The night after he told me I had to live here—in this house, under his roof

I curled up on the side of the bed, clutching the edge of the sheet, trying to shrink into myself. My mind kept returning to his voice.

"You have to stay here, for your safety."

Maybe he meant well. Maybe he was just doing what he thought was right. But it didn't change the fact that I felt... strange.

And somehow, in sometime, I finally slept.

next morning

I woke to soft rays of golden sunlight streaming through the large window panes.

The bed, the smooth white walls, the polished wooden furniture... none of it belonged to my world.

The scent in the air was clean, like damp wood and faint rosewater. I sat up slowly.

A plain white saree had been kept neatly folded near the edge of the wooden cupboard. I dressed in silence. Tied my damp hair into a loose braid. My movements were slow, mechanical. As if I was still half-dreaming.

The house was too quiet. 

Then came the smell.

Fresh bread.

And tea.

I followed it like a trail.

The corridor led me to a dining room. Long table. Matching chairs. All too neat, too foreign. There was not a speck of dust in sight. 

A jug full of water stood on the center of the table, glistening under the morning light.

Thirsty, I reached for it.

I reached for the jug.

The metal was cold under my fingers. Just as I lifted it, ready to pour myself a glass—

Something brushed against my bare feet.

Something alive.

Warm. Fast. Small.

And that was it.

I shrieked—loud and instinctive—"Aaaaa!"

The sound cracked through the calm like thunder.

My hand jolted.

The jug slipped from my grasp, clanging sharply against the edge of the wooden table before crashing to the floor with a loud, final thud. Water burst out in all directions, splashing over my feet, the floor, and the edge of my cotton kurti. The sound of the metal rolling to a stop echoed behind me.

My chest heaved. My eyes darted downward.

And there it was—a rat.

A little brown creature, no bigger than my palm, scurrying across the tiles like it owned the place. My breath stuck in my throat, heart hammering so wildly I thought it might break free. My body instinctively jolted backward, forgetting everything—the water, the floor, even the space.

And I slipped.

My foot gave way beneath me.

The world tilted.

My hands flailed, reaching blindly for balance—for air—for something to stop the inevitable fall. Panic surged through me in that half-second that stretched into eternity.

But I didn't hit the floor.

Arms.

Strong. Steady. Suddenly around me.

One circled my waist, firm and sure. The other grasped my upper arm, grounding me before I could lose myself to gravity.

My body froze in his hold.

My breath caught—not from the fear, not anymore—but from the contact.

Gora Sahib.

He had caught me.

His grip was unthinking, instinctive. Protective. His chest brushed lightly against mine. I could feel the heat of him—his breath, rapid, uneven, like mine.

I looked up.

And he was right there.

So close that i could see the slight wrinkle between his brows, the green of his eyes—not one shade, but many. Stormy, unreadable, like monsoon clouds gathering.

His lips parted, but no sound came out.

My fingers were clutched in his shirt—tightly, desperately, without realizing.

And he... he hadn't let go.

We stood like that, suspended in a fragile moment. The air between us heavy with something unspoken—something delicate and dangerous. Our eyes locked. Neither of us blinked.

His grip on my waist tightened slightly. Just a flicker. Just enough to remind me that this was real.

That we were touching.

Too closely. Too... intimately.

My cheeks flushed. The heat rose from my neck, up to my temples.

I couldn't look away.

Until I remembered—his hand was still on my waist.

And the other... still wrapped around my arm, firm and unyielding.

It struck me like lightning.

My eyes widened.

He realized it too, in the same breath, and yet—he didn't pull away.

I did.

Awkwardly. Hurriedly. As if burned.

I stepped back too fast—and winced. Something shot up my leg, sharp and biting. I gasped but tried to hide it.

But first—my words stumbled out, shaky and embarrassed, "Main... main saaf kar deti hoon paani..."
(I... I'll clean the water.)

I didn't dare meet his eyes again.

I focused on the floor instead—on the water, on the broken silence, on the way my heartbeat still hadn't calmed.

