The doorbell rang just as the clock neared five-thirty.
Arina wiped her hands on the edge of her apron, slipped it off, and hurried to the door.
When she opened it, Reyansh stood there — still in his office clothes, the faint weariness of the day shadowing his face. In his hand was a bouquet of soft pink roses, their petals fresh with dew.
For a heartbeat, she just looked at him — then at the bouquet, then back at him again.
The color, the delicate scent, the thought behind it — it felt strangely intimate, almost too gentle for the man she had first met.
Her gaze lifted slowly to meet his. The silence between them was light, but full.
Reyansh took a small step forward, the corners of his lips tugging upward.
"For you," he said quietly. "Do you like them?"
Arina reached out to take the bouquet, her fingers brushing his. "I love them," she whispered, the words soft, sincere.
She gazed at the flowers, her eyes filled with soft adoration.
She had never thought something so simple could make her heart feel so full — a small, unexpected gesture that carried warmth she hadn't dared to hope for.
She placed the bouquet carefully on the table, then turned back to him.
For a long moment, she simply looked at his face — the calmness in his eyes, the faint crease of fatigue that made him look more human, more hers.
Then, before she could stop herself, she stepped closer.
Her hands reached up hesitantly, then wrapped around him — her heart pounding as she pressed her lips to his.
It wasn't planned, not even thought through. Just an instinct — soft, real, trembling.
For a second, Reyansh froze. Then his arms came around her, firm and certain, pulling her against him.
The kiss deepened slowly — not rushed, not rough — just two people finding each other in a quiet space between words.
When they finally pulled apart, Arina's breath came unevenly.
Her cheeks glowed faintly as she reached up and touched his face, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. Then she leaned in again — just enough to press a tender kiss to his forehead.
It was a small, almost reverent gesture, but it made Reyansh's expression soften.
"You're getting bolder," he murmured, his tone low, teasing, the hint of a smile playing at his lips.
Arina laughed softly, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. "Then you should freshen up quickly before I do something even bolder," she replied, her voice laced with playful shyness. "Manav might be here soon."
Reyansh's smile lingered as he glanced toward the clock.
"He just called. He'll be late — around six-thirty," he said, taking her hand gently and guiding her toward the sofa. "Sit for a moment."
Arina obeyed, though her restlessness showed in the way her fingers tapped lightly against her saree. After a few seconds, she stood again.
"Wait here," she said, and disappeared toward the kitchen.
When she returned, she carried a small bowl of kheer, steam rising in faint curls. The sweet scent of cardamom filled the room.
She sat beside him again and offered the bowl, her tone gentle but expectant. "Taste it. Tell me how it is."
Reyansh took the spoon from her hand, his fingers grazing hers, and tasted a small bite. His gaze lingered on her instead of the bowl.
"It's perfect," he said finally, a quiet sincerity beneath his words.
Then, after a brief pause, his voice dropped slightly — playful, intimate. "Though maybe it's just because you made it."
Arina's smile was quick, soft, and a little embarrassed. "You're just saying that," she murmured, though her eyes glowed at his words.
He finished the bowl and rose to go freshen up, but not before his fingers brushed over her shoulder — a fleeting touch that lingered longer than it should have.
Left alone, Arina picked up the bouquet again.
The roses felt cool against her skin, their scent wrapping around her like a whisper.
"It's so beautiful," she murmured, her smile delicate and full of quiet warmth.
But she knew it wasn't only the flowers. It was everything — the care behind the gesture, the closeness in his eyes, and the way his presence was no longer distant.
She felt it — something between them was changing, quiet but real.
---
"Even tenderness can hide the hunger to own."