Myra and Garvit post our group selfie to their stories, tagging Mai's Instagram account, and suddenly, it's like the internet collectively decides to throw a party at my website. Within hours, the website traffic soars past 20,000 visitors per hour. Influencers start chiming in too, unboxing their PR packages and raving about the full-bloomed daisy emblem stamped on everything like a signature wink.

The gift hampers—sorry, PR packaging—were borderline legendary: silk scarves for the ladies, handkerchiefs for the gents, a too-cute coffee mug with a matching coaster and Roameo-branded coffee packets. There's also a premium membership card for Lux&Love@Roameo, offering exclusive perks for extended stays, plus daisy-themed accessories: bejewelled hair clips and brooches for women, cufflinks and lapel pins for men.

And no, I didn't single-handedly stitch or paint an army of goodies. Sheela handled the scarves while I tackled the handkerchiefs—tiny stitches, easy enough to teach her on the fly. Everything else? Outsourced. I might be ambitious, but I'm not a machine.

I also made sure to promise Romil, in a breathless, slightly manic tone, that I was only loaning the money until I started generating some income. But before I could finish my rambling justification, he shut me up with a kiss. Right there, in front of a cheering crowd, like he was some kind of rom-com hero. And honestly? It worked. For about five seconds, I forgot about my financial panic and just felt gloriously, embarrassingly high on life.

It goes without saying the event was a success for both of us.

'What happened to the rest of your friends?' I ask, as Himansh Kaka picks us up from the airport and starts the drive home.

Romil's holding my hand, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over my knuckles, but the motion stops cold at my question.

'Don't ask me about them,' he says, his gaze fixed firmly out the window.

'Okay,' I say carefully, 'I just noticed it was only Sakshi. Not even Rupal.'

'Rupal only hung out with us because she thought we were cooler than her friends. Shlok had a thing for her—that's why we tolerated her.'

'But she had a thing for you,' I point out, because of course she did.

He turns to me, his expression calm but serious. 'I didn't—and don't—care about anyone but you, Maithili. Once you came into my life, it was only you.'

The words hit me like a cozy blanket, and I murmur back, 'I know.' It's the truth, but also, I'm about five seconds away from falling asleep.

Apparently, that doesn't go unnoticed, because he chuckles softly. 'Are my heartfelt confessions boring you now?'

'Huh?' I manage, already losing the fight against my eyelids. And then I yawn, tip my head onto his shoulder, and let myself drift into the deepest, most content sleep I've had in a long while.

The next morning, I wake up to basil chai on the nightstand and the mouthwatering scent of paneer chilla in the air. Romil is at the side of the bed, wearing an apron over the thinnest vest imaginable for this weather, a chef's cap balanced jauntily on his head like he's auditioning for a cooking show that only hires supermodels.

I let my groggy, just-woke-up eyes trail over him, and the first coherent thought I have is that he smells unfairly good—some kind of aquatic aftershave situation that feels designed to ruin my concentration. As he leans in to straighten my pillows to help me sit up, the curve of his neck is suddenly right there, inches from my face, and a silver link chain catches the light, dangling like a weapon against my already fragile morning self-esteem.

I sit up quickly, blinking away the sleep as the chain swings dangerously close to my nose. Meanwhile, I catch sight of myself in the mirror from over his neck— hair that could pass for a bird's nest and a face pale enough to look like it was coloured in with a white crayon —and immediately spiral into an inferiority complex so deep it might take a paneer chilla intervention to pull me out.

'Here,' Romil says, setting a plate of biscuits down beside the cup of chai. 'Anything else you'd like?'

I don't realize my eyes have gone full saucer mode until he widens his own in a cartoonish impression of me, his eyebrow quirking in mock surprise.

'Just go!' I wave him off, avoiding his gaze like it might physically combust me. No way am I opening my mouth right now. Morning breath. Sweat. The full image-destroyer kit.

Before he can tease me further, Himansh Kaka rushes into the hall, stopping just shy of the door but ensuring we know he's there by clearing his throat like he's about to announce breaking news.

'He's here,' Kaka says, his voice a little breathless. 'What do I say to him?'

'Who is it?' I ask, my stomach already flipping.

Romil turns to me, his expression careful. 'It's your father. He's been asking about you since we left for Hyderabad.'

*****

I spend way too long trying to decide what to wear, caught in a mental tug-of-war between Maithili before marriage and Maithili after. It's a battle between: What would Papa like to see? and What do I want him to see?

