Third person POV:
Rishaan woke up disoriented, his neck protesting from the awkward angle he'd slept in. It took him a moment to remember he wasn't in his own bed; he was on the floor of Ahaan's room, wrapped in a blanket that had twisted around his legs sometime during the night.
He blinked, adjusting to the morning light filtering through the curtains, and then started laughing.
Veer was sprawled across the foot of Ahaan's bed, quite literally hugging Ahaan's legs like a koala bear. Ahaan himself was face-down on his pillow, a small puddle of drool forming beneath his open mouth, one arm dangling off the side of the bed.
"You guys are disgusting," Rishaan said, his voice rough with sleep.
Neither of them stirred.
He grabbed his phone from the floor: 9:47 AM, and a message from Anvitha in their group chat.
Anvitha: Boys, get your butts over here for breakfast. Samaira's making dosas, and there are only so many I can save from Meher's bottomless stomach. đ„
Meher: RUDE. But accurate. Hurry up!
Rishaan smiled, reading the message twice. Samaira was cooking. Somehow, the thought of seeing her in a kitchen, doing something so domestic and normal, made his chest warm.
"Wake up, idiots," he said louder, kicking Veer's leg. "Breakfast at Anvitha's flat."
"Five more minutes," Veer mumbled into Ahaan's calf.
"Samaira's making dosas."
That got Veer's attention. He lifted his head, squinting. "Did you say food?"
"Dosas. Anvitha's place. Now."
"Why didn't you lead with that?" Veer rolled off the bed, landing on the floor with a thud.
Ahaan finally stirred, wiping drool from his chin. "What time is it?"
"Time to shower because you smell like beer and bad decisions," Rishaan said, throwing a pillow at him.
Twenty minutes later, all three of them had managed to look somewhat presentable, Ahaan in joggers and a t-shirt, Veer in shorts and a hoodie, Rishaan in jeans and a simple grey Henley, his hair still damp from a quick shower.
They drove to Anvitha's flat, the morning air crisp and pleasant, the city slowly waking up on Sunday morning. Rishaan's stomach fluttered with something that definitely wasn't hunger as they climbed the stairs to the third floor.
She's just a person, he told himself. A beautiful, intelligent, guarded person whom you decided last night you wanted to pursue. No pressure.
His internal pep talk was not helping.
Ahaan opened the door without knocking; they'd long passed the formality stage, and the smell of fresh dosas and filter coffee hit them immediately.
"Finally!" Meher called from the kitchen. "We were about to eat everything!"
The scene that greeted them was surprisingly domestic. Anvitha and Meher sat on kitchen stools at the island, plates of dosas in front of them, chatting animatedly. And at the stove, wearing a simple white sundress with small blue flowers, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, stood Samaira.
She was flipping dosas with the practised ease of someone who'd done it a thousand times, a slight crease of concentration between her eyebrows. The morning light from the kitchen window caught her profile, and Rishaan's breath caught in his throat.
Breathtaking, he thought again. In a sundress and making dosas, she's still stunning.
"Morning," Veer announced their presence loudly, heading straight for the coffee pot.
Samaira looked up, and her eyes immediately found Rishaan's. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then she gave him a small smile, not guarded or polite, just soft.
"Good morning," she said quietly.
"Morning," Rishaan managed, returning her smile.
Ahaan and Veer were already piling dosas onto plates, but Rishaan couldn't look away from her. She turned back to the stove, but he saw the faint colour rising on her neck.
"Stop staring and come eat," Anvitha said, amused. "There's enough for everyone. Barely."
They moved to the dining room, the six of them settling around the table with plates loaded with dosas, chutneys, and sambar. The conversation flowed easily with the post-engagement gossip, funny moments from the previous day and plans for the day.
"So what's everyone doing today?" Meher asked, stealing a piece of dosa from Veer's plate.
"Gym, then probably work on some stuff for the firm," Ahaan said.
"I promised my mom I'd video call her," Veer added. "She wants to know every detail about the engagement."
"I have some emails to catch up on," Anvitha sighed. "Client wants changes to their house design. Again."
"I need to go home around noon," Samaira said, taking a sip of coffee. "Lunch with my parents before they head back to Vijayawada this evening."
"Oh, right," Meher nodded. "Are they leaving today?"
"Yeah, around five. They have work tomorrow."
"I can drop you," Rishaan said, the words coming out before he could second guess them.
Everyone turned to look at him. Samaira's eyes widened slightly.
"You don't have to ", she started.
"I know," Rishaan said simply. "But I want to. Unless you'd prefer to take a cab?"
There was a pause. Rishaan watched emotions flicker across her face: surprise, hesitation, consideration. He waited, holding his breath.
"Okay," she said finally. "Thank you."
"Okay?" Rishaan repeated, surprised she'd agreed so easily.
"Is there an echo in here?" Samaira raised an eyebrow, but her lips twitched with amusement.
Veer and Ahaan exchanged knowing glances. Anvitha was practically vibrating with excitement. Meher just smiled into her coffee cup.
After breakfast, they all migrated to the living room in that lazy Sunday way where no one really wants to move, but no one wants to leave either. Anvitha and Meher claimed the couch, folding their legs. Ahaan sprawled in the armchair, already scrolling through his phone.
Veer flopped onto the floor near the coffee table, groaning about eating too much. And Rishaan, without thinking, without planning, sat on the floor beside the couch where Samaira had settled.
He stretched his legs out, grabbed a cushion from the couch, and settled it on his lap, leaning his head back against the couch near her legs. It felt natural. Easy. Like he'd been doing it for years instead of just now.
He didn't see Samaira's eyes widen slightly, didn't see the way her hands tightened on her coffee mug, didn't see the look Anvitha and Meher exchanged over her head.
But Samaira saw. Felt. The casual intimacy of the gestureâhis shoulder nearly touching her knee, the comfortable way he'd just... settled there, as he belonged, sent her spiralling.
This is how it would be, a voice whispered in her mind. Easy Sundays. Lazy mornings. Him in your space like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Don't, she told herself firmly. Don't get used to this.
But it was already too late. The warmth of him beside her, the solid presence, the way he occasionally gestured while talking to Veer, his hand accidentally brushing her ankle, it all felt dangerously right.
Around eleven-thirty, Samaira stood, smoothing down her sundress. "I should get going. Need to change before lunch."
"Already?" Meher pouted. "Stay a little longer!"
"My parents are expecting me at noon, and I haven't even showered yet."
Rishaan stood immediately, grabbing his keys from the coffee table. "Ready when you are."
"You're leaving too?" Ahaan asked.
"Dropping Samaira home, remember?"
"Right, right," Ahaan grinned. "Very gentlemanly of you."
"Shut up," Rishaan said, but he was smiling.
Samaira hugged Anvitha and Meher, waved to the boys, and headed for the door. Rishaan followed naturally, like it was choreographed.
"Have fun, you two!" Meher called out, earning a middle finger from Samaira that made everyone laugh.
In the elevator, they stood in comfortable silence. Rishaan kept stealing glances at her reflection in the mirrored walls. She looked softer today, more relaxed. The sundress was simple but suited her, easy, unpretentious, beautiful.
They reached the parking lot, and Rishaan jogged ahead to his car, reaching the passenger door before Samaira could.
He opened it with a small flourish.
"This really isn't necessary," Samaira said, but her tone was more amused than annoyed.
"I know," Rishaan said, meeting her eyes. "But I want to. Is that okay?"
Something in his voice, the sincerity, the question made Samaira's defences crack just a little more. "Okay."
She slid into the passenger seat, and Rishaan closed the door gently before jogging around to the driver's side.
The car started smoothly, and they pulled out onto the Sunday morning streets. Traffic was light, the city moving at a more leisurely pace.
For the first few minutes, they drove in silence. Rishaan seemed to be gathering his thoughts, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel, his jaw working like he was rehearsing words in his head.
Finally, he spoke.
"That sundress is beautiful on you."
Samaira turned to look at him, startled. "What?"
"The dress," he gestured vaguely without taking his eyes off the road. "It's beautiful. You're beautiful. I mean, you were stunning yesterday in the saree, absolutely stunning, but this..." He smiled slightly. "This is more you, I think. Comfortable. Real."
