Morning - 6:00 AM

Samaira's POV:

Samaira's alarm went off at 6 AM, and for the first time in years, she didn't immediately groan at the sound. Instead, she found herself smiling, already thinking about the morning gym session that had somehow become the best part of her day.

Her phone buzzed with a text before she could even get out of bed.

Rishaan: Good morning. Running 15 minutes late - had to finalise some documents for the Pune client. Still want to work out, or should we skip today since we're travelling to the village?

Samaira typed back quickly.

Samaira: We can do a quick 45-minute session instead of the full hour. I need to work out before sitting in a car for hours.

Rishaan: Perfect. Let's meet in 20 minutes?

Samaira: See you then.

She got ready quickly, throwing on black leggings and a grey tank top, pulling her hair into a ponytail. She'd already packed her bag for the village trip last night—simple cotton sarees, comfortable kurtas, minimal makeup. Village life didn't require the polished sophistication of Hyderabad or Maranello.

Her phone rang as she was double-checking her bag. Rishaan's name flashed on the screen.

"I'm not ready yet, you're early—" she answered.

"I'm not calling about the gym," Rishaan interrupted, and there was excitement in his voice. "I have a proposal."

"A proposal?"

"Before we go to Anvitha and Ahaan's villages, can we make a detour? To my grandmother's village? It's only about forty minutes from Anvitha's place, and I really want to meet Nannamma and properly introduce you to her. Not just on a phone call, but in person."

Samaira's heart did a small flip at the significance of what he was asking. Meeting his grandmother in her home was not a casual friend thing.

"Rishaan—"

"I know it's a lot to ask," he continued quickly. "And I know we're supposed to meet everyone at Anvitha's village by afternoon. But my Nannamma means everything to me, and I want her to meet you. Actually meet you, not just hear about you on the phone, even yesterday she invited you to meet her right ."

"What did you tell her about me?" Samaira asked curiously.

"The truth. That you're brilliant and kind and you make me laugh and you made me breakfast." She could hear the smile in his voice. "She's been asking about you non-stop since that call yesterday. She wants to meet the girl who 'finally got her grandson to eat proper food in the morning.'"

"I made you dosas one time."

"One time more than anyone else has in three years of living alone." He paused. "Please? We can spend a few hours with her, maybe have lunch, and then head to Anvitha's village by evening. Everyone else isn't arriving until tonight anyway."

Samaira should say no. Meeting his grandmother was a big step. But the excitement in Rishaan's voice made her decision easy.

"Okay," she said. "I'd love to meet your Nannamma."

"Really?"

"Really. Now let me start to your gym so we can work out before this very important grandmother meeting."

"I'm already out of the building right now."

The gym session was quick but intense, both of them pushing through their usual routines efficiently.

"Ferrari called again this morning?" Rishaan asked during their cooldown stretches.

"How did you know?"

"You have this little crease between your eyebrows that shows up when you're thinking about aerodynamics." He reached out and gently smoothed the spot with his thumb. "What's the crisis this time?"

"Not a crisis, just final data review before the Monaco race. They wanted my sign-off on the rear wing modifications." She caught his hand before he could pull it away, holding it for a moment. "Thank you for noticing."

"Of course, I notice."

9:30 AM - The Drive to Nannamma's Village

Rishaan drove, the Ferrari eating up the highway miles as they left Hyderabad behind. The city slowly gave way to smaller towns, then to open countryside—green fields, scattered villages, the occasional temple rising against the blue sky.

"Tell me about your grandmother," Samaira said, watching the landscape blur past.

Rishaan smiled, his whole face softening. "Nannamma is home. When I was growing up, and my parents were too busy building their business to notice me, I'd go to her. She lived with us in Hyderabad back then, and she was the one who actually raised me. Taught me to tie my shoes, helped with homework, listened to my problems."

"She sounds wonderful."

"She is. About five years ago, she decided Hyderabad was too loud and moved back to our ancestral village after my grandfather's death. She says it's quieter there, more peaceful."

"That must have been hard for you."

"It was. She was my safe person." He glanced at Samaira. "But we talk every day. Multiple times, usually."

"What should I know before meeting her?"

"She's going to try to feed you constantly. Accept everything she offers."

"Noted."

"She's also going to ask you a thousand personal questions and probably plan our wedding by dessert."

"Our what?"

"You heard me. She does this with every woman I mention. Fair warning."

"Do you mention women to her often?"

"No," he admitted. "Actually, you're the first person I've mentioned in... a while."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

They drove in comfortable silence, and Samaira found herself relaxing into the anticipation rather than stressing about it.

When they arrived at the village—picturesque with small houses and tiled roofs—Rishaan navigated through narrow streets to a modest but well-maintained house with a small front garden.

The moment he parked, the front door opened, and a small, elderly woman in a simple cotton saree emerged, her face lighting up with joy.

"Rishuuu!" she called out.

"Nannamma!" Rishaan was out of the car in seconds, bending down to touch her feet before she pulled him into a tight hug.

Samaira got out more slowly, suddenly nervous.

Rishaan turned, his arm still around his grandmother's shoulders. "Nannamma, this is Samaira. Samaira, this is my Nannamma, Savitri."

Samaira moved forward and bent to touch the elderly woman's feet in a traditional greeting. "Namaste, Ammamma."

But Savitri caught her hands before she could complete the gesture. "No, no, none of that formal nonsense. Come here, child."

And then Samaira found herself pulled into a warm, tight hug that reminded her of her own grandmother.

"Look at you," Nannamma said, pulling back to examine Samaira's face with bright eyes. "Even more beautiful than I imagined. And those eyes—sharp, intelligent. I can see why my grandson is smitten."

"Nannamma!" Rishaan's face turned red.

"What? I'm old; I can say what I want." She said, laughing and took Samaira's hand. "Come inside. I've made coffee and snacks."

As they walked into the house, Ammamma called back over her shoulder, "Rishaan, bring the bags in. And your phone—I know you've been texting that Pune client all morning. Put it away. Today is for family."

"How did you—"

"I'm your grandmother. I know everything." She winked at Samaira. "He thinks he's so subtle, always checking his phone. Terrible habit."

Samaira grinned. "I've noticed that too."

"I'm standing right here," Rishaan protested.

"We know," both women said simultaneously, then looked at each other and laughed.

Inside, the house was simple but comfortable—traditional furniture, family photos covering one wall, the smell of incense and coffee filling the air. Nannamma led them to the living room and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a tray laden with coffee and snacks—murukku, mixture, and something that smelled like fresh banana chips.

"Sit, sit," she instructed. "Eat. You both look too thin."

"Nannamma, I was here three weeks ago—"

"Three weeks! In three weeks, you've lost weight. I can tell." She turned to Samaira. "This boy, he forgets to eat when he's working. Someone needs to remind him that bodies need food, not just coffee."

"I've been trying," Samaira said. "He's very stubborn."

"Stubborn! Exactly what I tell him!" Nannamma looked delighted. "See, Rishaan? Even she notices. Now you have two women telling you to eat properly—you have to listen."

Rishaan caught Samaira's eye, and she could see him fighting a smile. "I'm being tag-teamed."

"You deserve it," Nannamma said firmly, handing him a plate. "Now eat these chips. I made them fresh this morning when you called to say you were bringing Samaira."

As they ate and drank coffee, Nannamma peppered Samaira with questions—about her work, her parents, her life in Italy. But unlike the intrusive questioning of strangers, this felt like genuine interest, like someone wanting to know her because she mattered to someone who mattered to them.

"Ferrari!" Nannamma said when Samaira explained her job. "That's very impressive. You must be incredibly intelligent."

"I work hard," Samaira said modestly.

"Hard work and intelligence are not mutually exclusive, child. Give yourself credit." Nannamma leaned forward. "But tell me—how is it? Living so far from home, working all the time, always moving from race to race?"

The question was so direct, so perceptive, that Samaira found herself answering honestly. "Sometimes very lonely."

"I thought so. I can see it in your eyes—the same look my grandson carries sometimes. Two people who've learned to be alone." Nannamma paused, studying them both. "But you seem less lonely when you're together. That's good."

There was a moment of comfortable silence, not heavy, just acknowledging something true.