Romil, ever the diplomat, swoops in, helping me land on a compromise. A pastel green kurta with straight-legged jeans. In return, I help him out by choosing the most decent white shirt he owns, which, admittedly, is still a little see-through. So, I throw a polo sweater over it.

I'm set on walking out together, but Romil suggests he'll join when he thinks it's time. I don't even need to think about it. I tell him, 'The first question Papa's going to ask is how I ended up living in a mansion of a farmhouse. You're needed from the very beginning.'

He nods, but there's something in the way he looks away, trying to hide his face from my gaze, and the subtle tremor in his hand as it lingers in mine. I squeeze his hand in a silent reassurance, and together, we walk toward the backyard, ready to face Papa.

Papa sits at the edge of a rattan chair in the garden, the plate of snacks and chai in front of him untouched, as if their very presence irritates him. As soon as he spots us, he starts to rise but then seems to think better of it, settling back into the chair with a hesitant stiffness.

I walk over and touch his feet, not expecting much beyond the usual indifference. But then—I think I hear him mutter something under his breath. The words are incomprehensible, but they spark a flicker of hope I quickly tamp down. Straightening, I step back to stand beside Romil.

Romil, as socially awkward as ever, folds his hands in a formal namaste. His smile is tight, more polite than warm, but at least he's trying.

'Papa, he's Romil. He owns this place.' I know it's not enough of an introduction, but I'm banking on the hope that Papa doesn't ask the kind of questions we aren't ready to answer yet.

Papa nods at Romil, but his expression is guarded, as though Romil might sprout fangs and turn into a vampire at any moment.

'You... came to my house,' Papa says, his voice tight.

'Yes, I wanted to see you, but you were... uh... asleep,' I say.

'I—I knew it was you,' he mutters, looking away like my gaze might burn him alive. 'Recognized you... from the bottles.'

'Erm...' I glance at Romil. He's staring at his sneakers, nudging at the grass with his sneakers like it might provide some sort of escape.

'Is he...' Papa starts, his words halting as he looks at Romil with a hesitation so raw, it's hard to tell who's more awkward right now—him or us.

'I'm the guy from the video,' Romil says, his voice unsteady.

I whip my head toward him, shocked. He's still looking down, but the weight of his words hangs heavy in the air. I turn back to Papa. His face hardens in a split second, his expression turning livid.

He's on his feet, his hand raised high. I instinctively step in front of Romil, shielding him, bracing myself for the blow. But it doesn't come.

When I look up, Papa's hand is trembling in the air, and with visible effort, he lowers it to his side. His face twists with pain, and he looks away, as though looking at me is too much to bear.

'I'm sorry for what happened, Uncle,' Romil says, stepping out from behind me, his voice suddenly brave. 'It happened, and I take full responsibility for it.'

'You take full responsibility, eh?' Papa's voice is sharp.

Instinctively, I move closer to Romil, taking his hand in mine. To shield him and to make him know that we're in this together.

'Forget about me. I'm just an old drunkard,' Papa says, his voice shaking. 'But her? You ruined her life. What responsibility do you take for that? What did she do to deserve it? What changed, huh? Did they unsee your shamelessness? Can I ever unsee my own daughter—' his voice cracks, and he stops, swallowing hard. 'The disgrace... the disgrace you brought on this girl you're standing here holding hands with. She wouldn't step out of the house, scared people would recognize her. I used to take pride in—'

'Uncle, the video was taken down. I made sure no one had it, that no one could—'

'Shut up, you idiot!' Papa's voice booms, and Romil flinches. 'What do you know about disgrace? Your face was nothing but...' He does this hand motion that vaguely means blurred. 'You stayed hidden in that video while my daughter bore all the shame.'

'I'm sorry, Unc—' Romil starts, but I cut him off.

'Enough!' I say. 'Your daughter, papa? Seriously? Am I back to being your daughter now after years of abuse? Because the last time I checked—banged on your doors after that man raped me and I came to you—I heard different words! I—' My voice cracks, and I pause to take a steadying breath, Romil's comforting hand grounding me, keeping me from falling apart.

I sniff and continue, 'Ho gayi galti, yaar Papa,' I say, echoing Romil's words from the Gurudwara. 'We both accept our fault. But don't you think I've been punished more than I deserved?'