"You've known me for two days. How do you know what's more me?"
"Fair point," he conceded. "But yesterday you kept adjusting your pallu like it was bothering you. Today you look... at ease. And you look incredible in your Ferrari jacket, by the way. That's badass. That's you conquering your world."
Samaira didn't know what to say. No one had ever paid attention to these details, not even Karthik. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He paused, then continued. "Samaira, I want to talk to you about something. And I'm just going to be direct because I'm terrible at subtle, and I think you appreciate directness."
Her heart rate picked up. "Okay."
"I want to spend time with you. These two weeks you're in HyderabadâI want to get to know you. Really know you. And I want you to get to know me." He kept his eyes on the road, but his hands tightened slightly on the wheel. "I'm not expecting anything. I'm not asking for promises or commitments. I just... I want a chance."
"A chance for what?"
"To see if this ", he gestured between them, " could be something. Or nothing. I don't know. But I'd like to find out."
Samaira stared at him, her mind racing. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why me? You barely know me. I live in Italy. I'm emotionally unavailable. I have commitment issues. Iâ"
"You're brilliant," Rishaan interrupted gently. "You're driven and independent, and you don't need anyone to complete you because you're already whole. You see the world differently. You inspire me to be better just by being you. And yeah, maybe it's crazy to feel all this after two days, but I do. So why not you?"
They stopped at a red light, and he finally turned to look at her. His eyes were sincere, vulnerable, and hopeful.
"I'm not asking you to fall in love with me, Samaira. I'm asking for two weeks. Coffee dates, maybe dinner, showing you around Hyderabad, letting me learn what makes you laugh, what makes you light up when you talk about it. That's all."
"That's not 'all,'" Samaira said quietly. "That's... that's a lot."
"I know. And I know you've been hurt. Anvitha told me no details, just that someone broke your trust. I get it. I've been there. Three times." He laughed without humour. "But hiding behind walls doesn't make the loneliness go away. It just makes you better at pretending you're okay with it."
The light turned green. Rishaan started driving again, giving Samaira space to process.
"Here's the thing," he continued. "Pros: I'm a decent guy. I'll make you laugh. I'm an excellent tour guide. I make killer coffee. I promise not to push for more than you're willing to give."
"And the cons?"
"I'm intense. When I care about someone, I care deeply, perhaps too much. I'm possessive in the 'I want you to feel valued' way, not the toxic controlling way, but it can be overwhelming. I probably will fall for you if we spend these two weeks together, which means I'll probably get hurt when you leave for Italy." He said it matter-of-factly, as he'd already accepted the inevitable pain. "But I'd rather have two weeks of something real than a lifetime of 'what if.'"
They were pulling into her apartment complex now. Rishaan found a visitor parking spot and put the car in park. He turned to face her fully.
"So that's my pitch. Take it or leave it. No pressure. If you say no, I'll respect that completely. We'll still be friends. I'll still be that guy who annoyingly offers to carry your bags." He smiled. "But if you say yes... I promise I'll make it worth your time."
Samaira's heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. Everything in her screamed to say no, to protect herself, to maintain the walls that had kept her safe for two years.
But another voice quieter, braver whispered: What if he's right? What if hiding isn't the same as healing?
She thought about her mother's words. Different person, different door.
She thought about Anvitha and Meher's conviction that Rishaan was genuine.
She thought about how he'd listened to her talk about F1 as it mattered. How he'd seen through her walls in minutes. How he'd sat beside her this morning like he belonged there.
She thought about the longing in his eyes when he'd watched that old couple dance.
Two weeks. It was such a small amount of time. What could really happen in two weeks?
Everything, a voice whispered. Everything could happen.
"Okay," she heard herself say.
Rishaan blinked. "Okay?"
"Let's try. Two weeks." She met his eyes, her own still guarded but with a crack of hope showing through. "But I have rules."
"Name them."
"No lying. Even white lies. I need honesty."
"Done."
"No playing games. If you're feeling something, say it. If you're not, say that too."
"I can do that."
"And at the end of two weeks, we evaluate. Honestly. No guilt, no pressure. If it's not working, we walk away as friends. Agreed?"
"Agreed." Rishaan's smile was growing, bright and genuine. "Anything else?"
"Don't make me regret this."
"I'll do my absolute best not to," he said solemnly, but his eyes were dancing with happiness.
Samaira unbuckled her seatbelt, reaching for the door handle. "I should go. Lunch with my parents."
"Right. Yeah." Rishaan seemed dazed, like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.
Samaira opened the door and stepped out, then paused, leaning down to look at him through the open door. "Thank you for the ride. And for... being honest."
"Thank you for saying yes."
She closed the door and started walking toward her building, her heart racing, her mind spinning with what she'd just agreed to.
Behind her, she heard nothing. She turned back just before reaching the building entrance and saw Rishaan still sitting in his car, staring straight ahead like he was in shock.
Then, suddenly, he slammed both hands on the steering wheel and let out a whoop of joy she could hear even from this distance. He was grinning like a maniac, laughing, running his hands through his hair in disbelief.
Samaira couldn't help it; she laughed. A real, genuine laugh that felt like sunshine.
He must have sensed her watching because he looked up, catching her eyes. His smile softened from wild joy to something tender. He raised his hand in a small wave.
She waved back a tiny, hesitant gesture and then quickly turned and walked into her building, her cheeks burning, her smile impossible to suppress.
In the elevator, alone, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
What did I just do?
But underneath the fear, underneath the doubt, there was something else.
Excitement.
Hope.
The terrifying, exhilarating feeling of standing at the edge of something new and deciding to jump.
Two weeks, she thought. Just two weeks. How much could possibly change?
Everything, her heart whispered back. Absolutely everything.
Samaira reached her flat, still slightly dazed from what had just happened in Rishaan's car. She unlocked the door to find her parents in the living room, her mother folding clothes while her father read the newspaper.
"There's our girl!" her father beamed, setting the paper aside. "How was breakfast with your friends?"
"Good. Filling." Samaira dropped her bag on the side table and headed to her room. "Give me ten minutes to freshen up, and I'll help with lunch, Amma."
"No need, bangaram. Everything's ready. Your father has been hovering in the kitchen all morning, making your favourite chicken curry."
"It's not hovering if I'm cooking," her father protested. "It's called being helpful."
Samaira smiled at their banter, the same comfortable rhythm they'd had for as long as she could remember. She quickly changed into comfortable cotton pants and a loose t-shirt, washed her face, and joined them in the kitchen.
The dining table was laden with her mother's homemade rotis, her father's chicken curry, dal, and vegetable stir-fry. Simple, comforting, home. The kind of meal that made her chest ache with how much she missed this when she was in Italy.
They settled around the table, her father serving generous portions onto everyone's plates, her mother fussing about whether the rotis were soft enough, the familiar dance of a family meal.
"So," her mother said, tearing a piece of roti, "tell us about the engagement. It was beautiful, no? Anvitha looked so happy."
"She was radiant," Samaira agreed. "Ahaan couldn't stop smiling. It was perfect."
"That's how it should be," her father said warmly. "When you find the right person, everything else just falls into place."
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and then Samaira set down her fork, her expression turning serious.
"Amma, Nanna, I want to talk to you about something."
Both parents looked up immediately, their parental radar activated. Her mother's eyes narrowed slightly with concern. Her father put down his spoon, giving her his full attention.
"What is it, Bangaram?" her mother asked carefully.
Samaira took a breath. "I'm thinking about retiring from my position as principal engineer at Ferrari."
The silence was immediate and heavy.
"What?" her father said, his voice rising with alarm. "Why? Did something happen? Are theyâ"
"No, no, nothing like that," Samaira said quickly, raising her hands. "I'm not changing teams. I'm not leaving Formula 1 entirely. Just... transitioning."
"Transitioning to what?" Her mother's voice was suspicious now, her eyes searching Samaira's face for answers.
"Listen to me fully before you panic," Samaira said, organising her thoughts. "I've been at Ferrari for six years. Principal engineer for four. In those four years, we've won four consecutive championship titles. This coming season will be our fifth, and with the car we've built, we're unbeatable. I've done what I set out to doâI've made Ferrari champions again."