Then Nannamma clapped her hands. "Enough serious talk for now! Samaira, you must be hungry after that drive. I'm making lunch—proper Andhra food. You'll stay, yes?"

"We'd love to," Rishaan said before Samaira could answer.

"Good. Samaira, come help me in the kitchen. Rishaan, you go check on the garden—the jasmine plants need pruning."

"But—"

"Go! I need girl talk time with Samaira."

Rishaan looked torn between amusement and concern, but he went.

Samaira followed Nannamma into a simple but well-organised kitchen. The older woman moved with practised efficiency, pulling out ingredients, lighting the stove.

"Can I help?" Samaira offered.

"Yes! You can start chopping these vegetables." Nannamma handed her a knife and pointed to the tomatoes and onions. "Tell me, child—do you know how to cook?"

"Basic things. My mother taught me traditional dishes, but I'm rusty. In Italy, I mostly eat out or make simple meals."

"We'll fix that today. I'm teaching you gongura mutton curry and dosakaya pappu—Rishaan's favourites. Every woman should know how to cook her... special person's favourite foods."

Samaira caught the careful phrasing and smiled. "We're not—we're just—"

"Just figuring things out?" Nannamma supplied, chopping onions with impressive speed. "That's wise. No need to rush. But I see how you look at each other, how comfortable you are together. That's rare, child. Don't dismiss it just because you're being careful."

"I've been hurt before," Samaira admitted quietly, surprising herself. "By someone whose family thought I wasn't good enough. It makes me... cautious."

Nannamma set down her knife and looked at Samaira directly. "Let me tell you something about my grandson. His parents are wealthy, successful people who care more about social status than actual character. They've hurt him too, in different ways—by making him feel like he's only valuable for what he can contribute to their business legacy."

"He told me a little about that."

"Then you understand why I'm protective. That boy has been hurt by people who should have loved him unconditionally. He's learned to keep his heart guarded." Ammamma picked up her knife again, returning to her chopping. "But he's letting you in. I can see it. And that means something."

"What if I hurt him? What if this doesn't work out?"

"What if the sun doesn't rise tomorrow? What if the rain doesn't fall?" Nannamma shrugged. "Life has no guarantees, child. But I can tell you this—my grandson doesn't let people in easily. If he's opening his heart to you, it's because he sees something worth the risk. The question is, do you?"

Samaira thought about the past few days—the gym sessions, the conversations, the way Rishaan looked at her like she was extraordinary. "Yes," she said softly. "I do see something worth the risk."

"Good. Now, let me teach you about tempering spices properly. This is the secret to good Andhra cooking..."

For the next hour, Samaira learned traditional recipes while Nannamma told stories—not heavy, emotional stories, but funny anecdotes about Rishaan growing up. His attempt to "help" in the kitchen at age eight ended with a smoke alarm and banned him from cooking for a year. His phase of being obsessed with cricket and practising with a ball inside the house until he broke three windows. His habit of naming inanimate objects and having full conversations with them.

"He named your pressure cooker?" Samaira laughed.

"Priscilla. He was eleven and very serious about it. Used to greet her every morning." Ammamma was laughing too. "He was such a creative, sensitive child. Still is, really. He just hides it better now."

"I can see that about him. The sensitive part, I mean."

"Good. Not everyone does. Some people only see the successful businessman. But you see the person underneath. That's why he likes you."

When Rishaan returned from the garden, he found them both laughing, and his expression shifted to suspicious. "What are you telling her?"

"Nothing!" Nannamma said innocently. "Just that you used to name household appliances."

"Nannamma!"

"Priscilla sends her regards," Samaira added, grinning.

Rishaan groaned. "I was eleven. Can we please let that die?"

"Never," both women said in unison.

"You two are dangerous together."

"We know," Nannamma said cheerfully. "Now make yourself useful and stir this curry. Gently! Don't splash."

The three of them worked together in the kitchen for the next thirty minutes—Ammamma directing, Rishaan following orders (and getting scolded for stirring wrong twice), Samaira learning and laughing. It was domestic and comfortable, and Samaira realised this was what family felt like. Not just blood relations, but people who cared about each other, who worked together, who made each other laugh.

Lunch was ready by 1 PM—a feast of rice, sambar, gongura mutton curry, dosakaya pappu, and papad. They sat on the floor in traditional style, and Samaira was reminded of meals at her own grandmother's house years ago.

"This is incredible," she said after her first bite of the mutton curry. "Ammamma, you're an amazing cook."

"I'll write down the recipe for you," Nannamma said. "That way you can make it whenever you want."

"Thank you. My mother will be thrilled—she's always looking for new recipes to try."

"Your mother sounds like a good woman. I'd like to meet her."

"She'd like to meet you, too. She's actually... she and my father are coming to Anvitha's village for the ceremonies. They'll be there tomorrow."

"Wonderful! Then we'll meet them tomorrow." Nannamma looked genuinely pleased. "I always learn so much about my grandson's friends by meeting their families."

After lunch, Ammamma insisted they rest for a bit—"too hot to do anything in the afternoon"—and set them up in the living room with the fan on high.

She disappeared into her bedroom for her own afternoon nap, calling out, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do! Though at my age, I wouldn't do much, so you have plenty of options!" before closing the door.

"She's impossible," Rishaan said, but his voice was full of affection.

"She's wonderful," Samaira corrected. "I can see why you love her so much."

They were sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, a careful distance between them, but somehow it felt more intimate than being pressed together.

"What did she say to you in the kitchen?" Rishaan asked. "She had you alone for a while."

"She told me about Priscilla, the pressure cooker and your cricket phase. Very enlightening."

"That's not all she said."

"No," Samaira admitted. "She also said that you don't let people in easily. That if you're opening up to me, it means something."

"She's right."

"I know." Samaira looked at him across the sofa. "I don't let people in easily either. So this—whatever this is—it's significant for both of us."

"It is."

"That doesn't scare you?"

"Terrifies me. But I'm doing it anyway." He smiled slightly. "You're worth being terrified for."

"So are you."

They sat in the comfortable silence, listening to the fan whir and the distant sounds of the village outside—children playing, someone's radio, the call of a street vendor.

Eventually, Samaira moved closer, settling next to him naturally. His arm came around her shoulders, and she leaned into his side, fitting perfectly against him.

"This is nice," she said softly.

"It really is."

They stayed like that for a long time—not talking, just being together, comfortable in the silence and each other's presence.

Nannamma emerged from her nap with an announcement: "I'm coming with you to Anvitha's village today."

"Nannamma, you don't have to—" Rishaan started.

"Don't have to? Of course, I don't have to. I want to. How often do I get to attend wedding celebrations? Plus, I want to meet your friends properly, see Anvitha, who's getting married, and make sure you're eating properly at all the functions."

"I'll make sure he eats," Samaira offered.

"See? She understands. This is why I like her." Ammamma patted Samaira's cheek affectionately. "Rishaan, go pack my bag. Blue saree, the good jewellery, my comfortable sandals."

"Yes, Nannamma."

While Rishaan packed his grandmother's things, Samaira helped Nannamma in the kitchen, packing food for the journey—more murukku, some ladoos, bananas, and a container of the leftover mutton curry "for later, when everyone's hungry."

"You're good in the kitchen," Nannamma observed. "Not all young people know how to cook anymore."

"My mother taught me. She said even if I became successful, I should never forget basic life skills."

"Smart woman, your mother. I look forward to meeting her tomorrow."

By 5 PM, they were packed and ready to leave. Nannamma locked up her house, and Rishaan helped her into the back seat of the Ferrari, making sure she was comfortable, adjusting the air conditioning, fussing over her.

"Rishaan, I'm old, not fragile. Stop treating me like I'll break."

"You're precious to me. I'm allowed to fuss."

"He's such a good boy," Nannamma told Samaira as they pulled away from the village. "Very caring. He'll make someone a wonderful husband someday."

"Nannamma!" Rishaan protested from the driver's seat.

"What? I'm just stating facts."

The drive to Anvitha and Ahaan's villages took about forty minutes. Nannamma sat in the back seat, asking Samaira questions about Formula 1, about life in Italy, about what it was like being a woman in such a male-dominated field.

