Weeks later, the world felt lighter. The shadows of the past had finally lifted, and life — gentle and warm — began to flow again.
The clock ticked softly in the grand hall of the mansion, its rhythm blending with the quiet hum of the evening.
Arun and Ayan sat side by side on the velvet couch, neatly dressed, their eyes glimmering with anticipation — though their restless hands betrayed their unease.
Across from them, Mr. Raj observed in silence, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips as he watched the unspoken argument unfold between the two.
"So," Ayan began in a patient yet amused tone, "which one of you plans to ask for Papa's permission?"
Mr. Raj was the first to move, glancing at Arun with a confused look. "But why should I? It's your problem."
Arun frowned slightly, his back straightening. "I didn't say anything about you helping the Rawat brothers from the start to win over Ayan..."
"I already confessed that to your father..." Mr. Raj gave a sheepish grin. "And your father isn't as strict as you believe."
Ayan nodded, turning to his brother. "Yes, brother, Papa won't say no… you're just overthinking."
Before Arun could respond, the soft sound of footsteps descended the staircase.
Mr. Singh appeared — tall, poised, dressed not in his usual evening wear but in crisp casual streetwear, his face unreadable. His eyes swept over them briefly before he spoke.
"No for what?"
The question fell into the air like a sudden gust. Ayan straightened immediately, and Arun's fingers tightened around the couch's edge. Mr. Raj rose to his feet, still composed but clearly attentive.
"Master," Raj began carefully, hesitating as he studied Mr. Singh's appearance. "Are you going somewhere?"
For a moment, Mr. Singh said nothing. His hand slipped into his trouser pocket — a familiar gesture — though this time his fingers seemed to clench around something unseen. A faint tremor brushed his knuckles before he finally spoke, his tone calm and measured.
"For some fresh air. Nothing important." Then, softer — almost imperceptibly — he added, "You should head home, Raj. These past weeks have been long enough for everyone. Take some rest."
Mr. Raj hesitated, as if to object, but the quiet command in Mr. Singh's tone left no space for argument.
"Yes, Master."
Mr. Singh's gaze shifted to his sons. He studied them — the uncertainty in their eyes, the hesitation in their posture — before asking evenly, "Is there something you wish to say?"
Ayan stood, polite yet steady despite the tension in his chest. "Aunt Rawat invited us to dinner," he said carefully. "We wanted to ask if we may go."
Arun's eyes flickered between his brother and father. How easily Ayan spoke now — as if their father no longer frightened him — and somehow, that brought Arun a quiet sense of calm.
For a brief moment, silence filled the hall again — not heavy, but deliberate. Then Mr. Singh gave a short nod.
"Go safely," he said. "And let me know once you arrive."
Relief crossed both boys' faces, their gratitude soft but unmistakable.
Mr. Singh's gaze warmed faintly at their expressions before he turned toward the main door. The echo of his footsteps faded into the stillness as he reached for his overcoat. The golden light behind him dimmed a little — leaving behind a soft afterglow of approval and warmth.
...
[Later — Mrs. Rawat's house]
The night settled slow and silver again, spilling through the half-open curtains of the house. The scent of fresh coriander and curry drifted from the kitchen, mingling with laughter that hummed low and easy.
The living room glowed warm — fairy lights coiled along the edge of the window, flickering like quiet stars.
Abhi sat cross-legged on the rug, sleeves rolled, helping Vihan arrange the table mats in straight lines he'd inevitably mess up again.
"Vihan," Abhi muttered, brow creased with mock seriousness, "the spoons go on the right. Right."
"They look symmetrical this way," Vihan protested, pretending not to notice Aarav's muffled laughter from the couch.
Karan leaned back beside him, a cushion hugged to his chest, eyes half-lidded in amusement. "Symmetry isn't everything. Like, look at you two — who would say you're twins?"
Vihan threw the spoon at him — it bounced harmlessly off Karan's shoulder. Aarav coughed into his sleeve, trying and failing to look composed.
From the kitchen, Mrs. Rawat's voice floated out — gentle, teasing. "Don't start a war before the guests even arrive!"
Abhi rose quietly, moving to help her with the serving bowls. His steps were light, practiced — like someone who had learned to fit peace into small actions.
She glanced at him over her shoulder, smiling. "Asked your father? Is he coming or not?"
"Papa said he has to go somewhere," he said with a small smile, arranging the bowls with calm precision.
Then — the bell rang.
A soft chime carried through the house like a heartbeat.
Everyone froze for a brief moment, exchanging glances. Abhi and Mrs. Rawat emerged from the kitchen, their steps light but excited.
Simultaneously, Aarav stepped forward and opened the door.
And there they were.
Arun stood tall, a polite smile tugging at his lips — the kind that softened his otherwise composed expression. Beside him, Ayan clutched a small basket wrapped in white cloth, eyes bright and gleaming.
Aarav stepped aside, making space for them to enter, his gaze soft as he murmured, "Come in," guiding Ayan gently with easy confidence.
Ayan followed, holding his basket tightly, trusting Aarav completely.
Karan and Vihan moved smoothly, arranging the cushions and making room for everyone to settle comfortably. Karan nudged Vihan playfully, his eyes shining with quiet affection, and Vihan returned the smile, indulgent and warm.
Mrs. Rawat welcomed them with a warm, motherly smile. "Come in, make yourselves at home," she said, her voice steady and warm.
Arun, however, lingered at the threshold. His usual calm composure faltered just slightly, a shadow of hesitation crossing his face.
Abhi noticed immediately. Without drawing attention, he stepped closer and extended his hand, guiding Arun gently inside. Their movement was quiet, subtle — a soft connection amid the bustling room.
Even as everyone else remained busy — straightening mats, adjusting cushions — Mrs. Rawat saw it — that fleeting, unspoken moment.
Her gaze softened, lingering on the pair with quiet tenderness before she turned back to the others. Words weren't needed; the gesture said it all.