"That's incredible, Kanna," her father said. "But why leave when you're at the top?"
"Because I'm exhausted, Nanna." The admission came out more raw than she intended. "I've worked relentlessly for hours. Late nights, early mornings, weekends, holidays. I've given everything to that team. And don't get me wrong, I love it. I love the work, the challenge, the racing. But..."
She paused, her throat tightening.
"But I'm lonely. I see you both maybe twice a year if I'm lucky. I see my friends in photos on Instagram, having their weekly meetups, supporting each other, and being there for each other's big moments. And I'm on another continent, alone, staring at engine diagnostics at 2 AM with only my team for company."
Her mother reached across the table, taking her hand. "Oh, bangaram."
"I want to come back to Hyderabad," Samaira said firmly. "I want to move back to India. But I don't want to give up racing entirely. So I'm proposing to Ferrari that I transition to a consultant role. I'll still be involved during race seasons, still provide technical strategy remotely, and still travel for major races. But my primary base will be here."
"And what will you do here?" her father asked, his business mind already working.
"I want to build a racing academy," Samaira said, and her eyes lit up with genuine excitement. "Here in Hyderabad, close to you both in Vijayawada. There's so much talent in India that never gets the opportunity because there's no infrastructure, no training, no pathway to international racing. I want to create that. I want to train the next generation of Indian racers and engineers."
Her parents stared at her, processing.
"When did you decide all this?" her mother asked quietly.
Samaira looked down at her plate. "It's been building for a while. But it crystallised two months ago, when Nanna had that health scare."
Her father's expression softened. "Samaira, that was nothing. Just high blood pressure. The doctors said "
"You almost had a heart attack," Samaira cut him off, her voice cracking. "Almost. And I wasn't here. I was in Monza, preparing for a race, and I got Amma's call, and I felt " She stopped, composing herself. "I felt this horrible, crushing guilt. What if something had happened and I wasn't here? What if you needed me and I was on another continent, too far away to help?"
"Beta, we would never want you to give up your dreams for us," her mother said firmly.
"I'm not giving up my dreams, Amma. I'm evolving them. I've proven what I needed to prove. I've shown everyone who said I couldn't do it that I could. I've made Ferrari champions. I've broken barriers. Now I want something different. I want to be close to my family. I want to have friends I see more than twice a year. I want to build something here, something that's mine and that helps others."
She paused, then added more softly, "And like you said yesterday, Amma, I want the possibility of having someone. Someone to come home to, someone who stands with me, comforts me, cares for me, loves me. I can't build that life when I'm living out of hotels and race circuits nine months a year."
Her mother's eyes immediately sparked with excitement. "So you're thinking about settling down? Should I start looking for matches? I know some very nice boys"
"Amma, no," Samaira said quickly, though she was smiling. "That all happens only after I come back to Hyderabad and set up the academy. I need to establish my life here first. Figure out what I want. Then maybe... maybe I'll be ready for that. But not yet. Don't get excited and start calling matrimony services."
Her father, who had been quiet, studying her with intense focus, finally spoke. "Kanna, listen to me carefully."
Samaira turned to him, recognising his serious tone.
"Your mother and I have always supported your decisions. When you wanted to study in Italy, we supported you even though it terrified us to send our daughter so far away. When you chose racing engineering over safer career paths, we supported you even though we didn't understand it. And we'll support this decision too." He leaned forward, holding her gaze. "But I need you to be absolutely sure this is what you want, not what you think you should want. Don't pressure yourself into making a life-changing decision because of guilt over my health or loneliness, or feeling like you need to 'settle down.' "
"Nanna "
"Let me finish," he said gently. "You've accomplished extraordinary things, Samaira. Things we couldn't even dream of. You've made us prouder than you'll ever know. But the only thing that truly matters to us is that you're happy and healthy. So before you make this decision, ask yourself, Will this make you happy? Truly happy? Not obligated, not guilty, not pressured by what society or family or friends expect. But genuinely, deeply content with your choice."
Samaira felt tears prick her eyes. "I have asked myself that, Nanna. Every day for the past two months. And yes, I'll miss the intensity of being trackside every race weekend. I'll miss my team. But I won't miss the loneliness. I won't miss choosing between my career and my relationships. I won't miss feeling like I'm always sacrificing one thing for another."
"And you won't regret it?" her father pressed. "Five years from now, ten years from now, you won't look back and wish you'd stayed at Ferrari?"
"I might have moments of nostalgia," Samaira admitted honestly. "But regret? No. I don't think so. I'm not giving up racing, just transforming my relationship with it. And building something new here, something that could change Indian motorsports foreverâthat excites me as much as winning championships did."
Her father studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay. Then you have our full support. Whatever you need financially, logistically, emotionally, we're here."
"Always," her mother added, squeezing her hand. "Though I still think we should at least start making a list of potential matches. Just to be prepared. When you're ready."
"Amma!"
"What? I'm just saying, planning never hurt anyone!"
Her father laughed. "Let the girl breathe, ma. She just told us she's making a major life change, and you're already planning her wedding."
"I'm not planning a wedding. I'm just... keeping options open."
Samaira laughed, the tension breaking. "Can we finish lunch first before you marry me off?"
They ate, the conversation turning lighter, gossiping about relatives, updates on family friends, and her father's upcoming project at work. Normal, comfortable, family.
After lunch, they lounged in the living room, her mother's head on her father's shoulder on the couch, Samaira stretched out on the floor with cushions, full and content.
Around 3:30 PM, her parents started gathering their things, preparing for the drive back to Vijayawada.
"Are you sure you don't want the car?" her father asked for the third time. "We can easily take a bus or book a flight. You'll need transportation while you're here."
"I'm sure, Nanna," Samaira said, helping her mother pack the tiffin boxes of leftovers she was insisting Samaira keep. "I can book cabs, or borrow Meher's car if needed. You need it for work tomorrow."
"If you're certain," he said, though he looked doubtful.
Her mother hugged her tightly at the door. "Take care of yourself, Bangaram. Eat properly. Don't skip meals because you're busy with friends."
"I won't, Amma."
"And come to Vijayawada before you go back to Italy. Even for a day. Your father wants to take you to that new restaurant near the temple."
"I will. I promise."
Her father pulled her into a bear hug, kissing the top of her head. "We're proud of you, Kanna. Always. Whatever you decide, whoever you become, wherever you go, we're proud of you."
Samaira felt tears threaten again. "I love you both. Drive safe."
"We will. Lock the door properly. And call us when you're free."
She watched them walk to the elevator, her mother turning back twice to wave, her father's arm around her mother's waist. Even after thirty years, still completely in sync.
That's what I want, Samaira thought. That kind of partnership. That kind of love.
As the elevator doors closed, she went back inside, closing the door and leaning against it.
The flat was quiet now. Empty, but somehow not lonely. For the first time in two years, the silence felt like a possibility instead of isolation.
Her phone buzzed.
Rishaan: Did your parents get off okay?
She smiled, her heart doing that stupid flutter thing again.
Samaira: Just left. How did you know they were leaving today?
Rishaan: You mentioned it at breakfast. I pay attention, remember?
Samaira: Apparently.
Rishaan: So... now that you have some free time... want to get coffee? I know a great place near Jubilee Hills. Best filter coffee in Hyderabad.
Samaira looked around her empty flat. She could stay here, answer emails, and maintain her safe, predictable routine.
Or she could say yes to coffee. Say yes to possibility. Say yes to two weeks of seeing what could happen.
Different person, different door.
Samaira: What time?
Rishaan: I can pick you up in 30 minutes?
Samaira: Make it 45. I need to change.
Rishaan: You look beautiful in anything, but I'll give you 45. See you soon.
Samaira set her phone down, staring at it for a moment.
Then she went to her closet, suddenly caring about what she wore in a way she hadn't in two years.
Two weeks, she thought, pulling out options. Let's see where two weeks takes us.
Samaira changed three times before settling on dark jeans and a soft cream-colored sweater, casual but put-together. She left her hair down in loose waves, applied minimal makeup, and grabbed her crossbody bag. Looking at herself in the mirror, she barely recognised the nervous energy in her own eyes.