"It's challenging," Samaira admitted, turning slightly in her seat to face Nannamma. "There are still people who assume I'm someone's assistant, not the principal engineer. But Ferrari has been good to me. They judge me on my work, not my gender."

"And your work is excellent," Nannamma said firmly. "I may not understand all the technical things, but I can tell when someone is passionate about their job. You glow when you talk about it."

"It's been my whole life for so long."

"Maybe too much of your life?" Nannamma said gently. "There's more to living than working, child. Even work you love."

Samaira glanced at Rishaan, who was focusing on the road but clearly listening.

"I'm starting to see that," she said softly.

They arrived at Anvitha's village just as the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The village was larger than Nannamma's—more houses, wider streets, but still undeniably rural and traditional.

Anvitha's family home was a beautiful two-story structure with a large courtyard, already decorated with lights and flowers for tomorrow's ceremonies. Several cars were parked outside—the others had arrived.

The moment they pulled up, Anvitha came running out, followed by Meher.

"You're here! Finally!" Anvitha called. "We've been waiting— oh, you brought someone!"

Rishaan helped Nannamma out of the car.

"Namaste, Nannamma," both girls said, immediately bending to touch her feet in respect.

"Beautiful girls," Nannamma said. She looked at Anvitha. "You're glowing, child. Marriage suits you already, even before the ceremonies."

"Thank you, Nannamma. Please, come inside—you must be tired from the journey."

As they moved toward the house, Veer and Ahaan appeared, and they greeted Nannamma. Nannamma greeted each of them warmly, but Samaira noticed the older woman's sharp eyes taking in all the dynamics—who stood next to whom, how people interacted, the easy affection of the established couples.

Inside, Anvitha's parents and Ahaan's parents welcomed them. More introductions, more warm welcomes, more touching of feet and respectful greetings.

"Pedhamma garu, you'll stay with us, of course," Anvitha's mother insisted. "We have plenty of room."

"Thank you, that's very kind. I don't want to impose—"

"Nonsense! Any grandmother of Rishaan's is family. We've heard so much about you from him over the years."

As everyone settled in the living room, catching up and discussing tomorrow's ceremony schedule, Meher sidled up to Samaira with a knowing smile.

"So," she said quietly. "You spent the entire day with Rishaan. At his grandmother's village. Meeting his grandmother."

"We were on the way anyway," Samaira said.

"Uh-huh. And the fact that you're glowing like you've discovered some secret of the universe? That's just a coincidence?"

"I'm not glowing."

"You absolutely are. I've known you for thirteen years, Sam. I know what your 'I had a really good day with someone I really like' face looks like."

Before Samaira could respond, Anvitha joined them, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Girl talk time," she announced. "Meher, grab Sam. We're going to my room. Now."

"I should help with—"

"The mothers have it handled. Come on."

Samaira found herself herded upstairs to Anvitha's childhood bedroom, which was exactly as she'd expected—photos everywhere, old school awards on the walls, a comfortable chaos of someone who'd left for the city but whose room remained frozen in adolescence.

The moment the door closed, both Anvitha and Meher turned to her with identical expressions of excited curiosity.

"Okay, spill," Anvitha demanded, sitting on the bed. "Everything. You left this morning to work out with Rishaan, and you show up twelve hours later, having spent the entire day at his grandmother's village, looking like you just had the best day of your life. We want details."

"There's not much to tell—"

"Liar," Meher said cheerfully, settling next to Anvitha. "You're terrible at lying, Sam. Always have been."

Samaira sighed and sat in the desk chair. "Fine. We went to his grandmother's village. She's amazing—warm, funny, sharp as anything. She made us lunch, told embarrassing stories about Rishaan, and taught me to cook his favourite dishes."

"She taught you to cook for him?" Anvitha's eyes widened. "Sam, that's huge. Indian grandmothers don't teach just anyone their family recipes."

"It was just cooking—"

"It wasn't just cooking, and you know it," Meher interrupted. "That's her way of approving you, of welcoming you into the family. What else happened?"

Samaira told them about the day—the comfortable domesticity of cooking together, Nannamma's stories, the easy way she and Rishaan worked together, the comfortable silence during the afternoon rest.

"You napped together?" Anvitha asked.

"We didn't nap! We just sat together while Nannamma napped. Talking. And then not talking. It was comfortable."

"Comfortable," Meher repeated with a knowing smile. "That's actually more intimate than grand romantic gestures. Comfortable silence means you're compatible."

"We're just—"

"Just figuring things out," Anvitha finished. "We know. But Sam, you're smiling more than I've seen in years. You're lighter. Whatever's happening with Rishaan, it's good for you."

"I know. I just..." Samaira paused, trying to find words. "I leave in nine days. My whole life is in Italy. How do I let myself fall for someone when I know I have to leave?"

"Maybe you don't worry about that right now," Meher said gently. "Maybe you just enjoy what you have while you have it, and trust that if it's meant to work out, you'll figure out the logistics."

"That's very optimistic."

"That's very realistic. You're an engineer who solves impossible problems for a living. If you want this to work with Rishaan, you'll find a way."

There was a knock on the door, and Anvitha's mother poked her head in. "Girls, dinner is ready. Come downstairs."

As they headed down, Anvitha linked her arm through Samaira's. "For what it's worth, I think you and Rishaan are really good together. Everyone can see it. And his grandmother clearly adores you."

"She does seem to like me."

"She more than likes you. She looks at you the way my mother looks at Ahaan—like you're already family."

Downstairs, everyone was gathering in the dining area. Nannamma had already made herself at home, chatting with Anvitha's mother about tomorrow's ceremony preparations. Rishaan was with the men, discussing something about cricket, but his eyes found Samaira's the moment she entered the room.

He smiled, that soft, genuine smile that was becoming increasingly familiar, and gestured to the empty seat next to him.

Samaira sat, and under the table, his hand found hers, squeezing gently.

"You okay?" he murmured.

"More than okay," she whispered back.

Dinner was a lively affair—multiple conversations happening simultaneously, laughter, stories being shared, plans being made for tomorrow's ceremonies. Nannamma entertained everyone with her wit and warmth, and Samaira's friends made sure to include her in everything, making her feel welcome and cherished.

At one point, Anvitha's mother mentioned, "Samaira, I called your parents earlier. They confirmed they're coming tomorrow morning for the ceremonies."

Samaira nodded. "Yes, my mother texted me. They're driving up from our home tomorrow early."

"Wonderful! It will be so nice to have them here." Anvitha's mother smiled warmly. "And Peddamma garu, you'll finally get to meet them. I'm sure you'll all get along beautifully."

"I look forward to it," Ammamma said. "I've heard lovely things about them from Samaira."

After dinner, Anvitha's mother showed everyone to their rooms. "The girls will stay in the main house—Anvitha, Samaira and Meher in one room, and Ammamma in the guest room. The boys will stay at Ahaan's house next door—just through that connecting path. Close enough but proper."

"Perfect," everyone agreed.

As people began dispersing to settle in, Rishaan caught Samaira's hand gently. "Walk me out? I need to grab a bag from the car."

They stepped outside into the cool evening air. The sky was dark now, scattered with stars, and the village was quiet except for distant voices and music from somewhere nearby.

"Today was really nice," Rishaan said as they walked to the car. "Thank you for coming with me to meet Nannamma. For spending the day with us."

"Thank you for inviting me. Your grandmother is wonderful. I can see why you love her so much."

"She loves you, too. She told me in the kitchen before we left—said you're 'exactly the kind of person' I need in my life. Her exact words."

"Did she?" Samaira felt her cheeks warm.

"She did." He leaned against the car, pulling Samaira closer. "She's usually very picky about the people I spend time with. But with you, she didn't have a single concern. That's rare."

"Maybe I charmed her with my cooking skills."

"Maybe. Or maybe she just sees what I see—someone extraordinary."

They stood close, his hands resting lightly on her waist, hers on his arms, and the moment felt significant and comfortable all at once.

"Tomorrow's going to be chaotic," Rishaan said. "Ceremonies and my parents, your family, everyone together."

"Will your parents be here?"

"No, thank God. They're too busy with business. But my Nannamma will be here, and that's all that matters to me."

"Your parents don't come to your friends' weddings?"