Papa exhales sharply, his voice tight. 'That's exactly my point. You've suffered while he lived here'—he gestures at the house around us—'in this life of luxury, without any consequences.'

Romil's hand slackens on my arm, and I know Papa's words have struck a nerve.

'We don't know the extent of his suffering,' I say gently, holding Papa's gaze. 'But one thing I do know is that hurting him is like hurting me, and I can't take any more pain, Papa.' My voice falters as I continue, 'I wanted to talk to you about Romil and me. I love him, and he loves me. I've forgiven him, and now I want to forgive you too.'

This breaks him. The tears he's been holding back spill over, and he sobs like a man finally letting go of a weight too heavy to bear. Romil is instantly at his side, steadying him as he sinks into the chair, his shoulders shaking with grief.

Romil crouches beside him, his voice low but steady. 'Uncle, I know I haven't been punished like she was—you were. And by asking for her hand, I'm asking for the greatest gift I could ever receive, one I probably don't deserve. But I promise you, I'll be the best husband to her. I'll give her every happiness possible. After everything that's happened, if we're lucky enough to be forgiven by this incredible woman, then we owe it to her to give her what she wants. Please, Uncle. Allow us to get married.'

By now, tears are streaming down my cheeks. I crouch beside Romil, my hand resting on his shoulder.

He glances at me and smiles, a small, tender smile that fills me with hope. Together, we look up at Papa.

He wipes his tears, his cheeks blotchy and red, and blinks rapidly as if to clear the storm brewing inside him. Romil offers him a glass of water, but Papa shakes his head with a firm wave of his hand.

Romil looks at me, worry clouding his face, the earlier glimmer of a smile now gone.

'We don't drink a drop of water from our daughter's in-laws,' Papa says, wiping his nose with a handkerchief.

Romil and I exchange a glance, the meaning sinking in. Slowly, smiles creep back onto our tear-streaked faces.

'Do you want me to speak to your parents?' Papa asks, rising from his seat.

'My father passed away,' Romil says softly. 'And my mother... she'll be fine. I'll talk to her. She'll understand.'

'Theek hai. Alright, I will go now.'

'Himansh Kaka will drop you to your home,' Romil says and waves at Himansh Kaka, who was standing just outside the border of the garden.

Papa raises his hand, and instinctively I flinch, but instead of anger, his hand lands on my head with such gentleness that I almost cry again. He pats me there.

'Thank you, papa,' I whisper.

He gives me a faint smile, then walks out with Himansh Kaka.

After we've had a moment to collect ourselves, Romil and I make our way back to the house.

'I'm sorry,' he says suddenly, breaking the quiet. 'I didn't propose to you officially. I was planning to after the launch, but...' He shrugs, looking sheepish.

'It could've been better,' I say, teasing, but the hiccup that follows ruins my attempt at sass.

Romil bursts out laughing, and before I can react, he leans in and kisses me on the lips.

I freeze, then push him back quickly. 'I haven't brushed!'

He grins. The kind of grin that makes me temporarily forget all my grievances against him. 'That's your problem with this? Not the fact that I didn't get down on one knee or shower you with rose petals?'

I frown, folding my arms. 'I mean, those things would've been nice too. But, it's morning breath, Romil. There are boundaries.'

He throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing in the empty garden. 'Boundaries? From the person who just hiccupped while accepting my non-proposal? I think we're way past boundaries, Maithili.'

'Fine,' I mutter, still holding my hand against my lips like he didn't just kiss me. 'But next time, at least give me a warning.'

'Warning?' he repeats, mock incredulous. 'What am I supposed to do? Send you a memo? "Dear Maithili, Prepare thyself, for a kiss is imminent. Sincerely, Romil."'

I snort. 'Yes. Exactly like that.'

He holds the door for me and I step in, his hands slip around my waist, pulling me against him. His eyes are laughing, teasing. 'Fine, I'll write you a memo. But only if you promise to start brushing as soon as you wake up. I am an impatient fellow.'

'Deal,' I say, my voice flat under my palm against my lips.

And just as I think he's going to kiss me again, he leans close to my ear and whispers, 'For the record, I wouldn't change a single thing about this morning.'

I try to hide my smile, but I know he sees it. Because he's smiling at me like he just won.

'I wouldn't either,' I whisper back.

Then, just as we're about to go inside, I hiccup again. And this time, Romil doesn't stop laughing for the rest of the day.

THE END