It's just coffee, she told herself. You've had coffee a thousand times.
But when her phone buzzed with Rishaan's message saying he was downstairs, her stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine.
She found him leaning against his car, scrolling through his phone. He looked up as she approached, and his face lit up with that smile that was becoming dangerously familiar.
"Thirty-two minutes," he said, checking his watch. "Impressive."
"I'm efficient," Samaira said, accepting the passenger door he'd already opened for her.
"Among many other things," he agreed, closing her door and jogging around to the driver's side.
As they pulled out of the complex, Rishaan glanced at her. "So, I should warn you, this coffee place is kind of my secret spot. Very few people know about it. It's run by this elderly couple who've been making filter coffee for forty years. No fancy machines, no Instagram-worthy interiors, just exceptional coffee."
"Sounds perfect," Samaira said honestly.
"Good. Because if you hate it, I'll have to question all my life choices that led me to share my sacred coffee spot with someone who doesn't appreciate it."
"No pressure then."
He laughed, that warm, infectious sound that made her want to smile despite herself.
The drive took them through the quieter parts of Jubilee Hills, away from the main commercial areas. Rishaan navigated the streets with easy familiarity, occasionally pointing out landmarks.
"That's where Veer's first startup office was, lasted exactly three months before they ran out of funding," he gestured to a small building. "And that restaurant? Ahaan and I once ate there every day for two weeks straight because they had unlimited biryani on Thursdays."
"Every day for two weeks?" Samaira raised an eyebrow. "That's dedication."
"We were broke college students. Unlimited anything was a miracle." He turned down a narrow lane. "Plus, it was right after my breakup with Divya. Ahaan was trying to distract me with carbs. It worked surprisingly well."
"Food therapy," Samaira nodded. "Scientifically proven to help with heartbreak."
"Is it really?"
"No idea. But it sounds like it should be."
Rishaan pulled up in front of a tiny café wedged between a bookstore and a tailor shop. The sign simply read "Subba Rao's Coffee House" in faded letters. Through the window, Samaira could see maybe six small tables and an elderly man behind a counter.
"This is it," Rishaan announced, parking. "Don't let the exterior fool you. The coffee is legendary."
Inside, the cafĂ© smelled divineârich coffee, cardamom, and something sweet baking. The elderly man behind the counter looked up and his weathered face broke into a huge grin.
"Rishaan! Beta! It's been too long!" he exclaimed in Telugu.
"Namaste, Subba Rao garu," Rishaan greeted him warmly, pressing his palms together. Been busy with work. But I brought someone special to try your famous coffee."
The old man's eyes twinkled as he looked at Samaira. "Special, eh? Very beautiful. Namaste, ma."
"Namaste," Samaira smiled, charmed by his genuine warmth.
"Two filter coffees, the way you like them?" Subba Rao asked Rishaan.
"Perfect. And whatever you have fresh from the oven."
They settled at a corner table by the window. The café was quiet only two other customers, both elderly men, engaged in an intense chess game in the opposite corner.
"So," Rishaan leaned back in his chair, studying her, "lunch with your parents went well?"
"It did," Samaira said, then paused. She wanted to tell him about her plans, about potentially moving back to Hyderabad, but something held her back. It felt too big, too revealing for a first date. If this was even a date. "We had a good talk. About... life and things."
"Deep philosophical Sunday lunch conversations?"
"Something like that." She changed the subject. "Tell me about your startup. You mentioned it briefly yesterday, but I want to hear more. Tech consulting for manufacturingâhow did you get into that?"
Rishaan's eyes lit up, and Samaira realised she'd unlocked something. He leaned forward, animated in a way she hadn't seen before.
"Okay, so you know how India has all these traditional manufacturing businesses? Small to medium scale, family-run, have been doing things the same way for decades?"
"Sure."
"They're incredible at what they do, but most are stuck using outdated systems. No digital inventory management, no data analytics, no optimisation of production lines. They're efficient through experience and intuition, but they could be so much more efficient with the right technology."
Subba Rao arrived with their coffee served in traditional steel tumblers and davaras, the coffee a perfect frothy brown.
"But here's the thing," Rishaan continued, barely pausing to thank Subba Rao, "these businesses don't trust big tech companies. They don't want some Silicon Valley consultant coming in and telling them to throw away everything and start from scratch. So I created a model that works with them, not against them. We analyse their existing processes, find the pain points, and introduce technology gradually. Small changes that make big differences."
Samaira took a sip of her coffee and nearly moaned. It was perfectly strong, aromatic, with just the right balance of sweetness. "This coffee is incredible."
"I told you," Rishaan grinned. "Subba Rao garu's been making it the same way since 1985. Same recipe, same technique, same love. That's the kind of tradition worth preserving, right? You don't need to change it, just support it."
"That's actually a beautiful philosophy," Samaira said thoughtfully. "Respecting tradition while enabling progress."
"Exactly!" Rishaan's enthusiasm was contagious. "See, you get it. Most people think tech means destroying the old to build the new. But the best innovation honours what came before while making it sustainable for the future."
"Like how Ferrari evolved," Samaira found herself saying. "When I joined, they were stuck in old patterns, brilliant engineering, but refusing to adapt to new data analysis methods, new materials, new strategies. We didn't throw away their racing heritage. We built on it, honoured it, but evolved it."
"And made them champions," Rishaan said. "Four times."
"Four times," she confirmed softly.
"What's that like?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. "Being at the pinnacle of your field at twenty seven? Knowing you're literally the best in the world at what you do?"
Samaira paused, considering. No one had ever asked her thatânot quite like that. "Honestly? It's... lonely."
"Lonely? How?"
"Because you can't relate to anyone anymore. Your peers are all older, mostly men who resent that you got there faster than they did. Your friends back home can't understand the pressure, the stakes, the constant scrutiny. And the drivers, they're brilliant, but it's a different kind of brilliance. We speak different languages even when we're speaking English."
She took another sip of coffee, surprised by her own honesty. "Plus, success at that level means sacrificing everything else. I've missed birthdays, weddings, and holidays. I've chosen race strategy over relationships so many times I lost count. After a while, people stop inviting you because they know you'll say no."
"Except Anvitha and Meher," Rishaan observed.
"Except Anvitha and Meher," Samaira smiled. "They never stopped inviting me. Never stopped calling. Never stopped being my best friends even when I'm a terrible friend back."
"You're not a terrible friend. You're just far away."
"Same thing sometimes."
Subba Rao arrived with a plate of fresh onion fritters, golden and steaming. "On the house," he winked. "For Rishaan's special friend."
After he left, Rishaan picked up a fritter. "Okay, your turn to ask me invasive questions about my life."
Samaira smiled. "Fine. Your family business you said you're handling it, but you started your own thing. Is there tension there?"
"Perceptive," Rishaan said, a shadow crossing his face. "Yeah, there's... tension is a mild word. My parents built this business from scratch. Textiles, primarily exported. It's successful, stable, and profitable. And they groomed me from childhood to take it over."
"But you don't want to?"
"It's not that simple. I respect what they built. I'm good at running it. But it's theirs, you know? It's their dream, their legacy, their identity. I wanted something that was mine. Something I built from scratch, where success or failure was on me."
"Did they understand that?"
Rishaan laughed, but there was no humour in it. "My parents don't really do 'understanding.' They have expectations, obligations, and duties. They're not bad people, they're just... practical. To them, family business is the only business. Personal aspirations are luxuries."
"That must be hard."
"It was harder when I was younger and still wanted their approval," he admitted. "Now I've accepted that I'm probably always going to disappoint them by wanting more than they think I should want. The startup is my rebellion in a very Indian, still-respectful way. I run their business during the day, build mine at night."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is. But it's mine. That makes it worth it." He paused, then added more quietly, "Plus, work keeps you busy. Keeps you from thinking too much about what's missing."
"Like what?" Samaira asked gently.
"Like coming home to an empty flat every night. Like having Sunday dinners alone. Like watching couples at engagements and wondering if I'll ever have that or if I'm fundamentally too much for anyone to want long term."
