The rich aroma of spices and sweets lingered in the kitchen, curling in the air like memory itself.
Mr. Rawat, broad-shouldered and still graceful despite the years, moved with practiced ease, his sleeves rolled back, revealing strong, time-weathered arms. The gentle clink of utensils filled the silence—until the sudden shrill of the phone sliced through.
Wiping his flour-dusted hands on a towel, he strode into the hall and lifted the receiver.
"Sir, sorry to disturb you…" the gate guard's voice came through, "…but Mr. Singh's son is here to see you."
Mr. Rawat stilled, his jaw tightening, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his eyes before he mastered himself.
"Let them in," he said firmly. "And treat them with the utmost respect."
Moments later, the heavy front door swung open. Arun stood there, tall and sharply composed, his lean frame held stiff with restraint. Ayan, by contrast, carried a warmth that softened the air around him—his smile quick, disarming, as if it could light the whole threshold.
"Come in," Mr. Rawat said, stepping aside. The glow of the sitting room bathed them in soft amber.
"You want coffee? Or it's dinner time, so—"
"Uncle," Arun cut in, his tone polite but unwavering, "I'm here to ask for a favor."
Mr. Rawat's brow furrowed. "Is there some problem?"
"Would you please let Ayan live here for a while?"
Before Mr. Rawat could respond, a sharp voice carried from the staircase.
All three turned. Aarav stood on the steps, frozen mid-stride, his tall frame taut with surprise. Abhi, a step behind him, gripped the railing, his dark eyes wide in disbelief.
Ayan only smiled, calm as ever, his gaze lingering on Aarav with a quiet fondness.
Arun's eyes flickered briefly to Abhi—just long enough for the younger boy to catch the unsettled storm beneath his calm exterior.
"Uncle," Arun said again, steady, "can we talk in private?"
---
[Inside the room]
The door clicked shut behind them, muting the world. The room smelled faintly of leather and old paper, shadows settling in the corners.
"Uncle," Arun began, voice controlled but edged with hesitation, "you know Papa isn't here, right?"
Mr. Rawat gave a grave nod.
Arun's gaze hardened. "We've been attacked twice, and I still don't know who's behind it. So, please keep Ayan safe until I handle this."
A crease lined Mr. Rawat's forehead. "I can help you—"
"You don't need to take unnecessary responsibility," Arun interrupted, his tall frame leaning forward with quiet conviction. Then, after a pause, his voice softened but stayed resolute. "…And one more request."
Mr. Rawat's chest tightened. "What is it?"
Arun met his gaze, unflinching. "To ensure Ayan's safety while he's here, I'll take Abhi with me."
A muscle twitched along Mr. Rawat's jaw. The boy's resolve was iron; he wasn't bluffing. Beneath the words lay a truth heavier than either admitted—Arun still didn't trust him fully.
---
When the two men finally emerged, the silence in the hall thickened. Arun's sharp gaze swept immediately toward Abhi—sitting tall in his father's chair, composure carved into every line of him.
Ayan sat between Aarav and Abhi, his soft smile undimmed, a quiet balm to the tension.
But Arun's choice was already made.
Mr. Rawat stepped forward, stopping before his son. His voice was low, gentle, yet heavy with authority.
"Abhi… go pack your belongings. You're going with Arun."
The words fell like iron.
Abhi shot up, disbelief burning in his eyes as they darted between his father and Arun. His chest tightened, breaths uneven, every muscle taut with protest he couldn't voice.
Instinctively, his gaze found Aarav—pleading silently.
Aarav clenched his fists, his tall frame bristling with unspoken argument, but when he met their father's hard eyes, the resistance faltered.
"Papa… are you sure?" he asked carefully.
Mr. Rawat's answer was firm, his silence louder than words: Don't question me. And he nodded.
And then Arun spoke, his voice calm but laced with an unshakable promise.
"If you keep my brother safe," he said to Aarav, "I won't let anyone lay a finger on yours."
---
[Later — Singh Mansion]
The vast marble halls echoed with their footsteps. Chandeliers glowed softly overhead, but the mansion seemed too silent, as if holding its breath.
Arun walked ahead, posture straight, his tailored shirt brushing against his broad frame with each stride. Abhi followed with a small trolley bag, shoulders tight, eyes lowered, his mind loud with everything unspoken.
He tried to bury it beneath calm—but his mask slipped when he bumped into a solid warmth.
A chest.
Arun's.
The faint scent of cedarwood clung to him. Abhi's eyes snapped up to meet his, and for a moment, time stilled. Arun's gaze bore into him—sharp, searching, unsettled.
Abhi recoiled, gripping his bag tighter, his heart racing against his ribs.
Arun's brow furrowed as he studied him, reading confusion, maybe anger—or something far more fragile.
"This is your room," Arun finally said, pushing open a polished door.
The suite was bathed in soft lighting, a large bed draped in pale linens, glass walls revealing the lush garden beyond.
"Rest for now," Arun added, voice quieter.
Abhi stepped in, pausing at the threshold. He didn't dare look back, but his voice, barely a whisper, escaped.
"Good night."
The door shut softly behind him.
Inside, he pressed his back to the wood, chest heaving, hands clutching at the fabric over his heart. His pulse was relentless, wild. No amount of will could calm it.
---
Outside, Arun lingered, his tall frame casting a long shadow against the door. His hand lifted, fingertips brushing the smooth wood, as though the barrier could carry warmth. For an instant, his expression softened, longing flickering like a flame he dared not touch.
But then he clenched his fist, forcing himself to step away.
What he wanted was impossible. A dream he had no right to claim.
Each step toward his room grew heavier.
---
[Midnight Silence]
The world outside slept. Moonlight poured through sheer curtains, silvering the edges of the room. Arun lay sprawled on the bed, the rise and fall of his chest steady, his sculpted features softened in sleep.
But the air shifted.
A presence loomed—close.
Arun stirred, lashes fluttering as his senses sharpened. When his eyes opened, the sight froze him.
Abhi, leaning over him, breath uneven, eyes wide with panic.
"You—" Abhi stammered, voice breaking. "Young Master… I… my room…"
His words faltered. His trembling lips betrayed more than fear—they betrayed want.
Something in Arun cracked.
In one swift, practiced motion, he flipped their positions, the mattress creaking beneath the sudden shift. Now Abhi lay pinned beneath him, his body trembling, breaths sharp against the silence.
Arun hovered close, his hand sliding into Abhi's dark hair, fingers threading gently, possessively.
"Call me Young Master again," he whispered, his voice low, dangerously soft.
Abhi's lips parted, confusion sparking in his eyes. "Huh?"
Arun leaned closer, until their breaths tangled. His thumb brushed over Abhi's cheek, warm skin beneath his touch. His gaze dropped to Abhi's lips, lingering, hungry.
"Every time you call me 'Young Master'…" His voice faltered, raw with longing. "I just want to… kiss you."
Abhi's heart thundered, uneven and frantic. His lashes fluttered, eyes caught between shutting and staring. His lips parted, but no words came—only silence thick with uncertainty and confusion. He didn't lean closer; instead, his body stiffened beneath Arun's, small, hesitant, a little scared.
And then—
A feather-light press of lips grazed his cheek.
Abhi's eyes flew open, shock coursing through him.
Arun lingered near his ear, his whisper achingly tender.
"If you're not okay… then I'm not either."
And just like that, he pulled away, lying back beside him, eyes closing against the weight of everything unsaid.
Silence reclaimed the night, leaving only the wild thunder of two restless hearts.