The house smelled... different today.

Warm spices danced in the air cumin, hing, coriander and something fried just right. It wasn't just a smell that entered your nose; it wrapped around your chest like a memory, comforting and vivid.

Shivaang stepped into the dining area, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black pants, his expression unreadable. He had just returned after sending back the fire vehicle—one some overly concerned neighbor had called, thanks to the sudden smoke alarm caused by her cooking.

After a whole lot of dramatic explanation and repeated assurances that there was no actual fire, the authorities had finally left. And Ruhi... well, Ruhi was left questioning her entire karma.

"Main jab bhi kuch achha karne jaati hoon, yeh kaand kaise ho jaata hai?" she muttered aloud, clearly distressed, yet almost comically so.

By the table, she placed the last bowl down with a proud little smile that betrayed none of the chaos from earlier.

"Lunch is ready," she said softly, almost as if this was a perfectly normal day

He looked at the spread.

Aloo-gobhi. Dal tadka. Steamed rice. Crisp rotis puffed to perfection. A small bowl of mango pickle sat at the edge. Nothing extravagant, but every dish carried a whisper of home.

"I kept it simple," she said, suddenly unsure. "Didn't know what you liked."

"Hmm... try the dal tadka," she offered, a trace of mischief slipping through her tone.

The dal tadka, the one responsible for the smoky fiasco and an uninvited visit from the fire department.

Shivaang glanced at her, lips twitching as he fought back a smile. He didn't say anything, just reached for the ladle and served himself a portion.

Ruhi took the seat opposite him, her fingers nervously tangling in her lap beneath the table. She sat quietly, her eyes fixed on him as he took the first bite.

But he gave her nothing. Still, something shifted.

The first mouthful hit him harder than expected. The dal was just the way his maa made it, tempered with garlic and ghee, the way he used to like. The gobhi reminded him of Sundays. The rotis... soft like home.

He paused. Chewed slower. Lowered his gaze to the plate.

It's been a year.

A full year since he'd eaten like this. Since he'd sat at a table and tasted food cooked with... care. Not duty. Not cold takeout between missions.

His jaw tightened.

Don't.

But the ache was quick sharp and low in his chest. His throat felt heavier with each bite. His mother's face flashed in his mind for just a second. Her bangles clinking, her scolding him for skipping breakfast, her voice layered with love.

A tear welled quietly at the corner of his eye. He blinked once, slow and practiced. Then again. The tear receded.

He straightened slightly, schooled his face into its usual stillness, and took another bite.

Across the table, Ruhi was speaking. "Next time, I'll make chole-bhature, but Cook Aunty said you don't eat fried stuff often so will you eat?"

He looked at her, chewing slowly, and then nodded like a lost child. "Hmm."

"Do you miss Indian food?"

He looked down, eyes calm. "Not really. You get used to whatever's available."

Ruhi's brows drew in slightly, like she didn't believe that. But she didn't push either. Just kept eating.

He watched her for a second longer, then reached for the dal again.

She didn't know what she'd done.

She'd brought home into a place that had forgotten how it felt.

And he wasn't sure if he should thank her... or be afraid of what it meant.

As Shivaang stood to leave, he paused at the threshold of the dining space, turning slightly. "Do you need anything from outside?" he asked, casually, like it was just part of a routine.

Ruhi looked up from her plate, hesitating. "Not something from outside... I need the outside."

His brow lifted slightly.

She sighed. "It's been four days. I feel like I'm in a gilded prison. I want to step out. Just for a bit."

He stared at her for a beat too long, then replied flatly, "That's not on the menu. Ask for anything else."

She pouted, almost instinctively, like a child denied candy. "Then... nothing."

He didn't flinch. "Okay. I'll take that as you need nothing."

With that, he walked off...no smile, no softness, just the quiet echo of his footsteps fading down the hall. Ruhi kept looking at his disappearing figure.

Night fell, the house stayed still.

Ruhi ate dinner alone, Miranda silently placing the dishes. "Sir has eaten outside. He messaged," she said before quietly disappearing again.

Ruhi didn't ask further. She returned to her room, trying to distract herself with a book, then a show, then a mindless scroll on her phone. Still, a strange restlessness clung to her.

And then...

