The first rays of morning light filtered softly through the linen curtains, casting a muted golden glow over the room. Aira stood by the open window, her gaze resting on the dew-kissed garden below where the hibiscus had just begun to bloom. The breeze played with strands of her long, black hair, teasing it gently across her wheat-colored cheeks, but she didn't mind. She held her mug of tea in both hands, the warmth seeping into her palms as her thoughts drifted. The world outside was calm — a reflection of the home she had grown up in. Her world wasn't perfect, but it was filled with love, stability, and the quiet strength that comes from being understood.
At twenty-five, Aira lived a life many might call simple, but to her, it was meaningful. She was in the final year of her Master's degree in English Literature — a subject she loved deeply, not because it promised money or prestige, but because it let her explore the unspoken emotions tucked between lines of poetry and prose. Her work was equally thoughtful. She translated documents and articles online, quietly weaving words from one language into another, carrying meaning across borders while never having to leave the comfort of home. She didn't talk much about it, and no one in the house pressured her to do more. Her family trusted her — not just to follow her dreams, but to do it on her own terms.
Behind her, the soft clinking of plates and spoons signaled the usual chaos of breakfast time beginning. She placed her cup down and turned slowly, the folds of her pale beige kurta brushing the edges of the floor. The scent of ghee-soaked parathas and fresh coriander chutney wafted through the air, pulling a smile to her lips. This was home — warm, lived-in, filled with noisy affection and gentle rhythm. Her twin siblings, Smaridh and Samridhi, had already taken over the dining table, bickering about who had used up the last of the chocolate spread. Their voices were like overlapping birdsong — chirpy, fast, and almost impossible to separate.
Their mother, elegant as always in her soft cotton saree, moved between the kitchen and the table with practiced grace, refilling bowls and fussing over whether the twins had packed everything for school. Her father sat by the newspaper, glasses low on his nose, occasionally peeking over the headlines to throw in a sarcastic comment or a joke that made the whole table laugh. He worked as an accountant in a mid-reputed firm — not a man with flashy titles or luxurious perks, but someone who carried himself with quiet pride in the work he did. The kind of man who didn't need validation to know his worth. A steady presence, dependable as the ticking of the kitchen clock.
Aira joined them, slipping into the chair between her mother and Samridhi. Her presence didn't demand attention, but it brought with it a calmness that softened the edges of the room. She served herself with grace, offering the last aloo paratha to Smaridh with a smile that silenced even his complaints. She listened more than she spoke, letting the morning chatter swirl around her like a song she'd heard every day and still loved. There was something grounding about it — a sense that no matter where life would take her, these mornings would always stay stitched into her soul.
Her mother looked over at her with a gentle, knowing smile. "You didn't sleep much, did you? Reading again?"
Aira chuckled softly, dabbing the corner of her lips with a napkin. "Keats and coffee. You know how that combination goes."
Her father lowered his paper with a grin. "So, the British poets have replaced your dreams now?"
"They just make them more vivid," she replied, eyes twinkling.
And though the table laughed, the warmth lingered like sunlight in winter — not loud, not dramatic, but deeply comforting.
The evening unfurled gently, like a whispered promise. Aira sat by the window, knees drawn to her chest, her shawl slipping off one shoulder as the day's final light filtered through the curtains. The house was alive in the quietest ways — the distant clang of her aunt's bangles in the kitchen, the hum of the ceiling fan, and the sleepy chirping of birds settling into dusk.
Her fingers toyed with the corner of the poetry book lying shut in her lap — her mind too quiet to speak.
The phone buzzed against the side table.
Aarav.
Not unexpected. Not rare. And yet, for a moment, she simply watched his name flash across the screen, as if it held something more than just a call.
She answered on the third ring.
"Hmm?"
His voice came soft, familiar. "Did I catch you resting?"
"No," she replied, her tone subdued. "Just… sitting."
A pause. She could picture him, probably leaning against the edge of his work desk, shirt sleeves rolled, glasses slightly crooked from a long day. He had a way of sounding unbothered, even when his mind was racing behind the words.
"I was thinking," he said, slowly, like he'd been rehearsing it in his head, "come over for dinner this Saturday?"