He shook his head slightly, a corner of his mouth lifting but his voice calm. "It's alright. The maid will do it."

My throat went dry.

I nodded, embarrassed, and turned away. But as I tried to walk, pain lanced through my right ankle.

"Aah..."

I winced, grabbing the edge of the table for support.

He was beside me instantly. His eyes scanning me with worry.

"What happened?"

"Mera... pair... lagta hai moch aa gayi hai." (My... foot... I think it's sprained.)

"Let me see."

"Nahi! Main theek hoon." (No! I'm fine.)

He raised a brow. "You're limping."

"I can manage," I whispered, not daring to meet his gaze.

He exhaled slowly. "Sit."

The command in his tone wasn't harsh. But it allowed no room for argument.

I hesitated.

He pulled out a chair and gestured again. "Please."

I sat. Slowly. Awkwardly. My mind still spinning from the awkward moment before.

He kneeled down in front of me.

My eyes widened.

"Kya kar rahe ho aap?" (What are you doing?)

"Checking your feet. Stay still."

I swallowed hard, unsure what to do with my hands. My saree had hitched slightly above the feet, exposing the swelling.

He noticed. Frowned.

His fingers touched my skin—gentle, precise.

A shiver ran up my spine.

"You've definitely sprained it. It's not too bad, but you need rest."

I nodded, eyes still fixed on the curtain behind him, avoiding his gaze. 

He stood up, still watching me. "I'll bring an ointment."

I finally spoke, my voice small. "muj...mujhe maaf kr dijiye hoon." (I... I'm sorry.)

He paused at the door. Turned slightly. "For what?"

"vo aapka jug gir gya.." (I dropped the jug. .)

He smiled, unexpectedly. A soft, real smile.

"You don't have to be sorry for that."

He left the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

And I sat there, ankle throbbing, heart louder than before.

For the first time, I noticed something I had never felt before.

A quiet warmth in his presence. A kind of safety I didn't know I could feel here.

Maybe he was something else.

I had only intended to pass through the room.

Morning light filtered in through the filmy curtains, casting pale golden patterns over the stone floor. The quiet hush of the bunglow wrapped itself around me. I paused for a breath—not for any particular reason, just the simple kind that steals into your lungs when the world, for a fleeting moment, feels still.

And then she entered.

Meera.

Barefoot, A soft rustle of her cotton dupatta brushed against her shoulder as she stepped inside, unaware of my presence in the adjacent hallway's shadow. She looked half lost in thought, eyes a little tired, hands steady as she reached for the silver jug.

There was something so utterly unguarded in the way she moved—simple, natural. Like she belonged to this place in a way I never could.

I was about to step back—leave before she noticed—but then—

She screamed.
"Aaaaa!"

The sound ripped through the calm like lightning tearing open a quiet sky. Instinct jolted through me. I rushed forward just as the jug hit the table's edge, toppled, then crashed to the ground. Water burst across the floor, shimmering in the light.

And she—she stumbled back, startled, eyes wide in panic. I saw the reason then—a tiny rat scurried beneath the table.

But Meera didn't see the floor slick with water. Her bare foot slid, and in that split second, I knew.

She was going to fall.

Her arms flailed, trying to find something to hold on to—anything. And I was moving before thought could catch up to action.

I caught her.

One arm looped instinctively around her waist. The other steadied her arm, fingers tightening around the soft flesh above her elbow.

Her body collided against mine—not roughly, but close. Too close.

The air changed.

Her breath hitched. Mine stopped entirely.

For a moment, we both froze.

Her fingers had fisted into my shirt, clutching it like it was the only thing keeping her tethered. Her head was tilted back slightly, her eyes—God, those eyes—wide, confused, and looking like galaxy exist in them.

Our faces were inches apart. I could see the flecks of honey in her brown eyes, the way a strand of her hair had come loose and curled against her cheek. Her lips parted slightly, not to speak but to breathe.

Her chest rose and fell against mine.

And I was very aware of my hands—one at her waist, firm... the other gripping her arm. I hadn't meant to hold her like that.