The vulnerability in his voice made Samaira's chest ache. "Your exes were idiots."
"Maybe. Or maybe they were honest about what they could handle, and I was too needy to accept it."
"Being needy isn't the same as wanting to be loved," Samaira said. "Everyone wants to be loved. Some people are just better at pretending they don't."
Rishaan looked at her, something intense in his gaze. "Speaking from experience?"
"Maybe," she admitted.
They fell into a comfortable silence, drinking their coffee, stealing fritters from the shared plate. Outside the window, the afternoon sun was starting to shift toward evening, casting long shadows.
"Can I ask you something?" Rishaan said eventually.
"Sure."
"Why did you agree to this? To the two weeks thing? You could have easily said no. You're leaving soon, you're busy, you don't need the complication. So why say yes?"
Samaira considered her answer carefully. "Honestly? I'm tired of being safe. I've spent two years building walls so high that nothing could hurt me. But nothing could reach me either. And this morning, watching Anvitha and Ahaan, watching my parents... I realised safe isn't the same as happy."
"And you want to be happy?"
"I want to try," she said softly. "I want to see if I can let someone in without falling apart if they leave. You seemed like... a manageable risk."
"Manageable risk," Rishaan repeated, amused. "That might be the least romantic thing anyone's ever said about dating me."
"We're not dating. We're trying for two weeks."
"Right. Trying. Very different from dating."
"Completely different."
"Totally different," he agreed, his eyes dancing with laughter.
Samaira found herself laughing too, surprised by how easy this was. How comfortable. She'd expected awkwardness, forced conversation, the painful small talk of getting to know someone. Instead, this felt like talking to an old friend, easy, natural, honest.
"Tell me about Italy," Rishaan said, leaning back in his chair. "What's Maranello like?"
"Small. Ridiculously small for being the headquarters of Ferrari. The entire town is basically built around the factory. Red everywhere, red buildings, red flags, Ferrari memorabilia in every shop window."
"Sounds intense."
"It is. But also magical in its way. There's this sense of history, you know? Every street corner has a story about Enzo Ferrari or some legendary driver. The locals treat racing like religion. On Sunday race days, the entire town stops to watch."
"Do you have friends there?"
"Colleagues, mostly. A few close ones on the team we've been through hell together, literally. Pulling all nighters before races, celebrating wins, and crying over mechanical failures. But it's not the same as this," she gestured vaguely. "Not the same as having people who know you before you became successful. Who remembers when you were just Samaira from Andhra Pradesh with big dreams and no idea how to achieve them."
"Anvitha and Meher."
"And Ahaan, who's like the annoying older brother I never had. And Veer, who treats me like his little sister and is constantly trying to feed me."
"We do that," Rishaan acknowledged. "The feeding thing. It's a love language. Veer's mother probably trained him that way."
"My mother too," Samaira smiled. "She spent the entire morning packing leftovers for me like I'm going to starve in the next twenty four hours."
"That's because you probably will forget to eat," Rishaan said. "I've noticed you have this thing where you get absorbed in thinking and completely forget about physical needs like food or water."
"I do not."
"You've been playing with that same fritter for ten minutes without taking a bite."
Samaira looked down at her hand, realising he was right. She took a deliberate bite. "There. Eating."
"Prove my point all you want," he grinned.
They talked about everything, his college days with Ahaan and Veer, her high school memories with Anvitha and Meher, favourite movies, books they'd read, places they wanted to travel, and embarrassing stories. Rishaan was an excellent storyteller, animated and funny, making even mundane anecdotes entertaining.
Samaira found herself laughing more than she had in months. Real laughs, the kind that made her stomach hurt and her eyes water.
"Wait, wait," she gasped between laughs as Rishaan recounted a disastrous first date Veer had in college. "He actually took her to a funeral?"
"I swear on Subba Rao garu's coffee," Rishaan raised his hand solemnly. "He misunderstood when she said she wanted to go somewhere 'dead quiet.' He thought she meant literally quiet. So he took her to his grandfather's funeral."
"That's horrifying!"
"She never called him back. Obviously."
"I wouldn't either!"
Subba Rao came by to refill their coffee they were on their third cup now, and smiled knowingly at them. "You two are good together," he said in Telugu. "Reminds me of my wife and me when we were young. Always talking, never running out of things to say."
After he left,
"He's a romantic," she said dismissively.
"Or he's observant," Rishaan countered.
The sun had fully set now, the café's warm lights casting a cosy glow. Samaira glanced at her watch and was shocked to realise it was nearly 7:30 PM.
"We've been here for over four hours," she said, incredulous.
"Really?" Rishaan checked his phone. "Oh. Wow. We have."
Neither of them moved to leave.
Then both their phones pinged simultaneously.
Group Chat - The Six Musketeers
Meher: Okay, losers, mandatory dinner tonight. Raja's Dhaba, 8:30 PM. No excuses. We haven't had a proper group dinner in MONTHS, and Samaira's only here for two weeks!
Anvitha: I'm in! Dying for their butter chicken.
Ahaan: Count me in. Veer?
Veer: Obviously, yes. Rishaan? Samaira?
Rishaan looked at Samaira across the table. "Want to?"
"We should," Samaira said, even though a selfish part of her wanted to stay in this quiet café bubble with just him. "We literally just talked about how I miss group dinners."
"Raja's Dhaba it is then," Rishaan typed a quick confirmation into the group chat.
Rishaan: We're in. See you all there.
Meher: WE'RE???? Are you two together right now??? đ
Rishaan: Coffee. Don't make it weird.
Meher: TOO LATE, IT'S ALREADY WEIRD
Anvitha: This is the best day of my life
Ahaan: You're getting married in three months. Today shouldn't be the best day of your life.
Anvitha: You know what I mean! đ€
Samaira was laughing at her phone. "They're insufferable."
"Completely," Rishaan agreed fondly. "Ready to face the interrogation?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
He paid the bill despite Samaira's protests, thanked Subba Rao garu profusely, and promised to bring Samaira back soon. The old man winked at her as they left.
In the car, as they drove toward Raja's Dhaba, Rishaan glanced at her. "For the record, that was a really good first not date."
"It was a nice coffee," Samaira corrected.
"A four hour nice coffee."
"Time flies when you're... having manageable risk?"
He burst out laughing. "You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"
"Never," she confirmed, smiling.
Raja's Dhaba was exactly the kind of place Samaira loved: loud, chaotic, authentically local, and smelling incredible. They found their friends already seated at a large table in the back, and the moment Anvitha spotted them walking in together, her squeal could probably be heard in the kitchen.
"You two came TOGETHER!" she announced to the entire restaurant.
"We were already out," Samaira said, sliding into the seat beside Meher. Rishaan took the spot across from her, next to Veer.
"Out where?" Meher demanded.
"Coffee," Rishaan said simply.
"For four hours?" Ahaan raised an eyebrow, checking his watch. "That's a lot of coffee."
"It was good coffee," Samaira said defensively.
"I bet it was," Veer grinned.
"Can we order food before we turn this into an interrogation?" Rishaan asked.
"Absolutely not," Anvitha said cheerfully. "Interrogation first, food second. Those are the rules."
Despite the teasing, the dinner was perfect. They ordered too much food: butter chicken, dal makhani, various kebabs, naan, biryani, and paneer dishes. The table became a chaotic mess of shared plates, everyone stealing food from everyone else, arguing over who got the last piece of tandoori chicken.
Samaira had forgotten what this felt like, being surrounded by people who knew her, really knew her, and loved her anyway. The easy banter, the inside jokes, the comfortable silence between conversations when everyone was just eating and being together.
She watched Anvitha lean against Ahaan, his arm automatically going around her shoulders. Watched Meher steal food off Veer's plate while he pretended to be annoyed but was clearly delighted. Watched Rishaan across the table, how he engaged with everyone, how he made sure everyone was included in conversations, how his eyes kept finding hers and smiling.
"What are you thinking about?" Meher asked softly, noticing Samaira's contemplative expression.
"Just... this," Samaira said. "How much I miss this when I'm in Italy. How lonely it is to eat dinner alone at 11 PM after everyone's gone home from the factory."