There was no flutter of surprise, no dramatic gasp. They had shared meals before. She knew the layout of his apartment, the way his curtains never quite closed fully, the faint smell of sandalwood in his linen. But still — something in his voice this time made her pause.
"You're cooking again?" she asked, her voice curling into a smile she didn't quite show.
"Attempting to," he said dryly. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
She shifted her gaze out the window. "What's the occasion?"
"No occasion. Just… wanted to see you. In a quieter space." He paused, as if weighing the next part. "I know you've been having a lot on your plate lately. Thought maybe we could just... breathe. Together."
The sincerity in his tone wasn't new. Aarav had always been the kind to ask without pressure, to offer without noise. But lately, there had been something else beneath his calm — something restless, like a tide waiting to rise.
"All right," she said after a breath. "Text me the time."
"You sure?" he asked, a note of caution wrapped around the words. "Only if you want to."
"I said yes, Aarav." This time, the smile reached her voice.
He exhaled — and she imagined him closing his eyes in that quiet way he did when relieved. "Saturday then."
"Saturday," she repeated softly.
When the call ended, the room felt no different — and yet something within her shifted.
She sat still for a long while after that, the shawl slipping further down her shoulder, the window casting long, quiet shadows across her skin. She couldn't explain why, but for the first time in days, she felt like something was moving — slowly, gently — even if she didn't yet know in which direction.
SATURDAY MORNING
Saturday mornings at the Sharma household were an orchestra of mismatched rhythms and familiar sounds. The scent of turmeric and toasting cumin lingered in the air, blending with the soft hum of a bhajan playing from her mother's old phone. From the kitchen, a flurry of utensils clanged like they were having their own conversation, and Smaridh's voice echoed down the hall in protest — apparently, Samridhi had stolen the last clean pair of socks again.
Aira stood by the dining table, rolling out parathas one by one, her long black hair tied in a loose braid that fell over her shoulder like a stream of ink. She wasn't in a hurry; her movements were calm, even graceful, as though every small gesture she made was a quiet extension of her personality — soft, warm, unhurried. There was something about her that made silence feel comforting rather than empty.
"Samridhi, leave your brother's socks alone, beta. And Smaridh, for God's sake, you have other socks!" her mother called from the stove, flipping a sizzling aloo paratha without missing a beat.
"Not ones that match!" Smaridh huffed, marching into the room with a half-combed head and dramatic flair.
Aira laughed under her breath, brushing her hands on her apron. "You'll survive. Mismatched socks are a statement now."
Her father was already seated at the head of the table, reading through the business section of the newspaper with his glasses halfway down his nose. A quiet man with a thoughtful gaze, he looked up briefly and gave Aira a small smile. "You're unusually dressed up for a Saturday," he said gently, observing her soft pink kurti and delicate silver earrings.
"I have plans later," Aira replied, trying to sound casual, but the slight upward curl of her lips gave her away.
"Oh?" her mother asked, glancing over her shoulder. "Work or—"
"Aarav," Aira interrupted, voice soft.
That single name made both parents pause — not from surprise, but in the subtle, knowing way parents often respond to the mention of someone important. Aarav had been in their lives for nearly two years now. A calm, respectful man with sharp intelligence and polite manners. He wasn't flashy, but his presence was dependable — like a warm lamp on a cold evening. Her parents liked him, perhaps even admired him, though they rarely said it out loud.
"He invited me over for dinner tonight," Aira continued, stacking the warm parathas on a plate. "Nothing fancy. Just... dinner."
Samridhi raised a brow as she walked in, now fully dressed. "Again? You two basically live at each other's places."
"Don't tease," her mother chided, placing bowls of dahi and pickle on the table. "It's good they spend time together. Better than rushing into things without understanding each other."
"Understanding," Smaridh muttered dramatically, rolling his eyes. "The most dangerous word in every school essay and relationship advice column."
Everyone chuckled.
Aira shook her head but said nothing more. She appreciated how light her family could be, even about personal things. There was no judgement in the way her mother folded her scarf neatly over her shoulder, or in how her father asked, "Will you be late?"
"Not too much. I'll be back by eleven."
"Text me once you reach," he said simply.
There it was — no restrictions, no dramatic warnings. Just a quiet, trusting kind of love that felt like the soft corner of a warm blanket.