Knock knock. A soft, almost hesitant knock on her door. She got up, heart skipping, and opened it.

Shivaang stood there. One hand in his pocket. Hair a little tousled from the wind. Black shirt rolled at the sleeves. Eyes locked on hers.

"Let's go?" he said simply.

Ruhi blinked. "Kahan?" [where?]

He didn't answer.

Instead, he reached for her hand, gently but firmly pulling her out of the room, down the hallway, past the living room. Before she could even process it, they were at the front door.

He opened it and a sleek black car stood outside under the porch light. She looked at him, eyebrows raised.

He opened the passenger-side door, looked back at her. "Let's get you the outside."

Still dazed, she slipped in. He closed the door, walked around, and slid into the driver's seat. As the car started and rolled into the quiet night, Ruhi finally spoke. "You said it wasn't on the menu."

"I changed the menu," he replied, eyes on the road, voice low.

She turned her head to hide the little smile tugging at her lips.

The city lights blurred past as he took her onto the quieter roads, the wind breezing through the slightly open window. He didn't speak much. But the silence between them wasn't heavy. It was peaceful.

He glanced at her sideways once, just briefly. She was looking out the window, eyes wide with wonder, like she hadn't breathed properly in days.

And in that moment, he was glad he'd changed the menu.

The car cruised through the dim, winding roads of Milan's quieter outskirts.

City lights slowly gave way to trees, the hush of night thickening around them. The windows were down slightly, letting in crisp air and the distant scent of pine and cold stone.

Ruhi sat in silence, hands tucked in her lap, her heart slowing to the rhythm of the road.

An old indian song began playing. She turned her head slightly.

"You listen to this?" she asked.

As the lyrics went by...

...Itna na mujhse tu pyaar badha
ki main ik badal aawara
kaise kisi ka sahara banoon
ki main khud beghar bechara...

He nodded. "Helps quiet the noise."

She smiled, faintly. "You have noise?"

He glanced at her, the corner of his lips twitching upward for just a second. "Everyone does."

Another silence, but the lyrics of the song filled it...in a strangely personal way.

Ten minutes later, he turned off the main road and parked on a secluded overlook that offered a breathtaking view of the city lights below, twinkling like scattered stars beneath the inky sky.

Ruhi stepped out, wrapping her arms around herself as the breeze swept through her hair. "Woww..."

He came around and leaned against the car beside her. "I come here sometimes. No people. No shadows."

"Just peace," she said softly.

He nodded.

They stood like that for a few moments, her quietly soaking in the view, him quietly soaking in... her peace.

Then, without a word, he walked back to the car's trunk and returned with something bundled in his arm.

A small thermos. Two paper cups.

"Garam chai?" he offered.

Her eyes lit up. "You keep chai in your car?"

"Not always," he said, pouring it. "Today, I thought you might need something familiar."

She took the cup, the steam curling between them like soft threads. He leaned back against the hood of the car, sipping his own.

"You're not what I expected," she said, after a long pause.

He turned to her, one eyebrow raised. "Kya expect kiya tha? A villain in black shades?"

She chuckled. "Something like that."

He smirked, eyes crinkling just a little. "Disappointed?"

She shook her head, sipping her tea. "No. Surprised."

He didn't respond, but something unspoken passed between them comfort, perhaps. Or understanding.

The breeze played with Ruhi's hair as she leaned back against the hood of the car, her hands curled around the paper cup of chai. The silence between them had stretched into something warm and unspoken.

She looked at him sideways, a teasing glint in her eyes.

"Will you never tell me your name?."

He didn't answer right away.

She turned her head to face him fully. "Seriously. Everyone has a name. What should I call you? Mystery Man? Or Mister Saviour? Or The Silent Chai Wala??"

He chuckled and sipped his tea, then finally spoke calm, quiet, almost hesitant.

"Shivaang."

Ruhi blinked, surprised. "Shivaang..." she repeated softly. The name felt so beautiful and so pure. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

He lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug, eyes still on the city lights.

"Don't like people calling you by your name?" she guessed.

He made a low humming sound noncommittal, but not a denial.

She smiled gently. "It's a beautiful name, Okay. Then I'll call you Shiv. Is that fine?"

