As Mr. Singh and Mr. Raj entered the Mansion. Abhi spun and ran straight to Arun's room.
Empty. Only the sound of running water—the bathroom.
Then—footsteps on the stairs. Nearing.
Abhi's instincts jolted. He rushed to the bathroom door, knocking quickly. "Young master…"
The door opened. He slipped inside and shut it quickly, chest heaving.
When he looked up—his breath faltered.
Arun stood there in his pj only, droplets trailing down his bare torso, a towel draped around his neck. Wet strands of hair clung to his temples, framing the quiet amusement in his eyes.
Abhi's pulse skittered wildly. Heat flushed his face as he fumbled with his shirt, tugging it up to half-hide himself.
Then—
A firm knock. Mr. Raj's voice outside. "Arun… Master wants you downstairs."
"Okay, Uncle. Five minutes, please," Arun answered smoothly.
Abhi stood frozen, his body tense, nerves rattling. He had faced countless situations, but this—this closeness, this weight—left him shaken.
Arun, however, was perfectly calm. Almost entertained. He stepped forward, brushing lightly against Abhi's hand as if on purpose.
"It's all yours," he murmured, voice velvet soft.
Abhi blinked, startled. "Huh? Are you crazy?"
Arun chuckled, his fingers trailing featherlight across Abhi's cheek, making his skin burn. "Stay in the room. I'll bring dinner up."
Before Abhi could answer, Arun leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
Abhi recoiled, face burning, not in rejection but in overwhelmed heat.
And then—Arun was gone, leaving Abhi rooted in place, stunned, breathless.
...
[Later— Downstairs]
Mr. Singh sat upright in the center of the sitting area, broad shoulders squared, his gaze hard enough to show the faint twitch of muscle. His fingers drummed against the carved wooden armrest in sharp, impatient rhythm.
Beside him, Mr. Raj stood firm, sharp eyes narrowing as though reading every corner of the room, every flicker of expression.
Around them, servants lined the walls, their bandaged arms and faint bruises exposed beneath freshly pressed uniforms.
Arun descended with steady steps. His features were calm, but his eyes—heavy-lidded—betrayed the weight pulling at him.
Mr. Singh's gaze snapped up, pinning him in place. His voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Don't you think it's important to inform me about this?"
Arun bowed his head respectfully, though his posture remained strong. "You ordered me to handle it myself."
"Not at the cost of our people's lives." Mr. Singh's words struck fast, hot with anger.
"I won't leave that son of Mekham." His voice, usually controlled, was sharp and defiant.
Arun's tone shifted, grave. "It's not him. There's someone else—someone who knows everything. About our family. About this mansion."
A ripple of unease stirred the servants. Shoulders tensed, eyes darted, as if the walls themselves might betray them.
Mr. Raj leaned forward, his knuckles resting against his knee, gaze narrowing in sharp calculation.
Mr. Singh's voice dropped lower, anger tempered by concern. "Who do you think?"
Arun's silence lingered. His jaw flexed, lips pressing together before he finally lowered his eyes. "We're still finding out."
The weight of the words smothered the hall.
Mr. Singh exhaled, leaning back against the armrest. His hand, once restless, stilled. "Is Ayan okay?"
The servants exchanged the quickest of glances—furtive, guilty. Enough to tell a story.
Mr. Raj caught it instantly, his keen eyes narrowing further. There was something festering behind their silence.
Arun did not flinch. "Yes, Papa. He didn't see anything."
Mr. Singh inhaled deeply, then exhaled, his tone unreadable. "That's good. You all may return to your work."
The servants bowed and dispersed, relief loosening their stiff shoulders as they slipped out of sight.
Arun turned away, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his clenched fists betrayed the storm inside. Upstairs, he knew, waited the secret he couldn't yet reveal.
---
[Later—Rawat mansion]
The Rawat hall glowed with golden warmth, laughter echoing off polished wood. A broad game board stretched across the table, tokens scattered mid-play.
Mr. Rawat leaned back in his chair, his genial presence filling the room. His smile reached his eyes, deepening the familiar lines at their corners.
Beside him, Ayan's smaller frame seemed to glow in the soft light—his laughter light, unguarded, the kind that made the room feel alive.
Across from them, Aarav sat with elbows braced on the table, dark brows drawn in mock frustration as his tokens lagged behind. His gaze, though, kept drifting—lingering on Ayan more than the game.
