A Tiny Café Tucked
Khushi hadn't planned to say yes.
She hadn't meant . But here they were—ducking into a nondescript alley café with peeling yellow walls, mismatched tables, and fairy lights strung up like tired dreams refusing to give up.
They sat opposite each other at a tiny table that held two paper cups of cutting chai.
No chaos.
No Buaji.
No Payal.
No Aman on speed-dial.
Just them.
And the silence between confessions.
---
>looking around she said
"This isn't your kind of place."
> "It is now."He shrug
> "Let me guess. Aman found it on a spreadsheet of 'emotionally charged date spots'?" Khushi deadpan
> "Aman recommended Starbucks. I threatened to reassign him to a textile mill in Indore."He muttered grimacing
Khushi's lips twitched—almost a smile.
> "Poor Aman."
> "He'll live. Can't say the same for my pride."He whispered
She took a small sip of chai.
Too sweet.
Too hot.
Exactly like this man across the table—annoying, intoxicating, and likely to leave a scar.
> "Why are we here?"
> "Because I ruined everything else."Arnav said quiet
She blinked.
No arrogance.
No deflection.
Just… truth. Bare and bruised.
> "The temple. The boutique. The jalebis… I barged in like a cyclone and expected you to just… adjust."Arnav said staring at his cup
> "I don't adjust, Arnav. I break."Khushi blinked softly
Those words silenced him.
> "Did I… break something?" He asked guilt in every syllable.
> "Not everything. Just… what I thought I had under control."Khushi said looking away.
They sat still for a moment.
> "You scare me." He murmuring
Khushi looked up, stunned.
> "Me? I make you feel scared?"
> He nodding "Because when I'm around you, I want… things. More than deals. More than plans."
> "And you hate wanting."
>"I hate not knowing what to do with it."
She tilted her head.
> "You walk into my life like you own the wind, and then act surprised when I get caught in the storm."Khushi said quietly fierce.
> "Then maybe we're both stuck in the same hurricane."
He leaned forward slightly.
Their chai steamed between them.
> He told her soft but certain
"What if… we stop pretending? No games. No deals. Just honesty. Even if it's messy."
> "Honesty is easy when you're not the one bleeding."
He blinked at that. She saw it land.
> "I'm bleeding too. You just can't see it—yet."
> "So what now? You sit here and charm me with chai and regret?"she said testing him
"No. I sit here and earn your time with… silence and accountability."
She stared at him—at the jaw he always clenched when hiding emotion, at the hands that could sign billion-dollar deals but now just wrapped around a paper cup like they were praying.
> "I don't trust easily." She told him
> "Then don't. Yet. Let me prove something before I ask for anything."
> she frowning "Like what?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled something small.
Placed it on the table between them.
Not a gift.
Not a bribe.
A button.
Ivory white. Loose thread. Familiar.
> Arnav"From the day we first met. It popped off when i first met you in exhibition "
> Khushi (startled):"You kept it?"
> Arnav:"I told myself I'd never forget the girl who unstitched me without trying."
> Khushi:"You want me to sew it back on?"
> Arnav (smiling faintly):"No. I want you to keep it. Proof that you've already unraveled me."
---
Khushi stared at button.
Her fingers
Trembled.
> Khushi:
"You don't get to just… fix things with buttons."
> Arnav:
"Then I won't. I'll fix them with time."
---
She looked up.
Finally met his eyes.
> Khushi:
"This doesn't mean anything."
> Arnav:
"Then let it mean nothing. For now. But let it… begin."
A long pause.
Then she reached out… and slid the button toward herself.
Not acceptance.
Not forgiveness.
But maybe—
A yes to trying.
No guarantees.
No conditions.
Just a quiet promise brewed in bittersweet silence.
---
Sunlight trickled in through the mesh curtains like hesitant hope—soft, golden, reluctant.
The small kitchen buzzed with familiar sounds: the soft whistle of the kettle, the bubbling of milk rising dangerously close to the brim, and Khushi's whispered war with her own brain.
She stood by the stove, back to the door, spoon lazily swirling chai in circles like it held the answers to life.
> "He gave me a button," she muttered, frowning. "Who does that? Is this romance now? Buttons and weird metaphors?"
Behind her, Payal leaned against the doorframe with a knowing smirk, arms crossed like a courtroom judge ready to rule on the Case of the Button Boy.
> "He gave you part of his shirt, Khushi. That's practically marriage in Laxmi Nagar. Next stop: 'ladki wale' negotiations."
> "Jiji!" Khushi groaned, turning halfway with a glare. "Don't make it worse."
> "I'm just saying," Payal said, strolling in and grabbing the sugar tin. "First it was jalebis, now it's shirt buttons. The man's basically giving you pieces of himself."
> "Well, I didn't ask for them," Khushi muttered, pouring the tea with more force than necessary.
> "But you didn't return the button either."
Khushi froze mid-pour. That traitorous pause was loud enough to scream in silence.
> "That's not the point," she said sharply.