"Then stay," Meher said simply. "Move back."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?" Anvitha had overheard, leaning forward. "Sam, you've conquered Ferrari. You've proven everything you needed to prove. What's left there that's worth more than being here with us?"
Samaira felt Rishaan's eyes on her, but couldn't meet them. "It's complicated."
"Everything's complicated if you make it complicated," Veer said, stealing a piece of naan from Meher's plate in revenge. "Sometimes the simple answer is the right one."
"Says the man who took a date to a funeral," Rishaan interjected, clearly trying to deflect attention from Samaira.
"That was ONE TIME!" Veer protested, and the conversation shifted to retelling embarrassing stories, giving Samaira time to breathe.
Under the table, her phone buzzed. A message from Rishaan.
Rishaan: You okay?
She looked up, meeting his eyes across the table. He was watching her with concern, not curiosity. Checking in, not prying.
Samaira: Yeah. Thank you.
Rishaan: Anytime.
The dinner stretched on, filled with laughter and memories and plans. They discussed the upcoming wedding schedule. Anvitha and Ahaan's ceremony was in one month, and there was a whirlwind of preparation ahead.
"Okay, so here's the timeline," Anvitha said, pulling out her phone with notes. "The wedding is exactly four weeks from today. Which means we have a month to finalise everything."
"Everything being?" Veer asked, stealing another piece of naan.
"Everything being literally everything," Meher jumped in. "Shopping for the wedding outfits, finalising decorations, printing wedding cards, venue coordination, caterer meetings"
"And the religious ceremonies," Ahaan added. "We have the Ganesh puja and pasupu danchadam in four days at our respective villages."
"Wait, both villages?" Samaira asked.
"Yeah, they're right next to each other, actually," Anvitha explained. "My village and Ahaan's village are practically side by side. We're doing the Ganesh puja and pasupu danchadam at my place in the morning, then at Ahaan's village in the evening. And since the wedding and all the pre-wedding festivities will be held in my village, it made sense to have everything there."
"That's going to be a long day," Rishaan observed.
"Hence why everyone is required to attend and help," Anvitha said pointedly. "That includes you, Sam. You're not escaping back to Italy before the Ganesh puja."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Samaira smiled. "I haven't been to a proper Ganesh puja in years."
"And before all that," Ahaan said, "we're doing the traditional first invitation presentation."
"To whom?" Samaira asked.
"Ammavaru," Anvitha said reverently. "The day before the Ganesh puja, we're all going to the Kanaka Durga temple in Vijayawada, both families together. We'll present the first wedding card to Ammavaru and seek her blessings."
"That's beautiful," Samaira said softly. The Kanaka Durga temple held a special place in every Telugu person's heart, especially those from Andhra Pradesh. The goddess Kanaka Durga was their protector, their mother, their first source of blessings for any auspicious occasion.
"Everyone's coming," Meher added. "Both families, and all of us. It'll be like a mini pilgrimage. We'll leave early morning, do the darshan, present the invitation, and come back by afternoon."
"So in four days from now, we go to the Village for Ganesh puja and pasupu danchadam," Veer counted on his fingers. "Then to Vijayawada in ten days."
"Exactly," Anvitha confirmed. "And in between all that, we need to finalise the shopping. Sam, you're helping me pick out jewellery and the final touches for my wedding outfit."
"Obviously," Samaira agreed. "When are we doing that?"
"Tomorrow or the day after?" Anvitha looked at Meher. "We need to hit Mangatrai and that boutique in Banjara Hills."
"I'm free both days," Meher said. "Let's do tomorrow. Get it done early."
"Shopping marathon it is," Anvitha declared. "Boys, you're also required for your outfit fittings."
"Do we have to?" Veer groaned.
"Yes," all three women said in unison.
"The next two weeks are going to be insane," Ahaan said, but he was smiling, clearly happy about it all.
"Controlled chaos," Anvitha corrected. "It's going to be beautiful controlled chaos, and I want all of you there for every moment of it."
"Wouldn't miss it," Rishaan said, glancing at Samaira. "Any of it."
They continued planning who would handle what, transportation arrangements for the village ceremonies, accommodation for out-of-town relatives, and menu finalisation for various events. The conversation was animated, everyone throwing in ideas and suggestions, arguing good-naturedly about details.
Samaira found herself getting swept up in the excitement. She'd been to weddings before, of course, but never one where she was this intimately involved in the planning. In Italy, she watched colleagues get married from a distance, attending the ceremony, giving a gift, and making polite conversation. This was different. This was family.
Around 11 PM, they finally called it a night. Hugs all around, promises to meet tomorrow for the shopping expedition.
"I'll drive you home," Rishaan said as they walked to the parking lot.
"You don't have to "
"Samaira," he said gently. "It's late, you're in the same direction as me, and I want to. Okay?"
"Okay."
The drive back was quieter than their earlier conversations, both of them full and content and slightly sleepy. Soft music played on the radio, some old Telugu melody that Samaira recognised from her childhoodâand the city lights blurred past the windows in streaks of gold and white.
"Today was really nice," Samaira said softly, breaking the comfortable silence. "All of it. The coffee, the dinner, and being with everyone. Planning the wedding stuff."
"But?" Rishaan prompted gently, sensing there was more.
"But nothing. Just..." she paused, trying to find the right words. "I forgot what this felt like. When I'm in Italy, I see pictures of you people doing these dinners and meetups, and I feel so left out. So lonely. Like life is happening without me, and I'm just... watching from across the world through a phone screen."
"And tonight?"
"Tonight I remembered what I'm missing." Her voice was soft, almost wondering. "The spontaneous plans, the inside jokes, the way everyone just... shows up for each other. Meher stealing food off Veer's plate. Anvitha getting excited about jewellery shopping. Ahaan making terrible jokes. All of it."
She turned to look at him, his profile illuminated by passing streetlights. "In Italy, I have colleagues. Professional relationships. We work together, we're efficient, we respect each other. But this? This feeling of belonging, of being known, of being... home? I don't have that there."
Rishaan was quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel in time with the music. "Do you miss it? India, I mean. Not just the people, but the place itself?"
"Every single day," Samaira admitted. "I miss the chaos, the noise, the colours. I miss street food at midnight and filter coffee in the morning. I miss hearing Telugu everywhere instead of constantly translating in my head. I miss..." she laughed softly, "I miss the way people here just casually invite themselves over for dinner, or show up unannounced with snacks, or call you at random times just to chat. In Italy, everything is scheduled, planned, proper."
"That sounds lonely."
"It is," she said simply. "But I chose it. I chose the career, the success, the prestige. I knew what I was giving up."
"Did you, though?" Rishaan glanced at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "Did you really know, or did you think you could have both? Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like you convinced yourself the sacrifice was worth it, but you're not sure anymore."
Samaira was quiet, his words hitting closer to the truth than she was comfortable with.
"I'm not trying to make you feel bad," Rishaan added quickly. "I'm just saying... It's okay to change your mind about what you want. It's okay to realise that success doesn't mean much if you're lonely. It's okay to want something different from what you thought you wanted five years ago."
They pulled up to her building. Rishaan parked and turned to face her, his expression soft in the dim light of the parking lot.
"For what it's worth," he said, "I'm really glad you're here. Even if it's just for two weeks. Even if you go back to Italy and we never... whatever. These two weeks, I'm going to make sure you don't regret them. I'm going to give you so many good moments that when you're alone in Maranello at 11 PM, eating dinner by yourself, you'll smile instead of feeling lonely. You'll remember that you're not just Samaira the engineer. You're Samaira, who has friends who love her, family who adore her, and..."
He paused, then smiled slightly. "And a guy who's really enjoying getting to know you."
Samaira felt her throat tighten with emotion. "That's... that's a really nice promise."
"I keep my promises," he said seriously. Then his smile turned playful. "Even the stupidly romantic ones."
She laughed, the sound a little watery. "You're ridiculous."
"I prefer 'charmingly optimistic,'" he corrected.
"That's not a thing."
"It is now. I just made it a thing."
Samaira shook her head, still smiling. "I should go. It's late."
"Yeah." Neither of them moved.