His body tensed for half a second, just subtly. Shiv. His maa's voice echoed in his head, warm and affectionate—

"Shiv, zyada kaam mat kar, khaana thanda ho raha hai."

"Shiv, meri aankhon ke samne rahna, bas."

He hadn't heard that name from anyone else in so long. Not on foreign soil. Not in the coldness of missions. Only home had said Shiv. He swallowed back the ache. Said nothing. Just nodded slightly.

Ruhi caught the flicker of emotion that passed through his eyes, like a cloud covering and uncovering the moon. But she didn't press. Instead, she smiled a little and looked back out over the city.

"Good. Shiv suits you Shivaang."

He watched her for a moment, the wind tugging gently at the loose strand of hair near her temple. And for the first time in a long, long while...He didn't feel so far from home.

"When did you know fashion was yours?" he asked.

She blinked, caught off guard. People usually asked why she chose fashion, like it was some glamorous, impulsive dream. Not when. No one had ever cared about the exact moment the quiet second when everything shifted and her world stitched itself together with a purpose she hadn't known she was searching for.

She looked at him, unsure why that one question made her throat tighten.

"Hum eleventh standard mein the," she began softly. "Di ko unki pehli company ka event attend karna tha big event, start of her career... but humare paas tab itne paise nahi the ki kuchh accha designer cloth kharid sakein. So she decided to not go."

She paused, the memory blooming sharp and vivid.

"I don't know what came over me. I just... went to Ma's old trunk. Took out her best saree one of the few things we had left of our parents. And that night, I sat with it. Watching YouTube videos, stitching, cutting, trusting my gut. I turned it into a gown. Not perfect. But good enough to make Di cry when she wore it."

She smiled, lost in the memory.

"That night, hum dono ne ek saath sapna dekha tha. Di ke liye nahi... mere liye. For the first time, I felt like I could create something that mattered. That stayed. Fashion wasn't just clothes to me after that. It was voice and emotion."

She stopped. He hadn't said a word while she spoke. But his gaze hadn't wavered once. And for the first time, she didn't feel silly for holding on to a dream.

She felt... understood.

"Bas do din aur..." he said suddenly, his voice low. "Phir aap institute join kar sakti hain."

Ruhi turned her head toward him slowly. "Hmm... Khush toh bohot honge aap. Ab aapko koi tang nahi karega."

He didn't respond.

She looked at him sideways. "No witty comeback? Strange..."

"Ruhi," he said, voice serious this time, his eyes holding hers with a quiet intensity.

"Hmm?" she responded, softly, still holding her now empty cup, still looking at him.

There was silence.

But not the awkward kind. The kind where eyes speak in place of words. Then he spoke again. Quiet, steady, laced with warning.

"Don't trust people easily. Not everyone's good out there. And stop telling people everything about yourself."

Her brows furrowed slightly. "When did I do that? I don't tell anyone anything."

He scoffed. "Yeah, right." The ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips remembering how she started blabbering about herself on dining table.

She narrowed her eyes. "Fine. Next time I'll carry a Non-Disclosure Agreement form before speaking to anyone."

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Good idea."

She smiled, then looked away, her eyes drifting to the view once more. The city shimmered below, unaware of the quiet storm that stirred inside both of them.

A comfortable silence settled again. No need for more words. Eventually, he glanced at his watch which showed around 11pm. 

"It's late. Let's go."

She nodded, slow and reluctant, as if not ready to leave this pocket of peace.

The one hour drive back was quiet, soft music, headlights cutting through the still night. She rested her head lightly against the window, eyes fluttering shut for a few seconds. He didn't say anything, just lowered the volume a little.

When they reached home, he parked and stepped out, circling around to open her door like it was instinct. She blinked at him sleepily and followed him inside.

At the threshold of her room, she paused and turned back. "Thanks... for the chai. And the stars."

He nodded once, gently and watched her disappear into her room, the door clicking shut softly behind her.

For a few moments, he stood there in the quiet corridor. Then he turned, exhaled, and walked back to his own room. 

Shivaang shut the door to his room, locked it quietly, and picked up his secure device. A few taps, and the call connected.

"Hmm?" Aarush answered, already sounding like he knew why the call was coming.

"She's asleep," Shivaang said.