"They don't come to anything that doesn't directly benefit the business." He shrugged, but she could see the old hurt in his eyes. "I stopped expecting them to show up years ago."

Samaira reached up and cupped his face gently. "Their loss. You're incredible, and they're missing out on knowing the real you."

"You keep saying things like that, and I'm going to start believing those words."

"Good. You should believe them."

He leaned his forehead against hers, and they stood like that for a long moment—just breathing together, being close, finding comfort in each other's presence.

"I should let you go," Rishaan said eventually. "Big day tomorrow. You need rest."

"So do you."

"I know. But I'm going to stand here for another minute because I don't actually want to leave."

Samaira laughed softly. "Okay. One more minute."

They took their minute, and then another, before finally, reluctantly separating.

"Good night, Samaira."

"Good night, Rishaan."

She watched him walk toward Ahaan's house before heading back inside, where she found Nannamma waiting in the living room with a knowing smile.

"That's a good boy," Nannamma said simply. "Don't let him slip away."

"I'm not planning to," Samaira said, surprising herself with the certainty in her voice.

"Good. Now go to bed. Tomorrow is a big day, and you'll need your energy for all the ceremonies and meeting your parents and dealing with nosy aunties who will definitely ask intrusive questions about your relationship status."

"Looking forward to it," Samaira said dryly.

"You should be. It means people care." Nannamma patted her cheek. "Sleep well, child. I'm glad my grandson brought you into our lives."

"I'm glad he did too."

Upstairs, already Meher and Anvitha in bed, Samaira got ready for bed, her mind replaying the day—the cooking lessons, Nannamma's stories, the comfortable afternoon with Rishaan, the easy integration into his family and friends.

Her phone buzzed with a text.

Rishaan: Thank you for today. For meeting my Nannamma, for cooking with us, for just... being you. Today was perfect.

Samaira: It really was. Your grandmother is special. I can see where you get your kindness from.

Rishaan: She asked me tonight if I'm falling for you. I told her I've already fallen. Just thought you should know.

Samaira stared at the text, her heart racing. He'd said it. Out loud, to his grandmother. No hedging, no "figuring things out," just a simple statement of fact.

Samaira: What did she say?

Rishaan: She said, "Finally, the boy shows some sense. Don't mess it up." So, you know, no pressure.

Samaira: No pressure at all. 😊

Rishaan: Sleep well, Samaira. Dream of race cars and village kitchens and grandmothers who plan weddings after one meeting.

Samaira: That's oddly specific. Good night, Rishaan.

Rishaan: Good night.

She fell asleep with a smile on her face, thinking about tomorrow—about meeting her parents, about ceremonies and celebrations, about a man who'd already fallen and wasn't afraid to admit it.

And for the first time in years, she let herself fall too.

Morning - 6:30 AM

Samaira's POV:

Samaira woke to the sound of activity downstairs—voices, clattering pots, the smell of coffee and incense drifting up through the old house. For a moment, she was disoriented, forgetting where she was. Then it all came back—Anvitha's village, yesterday with Rishaan and his grandmother, the text he'd sent before she fell asleep.

I've already fallen.

She checked her phone. 6:30 AM. No new messages from Rishaan, but there was one from her mother, sent ten minutes ago.

Amma: Good morning, Chinni! Your nanna and I are leaving now. Should reach by 9 AM. Can't wait to see you! 💕

Samaira sat up in bed, suddenly nervous. Her parents were coming today. They'd meet Rishaan properly, meet his grandmother, and see them together. There would be no hiding whatever this was between them—her mother had radar for these things.

She quickly typed back.

Samaira: Drive safely, Amma. See you soon. 💕

After a quick shower, Samaira stood in front of her bag, considering her outfit options. Today was the Ganesh puja and pasupu danchadam ceremony—important, traditional. She pulled out a beautiful cotton saree in soft coral with gold border work. The matching blouse was simple but elegant, with just enough embroidery to be appropriate for the ceremonies.

As she draped the saree—taking extra care to get the pleats perfect—there was a knock on her door.

"Come in," she called.

Meher entered, already dressed in a lovely yellow kurta set. "Morning! Ready for the big day? Ceremonies, your parents meeting Rishaan, Ammamma and your mother probably planning your wedding by lunchtime?"

"Don't remind me. I'm already nervous."

"Why? Your parents are going to love him. He's successful, respectful, clearly adores you—what's not to love?"

"It's not that simple. You know how my parents are—they're supportive, but they're also protective. They remember what happened with Karthik, how his family treated me. They're going to be cautious about anyone I'm interested in."

"Are you? Interested in Rishaan?"

Samaira paused in adjusting her pallu. "He told his grandmother last night that he's already fallen for me."

Meher's eyes widened. "He said that? Out loud?"

"Apparently. He texted me after."

"And? How do you feel about it?"

"Terrified. Excited. Like I'm standing on the edge of something huge, and I don't know if I'm ready to jump."

"But you want to jump," Meher said knowingly.

"Yeah," Samaira admitted quietly. "I really do."

Before Meher could respond, Anvitha burst into the room, already dressed in a stunning red and gold saree.

"There you are! We need to go downstairs—the priest is here to set up for the puja, and Amma needs help arranging the flowers." She paused, taking in Samaira's saree. "You look beautiful, by the way. That colour is perfect on you."

"Thanks. You look gorgeous."

"I'm getting married in three weeks. I'm supposed to look gorgeous." Anvitha grinned. "Now come on. The puja starts at 8, and we have a thousand things to do before then."

Downstairs, the house was a hive of organised chaos. Anvitha's mother and aunts were arranging puja items in the courtyard—flowers, fruits, incense, and a small decorated altar for Lord Ganesh. Nannamma was already there, dressed in a beautiful blue saree, her grey hair neatly plaited and adorned with jasmine flowers, directing the younger women with the confidence of someone who'd organised hundreds of such ceremonies.

"Samaira!" Nannamma called when she spotted her. "Come here, child. You can help me arrange these flowers. These girls keep making them lopsided."

"They're not lopsided, Nannamma," one of Anvitha's cousins protested good-naturedly.

"They're definitely lopsided. Samaira has an engineer's eye—she'll make them symmetrical."

For the next half hour, Samaira helped with preparations, very aware of Nannamma watching her with an approving smile, very aware that this felt significant—being included in these intimate family preparations, being trusted with important tasks.

"You're a natural at this," Nannamma said quietly as they worked side by side. "Some people are uncomfortable with traditional ceremonies, but you move through them as you belong."

"My grandmother used to include me in pujas when I was young, before she passed away. I learned from her."

"She taught you well." Nannamma paused. "Rishaan told me last night that he told you how he feels. About falling for you."

Samaira felt her cheeks warm. "He did."

"And? Did that scare you away?"

"It should probably scare me more than it does."

"But it doesn't?"

"No," Samaira admitted. "It doesn't."

Nannamma smiled, satisfied. "Good. That boy has been hurt enough by people who couldn't see his value. He deserves someone who sees him clearly and stays anyway."

"I see him," Samaira said softly. "More clearly than I've seen anyone in a long time."

"Then that's all that matters."

8:00 AM - Ganesh Puja

The puja began precisely at 8 AM. The priest, an elderly man with a kind face and a voice trained for decades of chanting, led them through the traditional prayers. The courtyard filled with the scent of incense and flowers, the rhythmic sound of Sanskrit verses, the soft clanging of bells.

Samaira stood with the other women, Nannamma on one side and Meher on the other. Across the courtyard, she could see the men gathered—Ahaan with his father and uncles, Veer standing respectfully, and Rishaan.

Rishaan, who looked unfairly handsome in a cream kurta-pyjama with subtle gold embroidery, his hair neatly styled, his attention focused on the puja but occasionally glancing her way with soft eyes.

Every time their eyes met, Samaira felt that familiar flutter in her chest.

The puja was beautiful—prayers for Anvitha and Ahaan's upcoming marriage, for prosperity and happiness, for blessings from Lord Ganesh to remove obstacles from their path. Everyone participated, offering flowers to the deity, receiving blessings from the priest, and the whole community coming together in celebration.

When the puja concluded with the final aarti—the circling of oil lamps and singing of prayers—Samaira felt that same sense of belonging she'd experienced during the cooking with Nannamma yesterday. This tradition, this community, these rituals that connected her to her roots and her heritage.

