safely on the countertop beside him.

Undeterred, he picks up a piece, blows on it dramatically, and takes a bite. His eyes flutter closed as a low sound escapes his throat—a mix between a hum and a groan that sends heat rushing to my cheeks. His expression says it all: pure, unfiltered delight.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot and turn back to the stove, rolling out another paratha.

He eats quietly, no commentary, no teasing—just him and the food, a scene so rare for Romil it feels intimate. I'm halfway through cooking the third one when he sets the plate aside and announces, 'I'm full.'

I glance over my shoulder with a grin. 'I'm making it for me,' I say, laughing softly, and he chuckles in response.

He hops down from the counter, landing behind me so quietly I almost don't notice—until I do. Until I feel him there, close enough that his arm grazes mine, his chest brushing against my back in a way that feels entirely too intentional to be accidental.

'You can have your ice cream now,' I manage, though my voice wavers, betraying me.

Instead of moving, he lifts a strand of hair off my neck, his fingers skimming my cool skin before his lips replace them—warm and deliberate. 'I'll have it with you,' he murmurs against me.

I swallow hard, clearing my throat as I reach to turn off the burner. The paratha is crispier than I'd meant it to be, but I can't bring myself to care as I set it aside, frozen in place when his arms snake around my stomach.

He pulls me back, pressing me flush against his chest, and my breath stumbles at the feel of him. His lips return to the side of my neck, this time softer, slower, making my head tip back instinctively, offering him more of me to do his magic.

'You need to stop these grand gestures,' I murmur, my voice a shaky whisper. The sharp inhale I take when his hands press more firmly against my stomach gives me away.

'Then those methi parathas I just devoured,' he says; his voice an epitome of amusement 'must've been the grandest gesture of them all.'

Before I can roll my eyes, he's back at my neck, his lips brushing a kiss there that's almost reverent. 'And I'm not parting with my favourite food anytime soon,' he adds, the warmth of his breath making me shiver.

His fingers toy with the neckline of my top, sliding it just enough off my shoulder to expose skin, and then he presses his lips there too. A gentle kiss, followed by a playful nip. 'I love to eat methi,' he murmurs, his voice low and teasing.

I yelp, spinning around to face him, eyes wide in mock surprise. 'That's not appropriate.'

'For me, it is,' he replies, a perfect echo of my earlier words.

Before I can muster a response, his lips are on mine, and any thought of arguing dissolves like sugar in warm tea.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against mine. 'Is it too early for me to say I'm in love with you?'

My lips part in half-part surprise and half-part pure happiness, and I say, 'Is it too early for me to say I love you too?'

And a slow smile spreads across his lips, the kind of smile that makes my chest ache, like I've just discovered something beautiful for the first time.

******
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PS: need a suggestion: do you think i should record an audiobook version of this book?

XOXO
Shailey