"Safe?"

"For now."

A beat.

"Are we sure about him?" Shivaang asked, his tone low, eyes fixed on the dark window.

"Yeah. Surface says clean. But that name you flagged, shows up in some weird overlaps."

"How weird?"

"Not direct. But... Isabella's old shell companies? One of them once contracted a Milanese security firm. Guess who was a silent partner?"

Shivaang's jaw flexed. "Gabriel Costa."

"Bingo. Not solid enough to confront. But definitely not a coincidence."

Shivaang exhaled through his nose. "Keep going. Quietly. I want to know if she's still pulling strings through him."

"And if she is?"

"Then Ruhi was never just collateral," Shivaang said flatly.

Aarush went silent. "She goes back in two days. Just make sure it's a clean return."

"I've already got my people stationed there. Don't worry," Shivaang added, reassuring him.

He ended the call and stared out into the night, the shadows outside shifting like the ones in his mind.

The next morning, Shivaang was nowhere to be seen.

Ruhi waited for a while, thinking he might just be out for a short errand, but as hours passed and the sun rose higher in the sky, it became clear, he wasn't coming back anytime soon. 

She distracted herself by starting to pack her things. Her stay here was coming to an end, and she should have felt excited... free, even. But instead, an odd restlessness clung to her. A strange sense of something missing, something incomplete. She couldn't put a finger on it, and the more she tried to ignore it, the stronger it grew.

The day crawled by. Shivaang didn't return for lunch, nor did he show up by dinner time. She waited for him, just in case he'd appear last minute and they could share one last conversation before she left.

 But as the night deepened and silence filled the apartment, her eyelids grew heavy. Still waiting, she drifted off to sleep right there on the couch in the living room.

When she woke up the next morning, sunlight streamed in through the windows. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she stretched and immediately checked for any signs of Shivaang. His room was still locked from the outside. Her heart sank.

So he hadn't come home all night.

With a heavy sigh, she trudged back to her own room. This wasn't how she imagined her last day here would be. She didn't even get to say goodbye properly.

After a shower, she dressed in a simple yet elegant white Indian salwar suit, one of the few she had carried from home. It made her feel grounded, comforted. After praying, she was adjusting her dupatta when a knock sounded on her door.

She opened it to find Miranda, warm as always.

"Ma'am, breakfast is ready," she said gently.

Ruhi offered a faint smile. "Aunty, I'm not hungry at all. Can I please skip it today?"

Miranda gave her a sympathetic look and didn't press further. After she left, Ruhi sat on the edge of her bed, staring into space.

Some time later, the faint clatter of utensils and low sounds from the living room pulled her out of her thoughts. As Miranda already left early today so where was this sound coming from? Curious, she walked out to check.

The television was on, its volume muted. A major European news channel flashed breaking headlines.

BREAKING NEWS – MAJOR ARMS INTERCEPTION AT AJACCIO PORT

Ruhi barely registered it. Just like we tend to ignore looming exam dates, she dismissed the flashing text without much thought. Her eyes drifted away from the screen... and then landed on Shivaang.

He had just stepped out of the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, wiping his hands on a towel.

For a moment, she just stared. She wasn't sure if it was surprise, relief, or annoyance that stirred first.

He saw her and spoke casually, "Sit at the dining table."

She frowned. "Why? It's not lunchtime yet."

"You didn't have breakfast," he replied, walking past her. "Still not hungry? Because I am."

Still puzzled, she followed him silently and sat down at the table. Moments later, he returned with a plate of hot, crisp aloo parathas and a cup of chai. The smell alone was enough to make her stomach rumble despite her earlier denial.

She looked at the food, then at him. "Yeh? Kisne banaya? Cook aunty ko toh Indian food banana nhi aata na."

"Humne banaya," he said, scratching his forehead absentmindedly with his left hand.

That's when she noticed the faint smear of flour on his forehead.

Without thinking, she stood up, took the end of her dupatta, and tried to wipe it off. Shivaang stiffened for a second, surprised by the gesture, but then bent his head slightly to make it easier for her. She brushed the flour away gently.

A quiet moment passed between them, filled with nothing but the soft rustle of fabric and something unspoken.

They ate in silence at first, but Ruhi couldn't help herself.