In Italy, she'd lost this. Working constantly, living alone, no time for anything beyond racing circuits and factory meetings. She hadn't realised how much she'd been missing until now.

As everyone was moving from the courtyard to the dining area for breakfast, there was a commotion at the entrance—new voices, greetings, and then:

"Chinni!"

Samaira turned to see her parents entering through the main door—her mother in a beautiful green saree, her father in a simple white kurta-pyjama. Her mother's eyes lit up when she spotted Samaira, and she immediately crossed the space with arms open.

"Amma!" Samaira found herself enveloped in a tight hug, breathing in her mother's familiar jasmine perfume.

"Let me look at you," her mother said, pulling back. "Oh, you look wonderful! That saree is beautiful on you. And you're glowing—village life agrees with you."

"Thanks, Amma." Samaira hugged her father next. "Hi, Nanna."

"Hello, Bangaram," her father said warmly. "You look happy. Really happy."

Before Samaira could respond, Anvitha's mother appeared to greet them.

"Lakshmi! Vamshi! So glad you could make it!" There were more hugs, more warm welcomes. "Come, come inside. You must be tired from the drive. We just finished the morning puja, and breakfast is ready."

"We're not too late, are we?" Samaira's mother asked.

"Perfect timing. The main ceremonies are this afternoon—the pasupu danchadam. This morning was just the Ganesh puja for blessings."

As her parents were being welcomed, Samaira noticed her mother's eyes scanning the courtyard, clearly looking for something—or someone.

Then Nannamma appeared, and Anvitha quickly made introductions.

"Aunty, Uncle, this is Savitri Nannamma, Rishaan's grandmother. Nannamma, these are Samaira's parents—Vamshi and Lakshmi."

"Namaste andi," Samaira's parents said in unison, both moving to touch her feet in respect.

But Nannamma stopped them with a gentle gesture. "No, no, none of that formality between us. We're equals here." She smiled warmly. "I've heard so much about you both from Samaira. It's wonderful to finally meet you."

"The pleasure is ours," Samaira's father said. "Samaira mentioned she spent yesterday at your village. She spoke very highly of you."

"She's too kind. But yes, we had a lovely day together—she helped me cook, learned some family recipes. Very capable in the kitchen, your daughter. You've raised her well."

"Thank you," Samaira's mother said, her expression softening. "We're very proud of her. Though I worry she works too much and doesn't take enough time for herself."

"I worry about the same with my grandson," Nannamma said with a knowing look. "These young people, always so focused on their careers that they forget about living. Maybe they need people in their lives who remind them to slow down."

"Maybe they do," Samaira's mother agreed, and Samaira watched with mild alarm as the two women exchanged a look of perfect understanding.

"Where is Rishaan?" Anvitha's mother asked, looking around.

"He went with Ahaan and Veer to pick up some items from the temple," Ahaan's father said. "They'll be back in a few minutes."

"Good, good. In the meantime, let's have breakfast. Everyone must be hungry."

Breakfast

Breakfast was served in the large dining area—idlis, vadas, dosas, chutneys, sambar, and strong filter coffee. Everyone settled on mats on the floor in traditional style, and Samaira found herself sitting between her mother and Nannamma, which felt like being placed between two generals plotting a joint campaign.

"So, pinni garu," her mother began conversationally, "how long have you lived in your village?"

"About five years now. I moved back after my husband passed away—wanted the peace of village life after decades in Hyderabad."

"That must be lovely. Do you get lonely, though? Away from family?"

"My grandson visits regularly. Calls every day, sometimes multiple times. He's very attentive." Nannamma smiled. "Though recently, he's been even more cheerful than usual. I wonder why."

Samaira's mother smiled back. "I've noticed Samaira seems happier, too. More grounded. She's been in India for less than a week, but already she seems more like her old self—before she moved to Italy and became so serious all the time."

"Italy is very far from home," Nannamma observed.

"It is. We miss her terribly. But we're proud of what she's accomplished—principal engineer at Ferrari! That's quite an achievement."

"It certainly is. My grandson is very impressed by her work. He talks about it often—how intelligent she is, how dedicated, how she's at the top of her field." Nannamma paused meaningfully. "He talks about her quite a lot, actually."

"Does he? That's interesting. Samaira talks about him quite a lot, too."

"Does she?" Ammamma looked delighted.

"Oh yes. 'Rishaan said this,' 'Rishaan did that,' 'Rishaan thinks'—we've heard his name more in the past few days than we've heard any name in years."

"Amma," Samaira said, mortified. "Can we not—"

"Shh, adults are talking," her mother said, but she was smiling. "So, Pinni garu, tell me about your grandson. What kind of boy is he?"

"The best kind. Kind, respectful, hardworking. He runs two businesses—his family's textile export company and his own technology startup. Very successful, but more importantly, very good-hearted. He takes care of me, visits regularly, calls constantly to make sure I'm eating and comfortable."

"He sounds wonderful," Samaira's father said, joining the conversation. "What about his family? His parents?"

Nannamma's expression shifted slightly, becoming more guarded. "His parents are... focused on their business. Successful people, but not very warm. I raised Rishaan, really. He lived with me more than with them growing up."

"That must have been difficult for him," Samaira's mother said sympathetically.

"It was. The boy craved affection, attention, validation—things his parents were too busy to give. But he turned out well despite that. Maybe because of it—he knows what it feels like to be overlooked, so he makes sure others feel seen and valued." Nannamma looked directly at Samaira. "He has a gift for making people feel important."

"I've noticed," Samaira said softly.

Her mother caught the look on her face and smiled knowingly, but mercifully didn't comment.

They were just finishing breakfast when voices announced the return of the men. Rishaan entered with Ahaan and Veer, laughing at something Veer had said, carrying bags of what looked like additional puja supplies.

Then he looked up, saw Samaira's parents, and his expression shifted to nervous determination.

He handed the bags to Veer, straightened his kurta, and walked directly over to where they were sitting.

Samaira introduced him to her parents, Nanna and Amma. This is Rishaan, and these are my parents, Vamshi and Lakshmi.

"Uncle, Aunty," he said respectfully, his voice steady despite the nerves Samaira could see in his eyes. "I'm Rishaan Chowdary. It's wonderful to finally meet you both properly."

Samaira's father stood, and for a moment, Samaira held her breath. Her father could be intimidating when he wanted to be—protective of his only daughter, cautious after what had happened with Karthik's family.

Then her father smiled and extended his hand. "Rishaan. We've heard a lot about you. Please, sit. Join us."

Rishaan shook his hand, relief evident on his face, and sat down on the mat next to Samaira's father. Her mother handed him a plate of food with a warm smile.

"Eat, eat. You must be hungry after your errand."

"Thank you, Aunty."

"Samaira tells us you run two businesses?" her father asked, his tone conversational but assessing.

"Yes, sir. My family has a textile export business that I help manage, and I also started my own technology consultancy about five years ago—we help traditional manufacturing companies modernise their operations without losing their core expertise."

"That's impressive. Starting your own business takes courage, especially while also managing family responsibilities."

"It does. But I wanted to build something that was mine, something I could be proud of, independent of my family name." Rishaan glanced at Samaira briefly. "I believe in proving yourself through your own merit, not just inherited success."

Samaira's father nodded approvingly. "That's a good philosophy. Too many young people rely on their family connections without putting in the work."

"Vamshi worked his way up from entry-level positions," Samaira's mother explained to Rishaan. "We both did—corporate jobs, middle-class backgrounds, no family connections to help us. We built everything through hard work."

"That's admirable," Rishaan said sincerely. "And you raised an extraordinary daughter. Samaira's achievements at Ferrari are incredible—principal engineer at her age, in that field. That's pure talent and dedication."

"We're very proud of her," her father said, his expression softening. "Though we do worry she works too hard and forgets to have a life outside the factory."

"I've noticed that too," Rishaan said, smiling slightly. "I keep trying to remind her that balance is important. Though I'm not one to talk—I'm terrible at work-life balance myself."

"That's what I keep telling him," Nannamma chimed in from across the circle. "These two are very similar—brilliant, driven, completely useless at taking care of themselves."