The car was quiet except for the soft hum of the engine, the distant sounds of the city filtering through the closed windows. The moment stretched between them, full of things unsaid.
"Thank you," Samaira said finally. "For today. For the coffee, for listening, for... for making me feel like I matter. Not as an engineer or a professional, just as... me."
"You do matter," Rishaan said quietly. "More than you probably realise."
She unbuckled her seatbelt, reaching for the door handle, but something made her pause. Maybe it was the vulnerability in his voice. Maybe it was the warmth in his eyes. Maybe it was just that she was tired of being scared.
Whatever it was, instead of stepping out of the car, Samaira leaned across the console and hugged him.
Rishaan froze for half a second in surprise. She felt it, the momentary tension in his body and then his arms came around her, warm and solid and safe. One hand settled between her shoulder blades, the other at her waist, and he held her like she was something precious.
She fit perfectly against his chest, her head tucked under his chin. He smelled like coffee and something clean and distinctly him, maybe his cologne, maybe just him. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear, and she let herself sink into the moment, into the feeling of being held by someone who genuinely cared.
"Thank you," she whispered against his chest. "For today. For all of it."
"You're welcome," he said softly, his voice rumbling through his chest. His chin rested gently on top of her head. "Sleep well, Samaira."
She pulled back reluctantly, immediately missing the warmth. Their faces were close, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the slight stubble on his jaw, the way he was looking at her like she'd just given him something invaluable.
"You too," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
She got out of the car quickly, before she could do something stupid like hugging him again, and waved once before heading to her building entrance. At the door, she turned back an automatic gesture, checking if he was still there.
He was. Rishaan sat in his car, watching to make sure she got in safely, just like he had the night before. When their eyes met, he raised his hand in a small wave, with that soft smile on his face that made her heart do complicated things.
She waved back, then quickly pushed through the door before she could change her mind and go back to him.
In the elevator, alone, Samaira leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, one hand pressed against her chest where her heart was racing.
Samaira's Monologue:
What am I doing?
I'm standing in the elevator, leaning against the wall like my legs might give out, and I can still feel the warmth of his arms around me. Still smell his cologne. Still hear his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
What am I doing?
Today was supposed to be simple. Coffee with Rishaan, maintain appropriate distance, keep my walls up, protect myself. Instead, I spent four hours talking to him like we were old friends, laughed more than I have in months, and ended the night hugging him in his car like I needed the comfort as much as he was willing to give it.
And God, I did need it. I needed to be held by someone who sees meâreally sees me, not as Samaira Reddy, the Ferrari principal engineer, not as the girl who broke barriers and made history, but just... Samaira. The girl who gets lonely eating dinner alone at 11 PM. The girl who misses her friends so much it physically hurts. The girl who's so tired of being strong all the time.
Rishaan sees all of that. Somehow, in two days, he's seen through every wall I've spent two years building. And instead of running away from the mess he found behind those walls, he's just... there. Patient. Understanding. Not pushing, not demanding, just offering his presence like it's the most natural thing in the world.
The elevator dings, and I walk to my apartment in a daze, fumbling with my keys.
Inside, the silence is deafening. My apartment, the one I've been staying in for just a few days, already feels emptier than it should. I drop my bag on the couch, kick off my shoes, and just stand there in the dark living room, staring at nothing.
Tonight reminded me of everything I've been missing. Watching Anvitha and Ahaan plan their wedding together, so in sync, so comfortable with each other. Watching Meher and Veer bicker like an old married couple, even though they've been together for more than for years. Being part of a group that just... fits. Where nobody has to pretend or perform or be anyone other than who they are.
I had that once, before Ferrari. Before Italy. Before I decided that success was worth any sacrifice.
Was it worth it?
That's the question I can't stop asking myself. Yes, I'm the youngest principal engineer in F1 history. Yes, I've helped make Ferrari four time champions. Yes, I've proven everyone wrong who said I couldn't do it.
But what's the point of all that success if I'm too lonely to enjoy it?
I walk to my bedroom, change into pyjamas mechanically, and go through my nighttime routine on autopilot. Wash face. Brush teeth. Moisturize. Each action is automatic, muscle memory, while my mind spirals.
When Rishaan talked about giving me memories good enough to sustain me when I'm back in Italy, I wanted to cry. Because he understood the loneliness, the isolation, the way you convince yourself you're fine until someone reminds you what connection feels like, and then you realise you're not fine at all. You're just surviving.
And that hug. God, that hug.
I climb into bed, pull the covers up, and close my eyes. But all I can see is his face when I pulled back the way he looked at me like I'd given him something precious, like a simple hug was worth more than all my professional accomplishments combined.
Maybe it was.
I've spent two years protecting myself. Two years building walls, keeping people at a distance, convincing myself that being alone was better than risking being hurt again. Karthik broke something in me when he chose his family's expectations over what we had. When he looked at me and essentially said, "You're not enough. Your family isn't right. Your background isn't suitable. You'll never fit into my world."
After that, I promised myself I'd never give anyone that power again. I'd be successful, independent, untouchable. I'd make myself so valuable professionally that my personal life wouldn't matter.
And it worked. I threw myself into work, climbed the ladder faster than anyone expected, and achieved everything I set out to achieve.
But I'm so lonely.
I'm so, so lonely.
And Rishaan, in just two days, has made me remember what it feels like to not be lonely. To have someone genuinely interested in what I have to say. To have someone notice when I forget to eat. To have someone who looks at me like I'm fascinating instead of intimidating.
This is dangerous, the rational part of my brain warns. You're setting yourself up for heartbreak. He's here, you're leaving for Italy in two weeks. Even if this is real, even if he's genuine, the logistics are impossible. Long distance never works. You know this.
But another part of me, the part that's been dormant for two years, the part that still believes in hope and possibilityâwhispers back: What if it could work? What if he's different? What if this is the universe giving you a second chance at happiness, and you're too scared to take it?
I roll onto my side, hugging a pillow to my chest, and let myself remember the feeling of being in his arms. Safe. Warm. Wanted.
Just two weeks, I tell myself. You agreed to two weeks. That's all. You don't have to figure everything out right now. You don't have to make any big decisions. Just... let yourself have these two weeks. Let yourself feel whatever you're going to feel. Let yourself be open to possibilities.
And if it breaks you?
Then at least I'll know I tried. At least I'll know I was brave enough to take the risk.
Tomorrow, we're going shopping with Anvitha and Meher for wedding preparations. Then in three days, we're going to the Village with both families for the Ganesh puja and pasupu danchadam. I'll be surrounded by people I love, participating in traditions I've missed, and being part of something bigger than just my career.
And Rishaan will be there. Through all of it.
The thought makes me smile despite my anxiety. He'll be there, probably making terrible jokes, definitely making sure I'm okay, certainly finding little ways to make me smile. And maybe, just maybe, I'll let him.
Maybe I'll let him get a little closer.
Maybe I'll let myself hope.
Please let me be brave enough for this, I think as sleep finally starts to pull me under. Please let me not regret this. Please let him be real.
And as I drift off, my last conscious thought is of his smile, warm and genuine and full of promise.
Rishaan's Monologue:
She hugged me.
I'm sitting in my car in her parking lot, engine still running, staring at nothing, and all I can think about is how Samaira hugged me.
Not a polite, friendly hug. Not an obligatory goodbye hug. A real hug, the kind where you let yourself be vulnerable for just a moment, where you let someone hold you and trust they won't let go, where you melt into someone's arms like you've been holding yourself together for too long and finally found a safe place to let go.
And God, she fit perfectly. Like my arms were made to hold her. Like her head was meant to rest right there under my chin. Like every stupid romance novel cliché I've ever rolled my eyes at, it suddenly made perfect sense.
I can still smell her something floral and clean, maybe her shampoo or perfume. I can still feel the weight of her against my chest, the way her hands gripped my shirt slightly, like she was anchoring herself. I can still hear her whispered, "thank you" which sounded more like a confession than gratitude.
Four hours. We spent four hours at Subba Rao garu's cafĂ©, and it felt like four minutes. I've never had that with anyoneânot Divya, not Keerthi, not even Priya, whom I thought I loved. With Samaira, conversation is effortless. I don't have to perform or pretend or carefully moderate myself. I can just... be.