"This is really good," she said, smiling genuinely. "I love when men can cook. It breaks that whole traditional patriarchy mindset."

He glanced up, curious.

She continued, "Back home, my aunt always made me and didi cook and do all the chores. The boys never had to. Even when we were the youngest in the house, we were the ones running around, serving food, cleaning up. For a long time, I believed it was a girl's job... until didi fought for us and took me with her. Only then we saw the real world, and learnt what patriarchy and misogyny actually are."

Shivaang listened quietly. He already knew all this. He had to. Letting someone live under his roof without knowing their background wasn't an option. He knew about her life, her fears, even her phobia of darkness and needles. But hearing it from her... made it feel different. More personal.

Once the meal was over, they didn't get up. The plates remained untouched on the table as they sat together, holding onto those last few minutes. Neither wanted to move, not just yet.

After a while, Ruhi finally asked, her voice soft, hesitant, "Aap kahan the kal? Pura din nahi dikhe. Hume laga aaj bhi nahi aayenge... aur hum bina mile hi chale jaayenge."

Her gaze dropped as she said the last part, almost to herself.

Shivaang looked at her but didn't reply. He didn't want to lie. But he couldn't tell her the truth either. Silence was safer.

Ruhi misread his silence. She assumed he had been with someone... someone personal, maybe a girlfriend. The idea didn't sit well with her, but she told herself she had no right to feel anything about it.

She smiled faintly and tried to change the topic.

"Packing ho gayi aapki?" he asked, shifting the focus back to her.

"Haan," she nodded. "Kal hi kar li thi humne."

He looked at her for a moment, then said seriously, "Humne jo bataya tha yaad hai na? Don't trust anyone, Ruhi. This is a foreign land for you. So stay alert. Always."

There was something protective in his tone. Something genuine. And she nodded, this time with more than just understanding.

She was going to remember those words.

She was going to remember him.

She stood up at last, smoothing down her dupatta. "I should get ready."

He gave her a nod, and she turned to leave. But just before crossing the hallway, she paused.

"Thank you," she said softly without turning. "For everything."

And then she walked away.

Shivaang pulled the car to a stop outside her institute. The soft hum of the engine filled the silence between them. Neither had spoken during the entire drive. The city passed by in silence buildings, people, traffic lights, all blending into a blur, secondary to the quiet weight sitting between them.

He had lifted her suitcase himself that morning, without a word. She hadn't argued. She'd simply followed him, sitting in the passenger seat while he secured the luggage in the back. And now, here they were on time, in place, but still not ready.

Ruhi kept her hands folded in her lap, fingers nervously playing with the edge of her dupatta. Shivaang stared straight ahead for a moment, then slowly turned toward her.

"Phone dena zara," he said, holding out his hand.

She blinked, caught off guard, but handed him the device. He typed something, then handed it back.

"My number," he said quietly. "I hope you never get the need to call me. But ever, Ruhi... if you even feel threatened, or if something doesn't feel right, just one call."

She swallowed hard. There were so many things she wanted to ask, Could she call him otherwise? Could she reach out just to talk? To say hi? But the thought of him having someone else, someone waiting for him, someone who perhaps had a rightful place in his life, held her back.

Just then she noticed a guy has already taken her luggage out of the car and was standing at the gate, waiting.

Confused she looked at Shivaang "He'll be around today," he said, voice calm, almost businesslike. "Agar kuch chahiye ho, anything just tell him. he'll take care of it."

She said, hesitantly. "Its fine Shiv, I can take care of myself, I don't need him."

"I know you don't need him, that's why he's just for today, only for your safety purpose."

So she simply nodded. "Thank you, Shiv—Shivaang."

He glanced at her then, for a fraction of a second longer than usual. As if committing her expression to memory.

With a small breath, she opened the door and stepped out. He stayed seated, hands on the steering wheel, unmoving. She turned to look at him once, managed a soft smile, and then walked toward the gate.

He didn't start the car until she disappeared into the building.

Even then, his hands remained still, resting quietly on the wheel. The engine idled. The passenger seat still carried the faint scent of her, her sweetness, her smile.

For someone who dealt in departures, this one felt unusually heavy. And still, he said nothing.

****************************************************************************