"Someone's going to lose again, Ayan." Mr. Rawat teased, shaking his head.
Ayan laughed, cheeks dimpling.
Aarav's lips curved. "You both are teaming against me?"
Mr. Rawat leaned toward Ayan with a conspiratorial grin. "Us?"
Ayan mirrored him, playful. "No..."
The exchange made Aarav's chest tighten—because in that moment, when Ayan's eyes met his, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of them. The flicker of intimacy was enough to drown out everything else.
Then the chime of a phone broke the spell.
Ayan's smile faltered as he read the message. Aarav leaned forward, instinct sharp. "What is it?"
Ayan's lashes dipped. He hesitated before saying, "It's brother Arun… He's coming tomorrow. To drop Abhi… and take me back."
The laughter drained from the room. The game stood forgotten.
"Tomorrow?" Aarav's voice held protest, faint but raw.
Ayan only nodded, eyes shadowed.
Mr. Rawat placed a gentle hand on Ayan's shoulder, his smile soft but touched with resignation. "It's only fifteen minutes away. Come visit us anytime you like." He exhaled, then tried to lift the mood. "Shall we finish the game?"
But Aarav barely heard him. His gaze was fixed on Ayan, as though trying to memorize him before time stole him away.
---
[Later—Aarav's room]
The room was dim, the bedside lamp casting a soft amber glow. Aarav sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, fingers loosely tangled. His dark hair fell forward, shadowing the frustration in his eyes.
The door creaked open. Ayan slipped inside, closing it carefully before the lock clicked into place.
Aarav looked up, voice low. "Did you… pack everything?"
Ayan nodded and crossed the room, his light steps barely creasing the carpet. He sat beside Aarav, close enough for their shoulders to brush. Without words, Aarav's arms closed around him—firm, almost desperate.
Ayan tilted his head, smiling gently against the weight of that embrace. "Senior… I'm just going home. We'll still meet at the university, every day."
But Aarav's arms tightened, his voice cracking with quiet ache. "I don't want this night to end."
The vulnerability in his tone broke something in Ayan. He turned and leaned in, lips brushing softly against Aarav's—a fleeting kiss that deepened quickly, urgent and trembling.
Shifting onto Aarav's lap, Ayan kissed him as though leaving part of himself behind.
Aarav drew back, breath ragged. "Ayan… that's not what I meant."
But Ayan's smile was tender, unyielding. His arms wrapped around Aarav's neck, forehead pressed close. "Senior… I'm not scared of anything, as long as I have you."
Aarav buried his face against the curve of Ayan's neck, inhaling the faint trace of his warmth, his grip fierce as if clinging to the last thread of time. "Don't do this... Or I won't be able to hold back."
Ayan tilted close, lips brushing his ear, whispering without words—Aarav caved. His hands trembled as they traced the smooth line of Ayan's back, sliding under fabric, desperate to hold him closer still.
Shirt falling aside, kisses trailed across Ayan's collarbone, down the delicate line of his chest. Each mark Aarav left was a plea, a confession: don't go.
Ayan gasped softly, fingers threading through Aarav's hair, torn between shyness and surrender.
Their bodies moved together in quiet rhythm, as though time itself had stopped—holding the night still so they could burn their love into eternity.
---
[That night—Singh mansion]
Moonlight painted the mansion silver, soft shadows pooling along the polished floor. In the quiet room, a figure lay beneath the blanket, body still, breathing even.
The door opened without a sound. Mr. Singh stepped in, his imposing frame softened by the pale glow. His hand lingered against the blanket, brushing over the head beneath with a rare, gentle touch. His stern face loosened, eyes dark with unspoken regret.
"I know Arun is doing his best to protect you…" his voice broke the silence, low and unsteady. "He's fulfilling his duty—as a son, as a brother. But… I wish I knew how to be a better father."
His words lingered in the air, fragile yet heavy, before dissolving into the night.
He pulled back, slipping out as quietly as he had entered. The door clicked shut.
For a long moment, silence.
Then the blanket shifted. Abhi's face emerged, his hair mussed, eyes wide and awake. At Arun's request, he had stayed here—taking Ayan's place.
His gaze fixed on the closed door. His expression was unreadable, but a faint flicker of something softer stirred in his dark eyes. Sympathy. Understanding.