Three Days After the Gala
Something had changed.
Nimisha noticed it the morning after the gala, when she came down to breakfast and found Samarth already at the table. Not leaving. Not buried in his phone. Actually sitting there, waiting.
"Good morning," she said carefully, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile thing had shifted between them.
"Morning." He poured her tea without being asked. Two sugars, the way she liked it.
She sat beside him—not across, not at the far end. Beside.
They ate in silence, but it was different from their usual silence. Less like cold distance and more like the comfortable quiet of two people who didn't need to fill every moment with noise.
"How's the manuscript?" he asked eventually.
She looked at him, startled. "Better. I broke through the block."
"What was blocking you?"
"I couldn't figure out why my hero kept pulling away." She focused on her toast. "I think I understand him better now."
She felt his gaze on her profile, steady and warm.
"Good," he said simply.
That was all.
But he stayed for the entire breakfast. And when he left, his hand brushed her shoulder—brief, light, almost accidental.
It wasn't accidental.
The Days That Followed
The change was subtle at first. Easy to dismiss as coincidence if she hadn't been paying attention.
But Nimisha had always paid attention to Samarth. Had catalogued every small gesture, every expression, every shift in his carefully controlled demeanor.
So she noticed.
The way his hand found her hip when he passed her in the hallway—just a brief, warm pressure before he continued walking.
The way his fingers brushed through her hair when she was writing, like he couldn't walk past without touching.
The box of pastries from her favorite bakery that appeared on her desk one morning, no note, no explanation.
The Nutella jar, already opened, waiting beside her laptop when she came to her study.
Small things. Insignificant things.
Devastating things.
The family noticed too.
Saroj watched her son's behavior with an expression Nimisha couldn't quite read. Confusion, certainly. Something that looked uncomfortably like guilt.
Kritika was quieter than usual. Subdued. She still came to the estate, still helped with household tasks, still brought Samarth his favorite foods.
But something in her eyes had changed.