The conversation moved on, slipping into arguments over who was on dish duty and whether there was enough achar in the fridge. Aira remained mostly quiet, her thoughts occasionally drifting to Aarav's voice on the phone last night — steady, affectionate, familiar. But there had been something else there too. A hesitation, maybe. Or was she just imagining it?
She told herself not to overthink. This was just another Saturday, just another dinner. But still… somewhere in the back of her mind, a tiny thread tugged at her.
She pushed the thought aside, helping her mother set the table and joining the twins in teasing banter. This was her world — full of warmth and words and quiet certainties. Whatever came tonight, she would hold onto this.
SATURDAY EVENING
The sky had mellowed into shades of peach and rust when Aira stepped out of the cab, clutching a small cake box in her hand. The streets were quieter now, the world easing into weekend slowness. She paused at the entrance of Aarav's apartment building, her fingers smoothing down the front of her kurta before she stepped inside. This wasn't her first visit—far from it—but tonight carried a warmth in her chest that she hadn't named yet.
He opened the door before she could knock.
Aarav leaned against the frame, glasses sliding down his nose, t-shirt slightly wrinkled, eyes soft the way they always were when he looked at her. He didn't say anything at first, just took a slow breath, gaze lingering on her face like he hadn't seen it in weeks.
"You're three minutes late," he murmured, but his smile said he'd have waited all night.
"And you're still insufferable," she shot back, brushing past him into the familiar air of sandalwood and black coffee. The door clicked shut behind her.
The apartment looked like it always did—unmade in the corners, a stack of legal briefs beside his laptop, and the pink scrunchie she'd forgotten a week ago still looped around a water bottle. She didn't ask why he hadn't moved it. She already knew.
She set the cake down and turned just as he wrapped his arms around her from behind. His chin found her shoulder, his breath grazing her neck.
"You wore that perfume again," he whispered, low and appreciative. "I like when the whole damn room smells like you."
"I wore it for me," she replied softly, though the smile in her voice betrayed her.
Dinner was simple—pasta that was more sauce than structure, but she ate it like it was perfect. They shared the cake straight from the box with one spoon. She licked icing from the edge of his mouth without thinking. He stilled.
They were on the floor, backs against the couch, legs tangled. The TV was on but playing to itself. Aarav's hand rested over hers, tracing slow circles into her palm.
Later, in the quiet, he pulled her into his lap—not roughly, but like it was second nature. Her fingers played with the edge of his collar, teasing it open, nails grazing the curve of his throat.
"You always get so quiet when it's just us," he whispered.
"Because you look at me like that," she said, lips barely brushing his jaw.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm yours."
His reply was a kiss—not rushed, not desperate. It started slow, just the press of lips and breath exchanged, but it deepened with a hunger neither of them needed to name. His hands moved to her waist, grounding her to him. Her kurta shifted with the movement of his fingers as they found the bare skin of her back. Warm, certain.
Her lips parted against his as his hands slid upward, reverent but bold. She gasped softly when his mouth found her throat, a sound she tried to suppress—but he caught it and smiled against her skin.
"You still get shy?" he asked.
"I still like making you work for it," she replied, breathless.
The intimacy wasn't new, but tonight it felt deeper—slower, more intentional. They moved with quiet urgency, clothes falling in soft layers between long kisses and whispered yeses. It wasn't about need. It was about knowing. Familiar hands, familiar mouths, but every time felt like the first in all the ways that mattered.
Their laughter blended with sighs, the air between them thick with heat and something quieter, more binding. He held her like she was something fragile, and she touched him like she'd always known his skin. They took their time—no rushing, no urgency beyond being close, being seen, being known.
When it was over, she curled against him beneath the blanket he always kept on the couch. His hand found hers again.
"I'm going to tell her," he said suddenly, voice rough from everything they'd just shared. "I'll talk to my mother. About us. About marrying you."
She blinked slowly, heart stilled. "You're sure?"
"I'm past sure."
She leaned up, pressing her forehead to his. "Okay."
His arms tightened around her like a promise. The world outside quieted, but inside—within that dim, golden-lit apartment—something had shifted. Something had deepened.
And it wasn't just love anymore. It was decision. It was tomorrow knocking.