I reached the bedroom door and pushed it open.
And froze.
Avija was standing in front of Armaan, her hands on his chest, her fingers working the buttons of his shirt. Armaan's shirt was open, revealing his bare chest beneath.
They both turned when I entered. But Avija did not move. She stayed exactly where she was, her hands still on Armaan's shirt, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
Something hot and painful shot through my chest. Jealousy. Anger. Hurt.
I did not like this. I did not like seeing her hands on him. I did not like the way she was standing so close to him. I did not like any of this.
But before I could say anything, Armaan moved. He stepped away from Avija, putting space between them, and walked toward me.
"Viya, you are back. I was waiting for you." His voice was warm, genuine. His eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "One of my shirt buttons broke. Avija was just helping me with it since you were not here yet."
The explanation made sense. It was perfectly logical and innocent.
But it still hurt to see.
I forced my voice to remain steady.
"Aunty is calling for you downstairs, Avija. I can help Armaan with the button."
Avija's smile widened slightly, but there was something cold in it.
"Of course. I was just being helpful. But now that you are here..." She trailed off meaningfully, then walked past me toward the door.She left, and the room suddenly felt easier to breathe in.
I held out my hand, a silent request. He dropped the broken button into my palm, but as he did, his fingers lingered against mine for a heartbeat too long, sending a jolt of heat through my veins.
I turned to my dresser, my hands trembling as I threaded the needle. I wasn't just mending a shirt; I was trying to mend the fraying edges of my own composure.
"Come closer," I whispered, my voice barely holding steady.
Armaan stepped into my space, his presence massive and overwhelming. As I reached up to his chest, the scent of sandalwood and expensive cedarwood wrapped around me like a velvet shroud. My fingers moved with the muscle memory of a girl who had spent years mending the old clothes of her relatives, but today, the fabric felt like live wire.
I could feel the steady, heavy thrum of his heart beneath my knuckles. With every stitch, his breath fanned across my forehead, warm and uneven. I kept my gaze fixed on the thread, terrified that if I looked up, I would lose myself in the intensity of his stare.
"Viya—"
"It’s just a button, Armaan," I interrupted, the words caught in my throat. "It happens."
"That’s not what this is," he murmured, his voice a low vibration I felt in my own chest.
I tied the knot and bit the thread—a sharp, final snap. But before I could retreat, his hand shot out, his fingers encircling my wrist like a warm shackle.
"Viya. Look at me."
I did not want to. I did not want him to see whatever expression was on my face right now. I did not want him to see the hurt and confusion and jealousy.
"We should go back downstairs," I said softly. "Your guests are waiting."
He nodded and released my hand, though I could tell he wanted to say more.
We went downstairs together. Uncle, Aunty, and Avija were all standing near the door, clearly preparing to leave.
I walked them out, making appropriate small talk about their visit and Dadi's recovery. Uncle hugged me again before leaving, whispering, "Take care of yourself, beta," in a voice that sounded worried.
After they left, I helped Dadi back to her room and made sure she was comfortable before retreating to my own room.