"Nannamma," Rishaan protested.

"It's true! If I don't remind you to eat, you'd survive on coffee alone. And Samaira is the same, from what I've observed."

"That's exactly what I tell her!" Samaira's mother exclaimed. "Chinni, you're terrible about regular meals when you're focused on work."

"I eat," Samaira defended herself.

"Coffee and whatever random snacks are available don't count as eating," both mother and grandmother said in unison, then looked at each other and laughed.

"Oh no," Veer muttered from where he was sitting with Ahaan. "The mothers are bonding. This is dangerous."

"Extremely dangerous," Ahaan agreed. "They're going to start planning things."

"They've already started," Meher said, watching the two women with amusement. "Look at them—they're already best friends."

Indeed, Samaira's mother and Nannamma had shifted closer together, deep in conversation about cooking and grandchildren and the importance of young people finding balance in their lives.

Meanwhile, Samaira's father was asking Rishaan about his startup—specific questions about technology, implementation, challenges, and successes. Rishaan answered thoughtfully, explaining his business model and his approach to helping traditional companies modernise.

Samaira watched them interact, feeling something tight in her chest loosen. Her father's questions weren't hostile or suspicious—they were genuinely interested. He was assessing Rishaan not as a potential threat but as an interesting person worth knowing.

"You've clearly thought this through carefully," her father said after Rishaan explained his methodology. "That's good. Too many startups chase trends without understanding the fundamentals. You seem to have a solid foundation."

"Thank you, sir. I try to build things that last, not just flashy things."

"That's wise." Her father paused, then added, "Samaira is the same way. She doesn't chase trends or shortcuts. She does things right, even when it's harder. I respect that about her."

"So do I," Rishaan said quietly, glancing at Samaira with that soft look that made her heart skip. "She's... she's remarkable."

Her father studied Rishaan for a moment, then smiled slightly. "Yes. She is."

Across the circle, Samaira's mother had somehow acquired Nannamma's phone and was looking at photos.

"Is this Rishaan as a child? Oh, he was adorable!"

"That's his school photo from when he was eight. Look at those ears—he hadn't grown into them yet."

"Nannamma!" Rishaan protested, his face red.

"What? You were cute! Still are, but in a different way." Ammamma turned to Samaira's mother. "Do you have childhood photos of Samaira? I'd love to see them."

"Oh, hundreds! Let me show you—" Samaira's mother pulled out her own phone, and the two women bent their heads together over the screen.

"This is going to be a long day," Samaira muttered to Meher.

"Look on the bright side—they like each other. That's good, right?"

"That's potentially dangerous. Who knows what they're planning?"

But despite her words, Samaira felt warmth spreading through her chest. Her parents were here, meeting Rishaan and his grandmother, integrating into this celebration, being welcomed and included. And more importantly, they seemed to genuinely like Rishaan—her father's questions were interesting rather than interrogating, her mother's smiles were warm and genuine.

This was what family was supposed to feel like—welcoming, accepting, celebrating connections rather than judging them.

10:30 AM - Preparation for Pasupu Danchadam

After breakfast, Anvitha's mother clapped her hands to get everyone's attention.

"Alright, everyone! The pasupu danchadam ceremony will begin at 11 AM. All the women, please come to the back area—we need to prepare the space and the turmeric. Men, you can help set up chairs for watching, but the actual ceremony is for us ladies only."

There was a flurry of movement as everyone dispersed to their assigned tasks. Samaira followed the other women to the backyard, where preparations were already underway.

The backyard had been transformed—a large grinding stone placed in the centre, fresh turmeric roots laid out on a banana leaf, their earthy smell mixing with jasmine and marigold flowers decorating the space. A ceremonial pole stood nearby, about six feet tall, waiting to be decorated with mango leaves and turmeric paste.

"This is beautiful," Samaira's mother said, taking in the setup.

"This is the heart of the wedding preparations," Anvitha's mother explained. "The pasupu danchadam—when we grind fresh turmeric to mark the official beginning of wedding festivities. The turmeric represents purity, prosperity, and auspiciousness."

"We did this for my wedding too," Samaira's mother said softly. "I remember the women of both families coming together, grinding the turmeric, singing songs. It's a beautiful tradition."

"It is," Nannamma agreed. "These old rituals connect us to our ancestors, to our heritage. Modern life moves so fast—it's good to slow down and honour the traditions that shaped us."

For the next twenty minutes, the women worked together preparing the space—arranging flowers, setting up the stone grinder properly, decorating the ceremonial pole with mango leaves and flowers. Samaira found herself working alongside Anvitha, Meher, her mother, Nannamma, and several aunts and cousins, all of them moving in practised synchrony.

"Are you nervous?" Samaira asked Anvitha quietly as they tied marigold garlands to the pole.

"About the wedding? No. About this ceremony? A little. It's so... formal. So significant. This is when it becomes real—not just planning and preparation, but actually beginning the journey toward marriage."

"You and Ahaan are ready for this."

"We are. I know we are. But it's still big, you know? Life-changing."

"All the best changes are a little scary."

Anvitha smiled. "When did you become so wise about relationships?"

"I don't know if I'm wise. But I'm learning that some things are worth being scared for."

"Like Rishaan?"

"Like Rishaan," Samaira admitted.

"Your parents seem to like him."

"They do. I can tell—my father is doing his 'genuinely interested' questioning, not his 'protective interrogation' questioning. And my mother is already bonding with his grandmother like they're old friends."

"That's good, right?"

"That's very good. And also terrifying, because it makes this feel real and possible, and I'm not sure I'm ready for real and possible."

"Why not?"

"Because real and possible means potentially having something to lose. And I've been alone for so long that losing someone again feels like more than I could handle."

Anvitha stopped what she was doing and turned to face Samaira fully. "Sam, listen to me. You're one of the bravest people I know. You moved to a foreign country alone at twenty-two. You built a career in a field that actively tried to exclude you. You've faced setbacks and discrimination and loneliness, and you kept going. You're capable of handling anything—including the possibility of loss. But more importantly, you're capable of handling the possibility of happiness. Don't deny yourself that just because you're scared."

Samaira felt tears prick her eyes. "When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise. You just never listened before." Anvitha hugged her tightly. "Now stop overthinking and just be present. Today is about celebration and tradition, and community. Let yourself enjoy it."

"I'll try."

"Good. Now help me finish decorating this pole before my mother decides we're doing it wrong."

11:00 AM - The Pasupu Danchadam Ceremony

By 11 AM, everything was ready. The women gathered around the prepared space—Anvitha at the centre with her mother, surrounded by Samaira, Meher, Nannamma, Samaira's mother, and all the female relatives from both families. The men had arranged chairs at a respectful distance, watching but not participating.

Samaira could see Rishaan sitting with Ahaan, Veer, and her father, all of them looking slightly out of place in this feminine ritual but respectfully attentive.

The priest began explaining the ceremony to those unfamiliar: "The pasupu danchadam is when we grind fresh turmeric to mark the official beginning of wedding festivities. This turmeric represents purity, prosperity, and auspiciousness. Each woman present will take a turn grinding the turmeric, blessing the bride with each stroke. After, we'll perform prayers and plant this ceremonial pole, creating a sacred space for the wedding ceremonies to come."

Anvitha's mother began the ceremony, standing by the stone with Anvitha. Together, they started grinding the turmeric roots, the rhythmic sound filling the quiet morning air. The golden paste slowly formed as they worked the stone grinder in practised motions.

Then the women began singing—traditional Telugu wedding songs that had been sung at ceremonies for generations. The melodies were simple but beautiful, full of hope and blessing and joy.

One by one, the women took their turns. When it was Nannamma's turn, she stood beside Anvitha and began grinding while singing an old folk song about blessings and prosperity. Her voice was surprisingly strong and clear, and the other women joined in, harmonising instinctively.

Samaira felt tears prick her eyes at the beauty of it—this ancient ritual, these women's voices united in celebration, the simple joy of community and tradition coming together.

When it was her mother's turn, Lakshmi stood beside Anvitha and said softly, "You're like another daughter to me, Anvitha. I'm so happy for you and Ahaan. May your marriage be filled with love and laughter."

"Thank you, Aunty," Anvitha said, tears in her own eyes.