But I couldn't let go either.

Something passed between us in that silence. A tremor. A flicker.

Not desire.
Not yet.
Something older. Deeper.
Recognition.

Then—like a spark that both warmed and stung—she realized it too.

She blinked, startled by her own closeness. I felt her tense. Her fingers released my shirt. Her hand slipped away first, then the warmth of her body pulled back.

She stepped away.

Fast. Clumsy. Almost as if the nearness had burned her.

Her eyes dropped to the ground. Her cheeks turned crimson.

"Main... main saaf kar deti hoon paani..."
(I... I'll clean the water.)

Her voice—shaky, barely above a whisper—hit something in me I couldn't name. It was soft, not just in volume, but in its very nature. Like she wasn't used to being heard.

I shook my head, keeping my voice steady. "It's alright. The maid will do it."

She nodded far too quickly. Not in agreement—but escape. She just wanted out of the moment, as though even standing beside me scorched her skin.

But as she turned to leave, I heard it.

A sharp intake of breath.

"Aah..."
Her hand caught the edge of the table for support, knuckles white.

"What happened?" I moved toward her, instinctively.

"Mera... pair... lagta hai moch aa gayi hai."
(My... foot... I think it's sprained.)

"Let me see."

Her head shot up, eyes round with alarm. "Nahi! Main theek hoon."
(No! I'm fine.)

She always said that. Always pretended nothing hurt.

But she was limping.

"I can manage," she whispered, as if saying it louder might break her.

"Sit," I told her, not coldly—but with enough weight that it wasn't a suggestion.

She didn't move. So I pulled out the nearest chair and gently gestured.

"Please."

After a moment's hesitation, she sat—cautiously, like the wood might betray her.

She gripped her saree tightly with both hands. I noticed how the fabric slipped slightly, revealing her feet. Red. Slightly swollen.

I crouched down.

Her breath hitched.

"Kya kar rahe ho aap?"
(What are you doing?)

"Checking your feet. Stay still."

She did—but her entire body tensed. Her toes curled slightly, her spine straightened like a drawn bow.

I reached out, slowly, deliberately—offering her time to retreat.

She didn't.

My fingers brushed against her skin.

Warm.

Softer than I expected.

She flinched—a small, instinctive jerk—but she didn't pull away.

Instead, her fingers clutched her saree tighter. Her eyes remained fixed on something behind me—refusing to meet mine—but her breath... it trembled, just a little.

And in that brief touch, I felt something shift.

Not between us.

Inside her.

Like she was trying to understand something she'd never known before—what it meant to be touched without fear, without demand.

"You've definitely sprained it," I murmured. "It's not too bad, but you'll need rest."

 I could feel her heart in the silence, thudding in the space between us.

I stood, giving her back the air she needed. Her relief was quiet, but visible.

"I'll bring an ointment," I said softly.

As I turned, ready to leave her be, I heard her voice again—quiet, unsure.

"muj... mujhe maaf kar dijiye..."
(I... I'm sorry.)

I paused. "For what?"

"Vo aapka jug gir gaya..."
(The jug... I dropped it.)

A breath of laughter escaped me—soft, surprised.

She was limping, flinching, likely in pain—and this was what she was sorry for?

"You don't need to be sorry for that," I said gently.

But what I didn't say out loud—was that she didn't need to be sorry for anything.

I walked into the corridor, my boots echoing against the wooden floor—but my mind was back in that moment.

That moment when she flinched—but stayed.

When my touch didn't make her retreat into herself completely.

Something was changing.

She didn't meet my eyes. She didn't speak much. But that trembling breath, that refusal to pull away... that was enough.

Enough to know she was letting me closer.

Not by words. Not by will.

But by trust.

And God help me—I liked the way her skin felt under my fingers.

I liked the way her breath caught when I touched her feet. Not because she feared me—but because it was unfamiliar.

And somewhere deep down, I wanted her to get used to it.

Not my touch—but the idea that she could be seen without fear.

That she could stay—and still feel safe.

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

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