> "Then what is?"
> "The point is—I still haven't forgiven him."
Payal raised a brow.
> "And yet, you're making his exact chai-to-water ratio."
> "That's because he ruined my measurements with all his metaphor nonsense," Khushi snapped. "Now I can't even boil water without hearing his stupid voice in my head. 'You stitched stars into your dreams and accidentally stitched yourself into mine.'"
Payal bit back a laugh.
> "So poetic. He missed his calling."
> "He missed therapy, that's what."
> "Still... he's better dressed than most poets."
Khushi rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed a tell-tale pink.
> "Ugh. I hate that part. Why can't he just be ugly and annoying like a normal nightmare?"
> "Because then you wouldn't be stirring chai and muttering his name into your cardamom."
Before Khushi could retort, a very familiar ahem echoed behind them.
Both girls froze.
Buaji stood near the curtain, wooden spoon in one hand and her eyebrows in full alert mode.
> Buaji (grinning slyly): "Button mila? Toh shaadi kab hai, bitiya?"
> Khushi: "BUAJI!"
> Buaji (smirking): "What? He sends sweets. He sends fabric. Now shirt ka tukda. Jaldi hi sherwani bhi bhej dega."
> Khushi (blushing): "I didn't accept it! It was in a box!"
> Buaji: "Hmm. Toh box bhi liya. Aur button bhi. Bas ab mandap ka order dena reh gaya."
Payal burst into laughter.
> Payal: "Buaji! You're worse than me!"
> Buaji : "What? Main toh bas keh rahi hoon. That boy—he's stubborn, haan, but when he looks at you na, he looks like Babuji when he sees fresh jalebis."
> Khushi (shocked): "You LIKED him?! I thought you called him a hungry jackal?!"
> Buaji: "Beta, jackal toh sabhi hote hain. Important baat yeh hai—does he protect the den or destroy it?"
Khushi blinked.
> Buaji (suddenly serious): "He may be scary… but he looked at you like you were something precious. Acha laga."
Then Buaji turned, walked out slowly—still pretending she wasn't grinning.
> Buaji (calling out): "Bas ek baat—next time he comes here with buttons, make sure it's with his MAA and not just packaging!"
The door swung shut behind her.
Silence.
Then:
> Khushi (quietly): "Did she just… approve?"
> Payal (grinning): "She's already planning your lehenga color."
Khushi groaned.
---
Raizada Mansion
The mirror reflected a man dressed .
Arnav Singh Raizada stood silent in front of it, his jaw tight, the room soaked in the faint citrus of his cologne.
The shirt was crisp—midnight blue, ironed to precision. Not a wrinkle dared exist.
Except…
There it was.
That one open space on the cuff.
Top left.
A missing button.
The one Khushi held now.
He hadn't stitched it back.
He could've.
There were buttons. There were tailors. There was Aman.
But he didn't.
He left it open.
A quiet declaration only he could hear.
He stared at it like it was a wound.
Or maybe a promise.
Just then—
> "Chhote?"
Anjali's voice came with the soft knock.
He didn't move. Just looked at the mirror.
> "You're going out?"
He finally turned, reaching for his watch. His movements were deliberate, restrained.
> "To the office."
But his cuff tugged again, subtly. An involuntary twitch.
Anjali noticed. Of course she did.
> "That shirt has a missing button."
> "I know."
His voice was low. Controlled.
She stepped into the room, arms folded,raising an eyebrow like only a big sister could.
> "You saw her again."
A pause.
Then—
> "Yes."
No hesitation. No denial. Just that.
Anjali walked over to the table and picked up the white-gold box.
> "She read the note?"
> **"She didn't throw it out."
Anjali smiled, gently.
> "That's Khushi for you. She doesn't throw. She stores everything in her heart and pretends she doesn't care."
Arnav didn't smile. But something in his shoulders shifted. Softer. Less steel.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, clasped hands. A man bracing against emotion like it was an incoming storm.
> "She didn't slam the door this time."
> "That's progress."
Anjali sat beside him.
> "You look…" she tilted her head, studying him "lighter."
He didn't answer.
Just stared at his hands.
> "And terrified," she added.
That made him snort.
> "Of course I'm terrified. She could gut me with a look."
> "Then you're halfway in love."
He blinked. Looked at her. Didn't deny it.
Anjali placed her hand over his, her voice soft but clear.
> "You never wore broken things, Chhote. You never left anything incomplete."
He looked down at the open "Feelings by the Meter".
> "Now I do."
> "Because she has the missing piece?"
He nodded. Quiet. Honest.
> "Because maybe it's not broken. It's just… waiting to be stitched back by the right hands."
Anjali smiled, proud and teary all at once.
> "Then let her stitch it. And you? Just don't run this time."
He stood up slowly, gaze sharper now.
Determined.
> "I'm not running. I'm showing up."
And with that, Arnav Singh Raizada picked up his phone, his keys, and walked out the door.
Not for the office.
For a certain boutique girl .