And she listens. Really listens. Not just waiting for her turn to talk, but actually engaging with what I'm saying, asking follow-up questions, and making connections I hadn't even seen. When I talked about my startup philosophy of honouring tradition while enabling progress, she got it immediately. She related it to her work at Ferrari, and suddenly, we were speaking the same language even though we work in completely different fields.
Finally, I put the car in gear and drive home, but my mind is still back in that parking lot, still holding her.
The drive to my apartment is automatic I could do it in my sleep by now. But tonight, the familiar streets look different somehow. Brighter. More alive. Like the whole city is conspiring to remind me that something significant just happened.
I park in my building's garage and take the elevator up to my flat, fishing my keys out of my pocket. The lock clicks open, and I step into the silence.
My apartment is nice, modern, spacious, well well-decorated. I hired an interior designer last year because I got tired of living in a space that felt like a hotel room. Now it has personality warm colours, comfortable furniture, and art on the walls that actually means something to me.
But it's empty.
Every single night, I come home to this empty flat. I eat dinner alone. I watch TV alone. I go to bed alone. And I've gotten good at telling myself I'm fine with it, that independence is valuable, that being alone is better than being with the wrong person.
But tonight, standing in my living room in the dark, I realise I'm tired of lying to myself.
I'm not fine with it. I'm lonely.
And Samaira, in just two days, has made me remember what it feels like to not be lonely. To have someone genuinely interested in what I have to say. To have someone challenge me intellectually while making me laugh. To have someone who sees my intensity and doesn't run away, but matches it.
I drop my keys on the kitchen counter, pour myself a glass of water, and lean against the counter, staring at my phone.
Should I text her? Thank her for today? No, that's too eager. She just left. Give her space.
But I want to text her. I want to know she got upstairs safely, even though I watched her go inside. I want to know if she's thinking about today the way I am. I want to know if that hug meant as much to her as it did to me.
Get a grip, Rishaan, I tell myself. It's been two days. You can't be this invested after two days.
But I am. I'm already so invested it's terrifying.
When she talked about being lonely in Italy, about watching life happen from across the world, my heart broke a little. Because I know that loneliness intimately. I live it every day. And the thought of her experiencing that, of someone as vibrant and intelligent and deserving of love as Samaira eating dinner alone at 11 PM in some empty apartment in Maranello, makes me want to fix it somehow.
Which is stupid, because I can't fix it. She lives in Italy. She has a career there, a life there, responsibilities. And I'm here in Hyderabad with my startup and my family business, and my own life that I can't just abandon.
I walk to my bedroom, stripping off my clothes and changing into track pants. The routine is familiar, comforting. But tonight, it feels different. Like I'm going through the motions while my mind is somewhere else entirely.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, and stare at myself in the bathroom mirror.
What are you doing? I ask my reflection.
Two weeks. That's all we have. Two weeks of whatever this is, coffee dates, group dinners, wedding preparations. Two weeks of getting to know someone who's going to leave at the end of it. Two weeks of pretending that geography and logistics and reality don't matter.
And at the end of those two weeks, what then?
I'll be right back here. In this empty flat. Alone.
Except now I'll know exactly what I'm missing. Now I'll have the memory of her laugh, her smile, the way she fits perfectly in my arms. Now I'll have late-night conversations and inside jokes and moments of connection that will make the loneliness so much worse because I'll know what it feels like to not be lonely.
This is a terrible idea, the rational part of my brain says. You're setting yourself up for heartbreak. Again. How many times are you going to do this to yourself? How many times are you going to fall for someone who's going to leave?
But the rest of me, the part that's been dormant since Priya, the part that still believes in hope and possibilityâargues back: What if she's different? What if this is real? What if two weeks of something genuine is worth whatever pain comes after?
I climb into bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark. My room is quiet except for the hum of the AC and the distant sounds of traffic outside.
What I didn't tell Samaira tonight, what I couldn't tell her, is that I'm terrified. Terrified of how much I already care about her. Terrified of how natural it felt to have her in my passenger seat, in my space, in my arms. Terrified of how easy it would be to fall completely in love with her.
Because I know myself. I know how I love intensely, completely, sometimes too much. I know that once I let someone in, I give them everything. And I've been hurt enough times to know that giving everything doesn't guarantee you'll get anything back.
Divya left because I was too intense, too needy, too much. Keerthi left because her parents didn't approve, and she didn't fight for us. Priya left because she wanted someone more stable, less ambitious, someone who wouldn't prioritise a startup over weekend plans.
What if Samaira leaves for the same reasons? What if two weeks isn't enough time for her to decide I'm worth the complication? What if she goes back to Italy and realises that long distance is too hard, that I'm too far away, that her career is more important than whatever this could become?
I roll onto my side, punching my pillow into a more comfortable shape.
But what if she doesn't? What if she's the person who finally stays?
The thought is almost too hopeful to bear.
Tomorrow, we're going shopping for wedding stuff. I'll get to spend more time with her, watch her interact with Anvitha and Meher, and maybe steal a few private moments to talk. Then in a few days, we're all going to the Village together, both families, for a proper traditional temple visit. I'll get to see her in that context, surrounded by family and tradition, participating in rituals that matter.
And she'll be there for the Ganesh puja and pasupu danchadam at the villages. She'll see where Ahaan comes from, and understand more about our culture and traditions. She'll be part of all these important moments leading up to the wedding.
Part of me wants to be selfish about it, wants to steal her away for more one-on-one time, more coffee dates, more long conversations. But another part of me knows that seeing her with everyone, watching her navigate these social and cultural dynamics, will tell me so much more about who she really is.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it, heart racing stupidly, hoping it's her.
Ahaan: Bro, you're whipped. I've never seen you look at someone the way you looked at Samaira tonight. Just saying.
I smile despite myself.
Rishaan: Shut up. Go to sleep.
Ahaan: Not denying it though đ
Ahaan: For real, though, she's great. And she clearly likes you, too. The way she looks at you when you're not watching... just don't overthink it.
Rishaan: Too late. Already overthinking.
Ahaan: Of course you are. Look, all I'm saying is: you've got two weeks. Make them count. Stop worrying about what happens after and focus on what's happening now.
Rishaan: When did you become wise?
Ahaan: Since I got engaged. Impending marriage makes you philosophical. Now go to sleep and dream about your Ferrari girl.
Rishaan: She's not MY Ferrari girl.
Ahaan: Yet. đŽ
I set my phone back on the nightstand, shaking my head. But Ahaan's words stick with me.
Make them count. Stop worrying about what happens after and focus on what's happening now.
He's right. I have two weeks with Samaira. Two weeks to show her that not everyone leaves, that some people stay, that she's worth staying for. Two weeks to make her laugh, make her feel valued, make her remember what it's like to be truly seen by someone.
And maybe just maybe two weeks to fall in love with someone who might actually love me back.
It's a risk. A huge, terrifying risk. But lying here in my empty flat, I realise I'm tired of playing it safe. I'm tired of protecting myself from potential hurt by never letting anyone close enough to hurt me. I'm tired of being alone and pretending I'm okay with it.
Samaira makes me want to be brave. Want to try again. Want to believe that maybe this time will be different.
So that's what I'm going to do. For the next two weeks, I'm going to be brave. I'm going to be honest about what I feel. I'm going to show her who I really amâintensity and allâand trust that if it's meant to work, it will.
And if it doesn't? If she goes back to Italy and decides long distance is too hard, or that her career matters more, or that I'm just not worth the complication?
Then at least I'll know I tried. At least I'll have these two weeks of something real. At least I'll have the memory of her in my arms, fitting perfectly, as she belonged there.
That has to be enough. It has to be.
Please let me be brave enough for this, I think as sleep finally starts to claim me. Please let these two weeks mean something. Please let her stay. Or at least, please let her want to stay, even if she can't.
My last conscious thought is of her smileâthat genuine, unguarded smile she gave me at the cafĂ©, the one that lit up her whole face and made me believe in possibilities.
Two weeks.
I'm going to make them count.
Word Count: 12,418
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