Then it was Samaira's turn. She stood beside her best friend, took the stone grinder, and began the rhythmic motion of grinding the turmeric.

"Thank you for being here," Anvitha whispered. "For coming all the way from Italy for this. It means everything."

"Wouldn't miss it for anything," Samaira whispered back. "You're my sister, Anvitha. In all the ways that matter."

From across the yard, she caught Rishaan watching her with an expression so tender it made her chest ache. He was seeing this part of her—the part connected to tradition and heritage and family—and he looked like he was memorising every detail.

When all the women had taken their turns, the ground turmeric paste was collected in a ceremonial bowl. Anvitha's mother began the prayers, chanting Sanskrit verses asking for Lord Ganesh's blessings, for prosperity and happiness in the upcoming marriage, for the families to be united in joy.

Then came the pole planting. The wooden pole, decorated with mango leaves, flowers, and fresh turmeric paste, was carefully positioned in a hole that had been dug earlier. As Anvitha and her mother held the pole steady, the other women took turns adding soil around its base, packing it firmly, each handful accompanied by whispered blessings.

"This pole will stand throughout the wedding celebrations," Anvitha's mother explained. "It marks this space as sacred, blessed for the marriage ceremonies. After the wedding, we'll ceremoniously remove it, signifying the completion of the rituals."

When the pole was firmly planted, standing straight and proud with its decorations fluttering in the gentle breeze, everyone stepped back to admire the work. The women's hands were stained golden from the turmeric—a temporary mark of their participation in something sacred.

"Perfect," Anvitha's mother said, her eyes misty. "My baby is really getting married."

"Amma, don't cry," Anvitha said, but she was tearing up too.

"I'm allowed to cry. It's traditional."

The ceremony concluded with aarti—the circling of oil lamps around the pole and around Anvitha herself, blessing her for the journey ahead.

When the ceremony ended, there was a joyful chaos of hugs and congratulations. Ahaan was finally allowed to approach, and he went straight to Anvitha, taking her turmeric-stained hands in his without hesitation.

"You're beautiful," he said simply.

"I'm covered in turmeric and probably sweating in this saree."

"Still beautiful."

Samaira watched them with a soft smile, then felt a presence beside her.

"Your hands are gold," Rishaan observed quietly.

"Turmeric stains. It'll fade in a few days." She held them up, examining the golden tint. "It's kind of beautiful, actually. Like a temporary reminder of being part of something special."

"It is beautiful." But he wasn't looking at her hands; he was looking at her face. "You got emotional during the ceremony. I could see it from where I was sitting."

"It was beautiful. The tradition of it all, the way everyone came together for Anvitha. The songs, the blessings, the feeling of being connected to something bigger than just ourselves." She looked at him."

"You could have it," Rishaan said softly. "If you wanted."

Before Samaira could respond, her mother appeared with Nannamma, both women looking far too pleased with themselves.

"There you are!" her mother said. "Rishaan, your grandmother and I were just discussing— well, never mind that now. We're setting up for lunch, and we need strong young people to help move tables. You two can help, yes?"

"Of course, Aunty," Rishaan said.

As they walked toward the house, Nannamma and Samaira's mother fell into step behind them, and Samaira could hear their whispered conversation.

"They look good together, don't they?"

"Very good together. And did you see how he watched her during the ceremony? That boy is completely smitten."

"As he should be. Your daughter is wonderful."

"So is your grandson. I like him very much—respectful, intelligent, clearly cares about Samaira."

"They'd make beautiful grandchildren, don't you think?"

"Nannamma!" Rishaan called back, his ears red. "We can hear you!"

"I know!" Nannamma called back cheerfully. "That's the point!"

Samaira burst out laughing despite her embarrassment, and Rishaan shook his head, but he was smiling too.

"This is my life now," he muttered. "My grandmother and your mother were plotting our entire future before we'd even had a proper first date."

"Is that what this is? We're dating?"

"I mean, I've already told my grandmother I've fallen for you, you've met my family, your parents have met me—I think we've skipped a few traditional dating steps and jumped straight to the 'families are planning the wedding' phase."

"That's very presumptuous."

"Is it wrong?"

Samaira thought about it—about yesterday at his grandmother's village, about the comfortable domesticity of cooking together, about today watching him interact with her parents with respect and genuine interest, about the way he looked at her like she was extraordinary.

"No," she admitted. "It's not wrong."

"Good." He caught her hand briefly, squeezing gently despite the turmeric stains. "Then let's let them plot. We'll figure out our own path regardless of what they plan."

"Deal."

They reached the dining area where tables were indeed being set up for lunch, and Samaira found herself working alongside Rishaan, their families, their friends—all of them moving together in easy coordination, preparing for another meal, another celebration, another moment of connection and joy.

And for the first time in years, Samaira let herself imagine a future that included all of this—not just career success and professional achievement, but also community and tradition and family and love.

A future that included Rishaan.

It was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

But as she looked around at the people gathered here—her best friends preparing to marry, her parents bonding with Rishaan's grandmother, Rishaan himself smiling at her from across the room with so much affection in his eyes—she thought maybe, just maybe, it was worth the terror.

Afternoon - 1:30 PM

Samaira's POV:

The lunch after the pasupu danchadam ceremony had been a feast—rice, sambar, multiple curries, pappu, and endless rounds of everyone insisting everyone else eat more. Now, the entire group was sprawled across Anvitha's family living room in various states of food coma.

Samaira was sitting on the floor with her back against the sofa, her golden-stained hands resting on her knees. The turmeric from the ceremony had left everyone's hands a beautiful shade of gold, and despite multiple washings, the colour stubbornly remained.

"I look like I dipped my hands in liquid gold," Meher said, examining her palms with a mix of fascination and dismay. "How long does this last?"

"Three to four days usually," Anvitha's mother said from where she was sitting with Lakshmi and Nannamma. "It's considered auspicious. The bride keeps the stain until after the wedding."

"What about those of us who aren't getting married?" Veer asked, looking at his own stained hands with suspicion.

"You get to look fancy for a few days," Ahaan said. "Consider it a souvenir."

Rishaan was sitting across the room with Ahaan and Veer, but Samaira could feel his eyes on her. Every time she glanced up, she'd catch him looking, and he'd smile that soft smile that made her chest feel warm.

"You're going to board your flight to Italy with golden hands," Rishaan called from across the room, grinning. "Ferrari will think you've started a new career in turmeric farming."

"Or that I've discovered the secret to turning things into gold," Samaira shot back. "Maybe I should patent this."

"The Midas touch, but make it Telugu," Meher added, making everyone laugh.

One of Ahaan's younger cousins, a boy of about sixteen, was trying to take a group selfie. "Okay, everyone! Look here—"

The flash went off.

"Wait, Karthik blinked!"

"No, I didn't—"

"You definitely did. Again!"

Five attempts later, they still didn't have a good photo because someone was always blinking, making a face, or looking in the wrong direction.

"This is hopeless," Veer declared. "There are too many people."

"One more try," the cousin insisted. "Come on, everyone serious faces—"

Right as he pressed the button, Veer made an exaggerated duck face.

"VEER!"

"What? You said serious faces. I was serious about that face."

Anvitha's mother stood up, clapping her hands to get everyone's attention over the laughter and chaos.

"Alright, alright! All you young people sitting idle after eating so much! We need evening snacks prepared!"

Collective groaning rippled through the room.

"Aunty, we just ate," Veer protested.

"We'll need snacks for the evening," Lakshmi added, standing next to Anvitha's mother with a suspiciously pleased expression. "By 5 PM, everyone will be hungry again."

"We'll order something—" Ahaan started.

"Order?" Nannamma looked scandalised. "We have a kitchen full of ingredients and a house full of young people. No one is ordering anything. Everyone who participated in the ceremony must help cook!"

"Nannamma, that's everyone," Rishaan pointed out.

"Exactly! Up, up! To the kitchen!"

"This feels like punishment," Meher muttered, but she was already standing.

"This IS punishment," Samaira agreed quietly. "For eating too much at lunch."

Within minutes, the entire group—Samaira, Rishaan, Anvitha, Ahaan, Meher, Veer, and about five of Anvitha and Ahaan's cousins—found themselves herded into the kitchen area like reluctant soldiers being deployed to battle.

The mothers and Nannamma positioned themselves as supervisors, pulling out ingredients with practised efficiency.

"We need bondas, bajjis, mixture, and murukku," Anvitha's mother announced. "Lots of it, because more family will be visiting this evening."

"That's four different snacks!" one of the cousins protested.

"Yes, which is why we're dividing into teams," Lakshmi said, her eyes twinkling with mischief that made Samaira immediately suspicious.

Nannamma had a notepad and was actually making a list. "Team Bondas: Rishaan, Veer, Karthik, and Priya."

Rishaan looked at Samaira, clearly hoping they'd be on the same team.

"Team Bajjis," Nannamma continued, "Samaira, Meher, Anvitha, and Rahul."

"Of course," Rishaan muttered, and Samaira bit back a smile.

"Team Murukku: Ahaan, and the younger cousins—Diya, Arjun, and Lakki."

Ahaan looked panicked. "Wait, I've never made murukku in my life—"

"Then you'll learn!" Nannamma said cheerfully. "Team Mixture: everyone else."

"There are only two people left," someone pointed out.

"Perfect! Efficient team size. Now—" Nannamma clapped her hands, "—each team has one hour. We'll judge based on taste, presentation, and teamwork. The losing team has to do all the cleanup."

"This got competitive very fast," Meher observed.

"Oh, it's competitive," Lakshmi confirmed, pulling out actual paper and a pen. "I'll be keeping score."

"This is insane," Veer said, but he was grinning. "Alright, Team Bondas, let's destroy them."

"Team Bajjis will win," Samaira said confidently, her engineering brain already strategising.

"Big words from someone who just cooks occasionally," Rishaan teased.

"I learned from the best," Samaira said, gesturing to Lakshmi, who looked delighted.

"Flatterer! But I like it. Now go, all teams, to your stations!"

2:00 PM - The Chaos Begins

Team Bondas claimed the main stove. Rishaan immediately took charge, which surprised exactly no one.

"Okay, bonda batter is simple—Maida, rice flour, spices, water. How hard can this be?"

"Famous last words," Priya, one of Ahaan's cousins, muttered.

Veer was already measuring Maida into a bowl with absolutely no precision. "This looks like enough—"

"That's way too much," Karthik said.

"Is it though?"

"Yes!"

Meanwhile, at the Team Bajjis station, Samaira was approaching the task like an engineering problem.

"Okay, we need optimal batter consistency—not too thick or it won't coat evenly, not too thin or it'll slide off. We'll need precise vegetable slicing for even cooking—"

Meher stared at her. "Sam, this is cooking, not building a Formula 1 car."

"Precision is precision," Samaira said, undeterred. She was already organising their ingredients by category. "Anvitha, you slice vegetables. Meher, you make the batter. Rahul, you prep the oil. I'll handle quality control and frying."

"She's delegating like we're her pit crew," Rahul said, amused.

"Because we ARE her pit crew," Anvitha said, starting to slice onions. "And honestly? I'm here for organised Sam. Better than chaotic Sam, who panics."

"I don't panic—"

"You panicked when Ferrari called during breakfast."

"That was different!"

Across the kitchen, Team Bondas was having its first crisis.

"The batter is too thick," Rishaan said, poking it with a spoon. "It's not mixing properly."

"Add more water," Veer suggested.

"How much more water?"

"I don't know! Just... more?"

Rishaan added water. Then more water. Then—

"STOP!" Priya grabbed the jug. "Now it's too thin!"

"So add more flour—"

"We're going in circles!"

From her supervisor position, Nannamma called out, "Team Bondas! What's happening over there?"

"Nothing, Nannamma! Everything's fine!" Rishaan called back, frantically stirring the batter while Veer added more besan.

At Team Murukku, Ahaan was staring at the murukku press like it was a complicated legal document.

"How does this even work?" he muttered.

Diya, who was maybe thirteen, picked it up with confidence. "Like this, Anna. You fill it with dough, then press into the oil in circular motions—"

"That sounds complicated."

"It's not! Watch—" She demonstrated, and a perfect spiral of murukku dough emerged into the hot oil, sizzling beautifully.

"You made that look way too easy," Ahaan said suspiciously.

"Because it IS easy. Here, you try."

Ahaan took the press, filled it with dough, positioned it over the oil, and pressed.

Nothing happened.

He pressed harder.

Still nothing.

"You have to—" Diya started.

Ahaan pressed with all his strength, and suddenly the press unstuck. Dough shot out in a chaotic squiggle that looked nothing like a spiral.

"That's... abstract," Arjun said diplomatically.

"It looks like a crime scene," Lakki added.

"It looks like modern art," Ahaan corrected, defensive. "Intentionally avant-garde."

"Sure, Anna. Avant-garde."

Back at Team Bajjis, things were running with military efficiency.

"Onion slices ready," Anvitha reported.

"Potato and brinjal slices ready," Rahul added.

"Batter consistency perfect," Meher confirmed, dipping a test slice. "See? Coats evenly, not too thick."

Samaira examined the batter critically. "Add a pinch more salt. And just a little rice flour for extra crispiness."

"You've been cooking for two days and you're already an expert?" Meher teased.

"I'm an engineer. We optimise." Samaira started heating the oil, testing the temperature with a tiny drop of batter. "Perfect. We're ready to fry."

She began carefully placing battered vegetable slices into the oil, and they sizzled beautifully, turning golden almost immediately.

"These look perfect," Anvitha said, watching. "We might actually win this."

"We WILL win this," Samaira corrected.

From Team Bondas' station, there was a sudden commotion.

"Veer! You're making them too big!"

"What? These are normal-sized—"

"Those are cricket balls, not bondas!"

Samaira glanced over and bit back a laugh. Veer was indeed shaping massive bondas, each one roughly the size of a tennis ball.

Rishaan caught her looking, and their eyes met across the chaotic kitchen. He mouthed "help me" with an exaggerated, desperate expression.

She mouthed back, "You're on your own", and smirked.

He clutched his chest like he'd been shot, making her laugh out loud.

"Sam! Focus!" Meher called. "Your bajjis are going to burn if you keep flirting across the kitchen."

"I'm not—" Samaira quickly turned back to her frying, flipping the bajjis just in time. "I'm focused."

"Sure you are," Anvitha said knowingly.

At Team Bondas, they'd finally gotten their batter to an acceptable consistency and started frying. But new problems emerged immediately.

"They're falling apart!" Karthik said, watching a bonda disintegrate in the oil.

"Make them tighter," Rishaan instructed, demonstrating. "Compress the filling more—"

He shaped one carefully, placed it in the oil, and it held together perfectly.

"See? Like that."

"Show off," Veer muttered, attempting his own. It promptly fell apart.

"You didn't compress it enough—"

"I compressed it! It just hates me!"

Meanwhile, Rishaan kept getting distracted. His eyes would drift to Samaira's station, watching her work with such focused precision, the way she systematically turned each bajji at the exact right moment, how she'd pause to taste-test and adjust seasoning.

"Bro," Priya said, waving a hand in front of his face. "Your bondas are burning."

"What—!" Rishaan quickly flipped them, but they were already darker than intended. "Damn."

"Stop staring at your girlfriend and focus on the food," Veer said, not unkindly.

"She's not my—we're not—" Rishaan stammered, his ears turning red.

"Sure, sure. Just focus before Ammamma yells at us."

As if summoned, Nannamma appeared at their station. "What are these?" She picked up one of Veer's massive bondas. "Bondas or cricket balls?"

"They're... large bondas?" Veer offered weakly.

"They'll never cook evenly at this size. Make them smaller. And Rishaan—" she pointed at his slightly burnt ones, "—less staring at Samaira, more attention to your cooking."

"I wasn't staring—"

"Beta, I have eyes. Everyone has eyes. Cook now, stare later."

Rishaan's face was completely red as Nannamma walked away, and Veer and Karthik were dying with suppressed laughter.

"Don't," Rishaan warned them. "Not one word."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Veer said, grinning widely.

At Team Bajjis, they were on their second batch, and everything was going smoothly. Too smoothly.

"We need to increase production speed," Samaira said, arranging perfectly golden bajjis on the serving plate. "At this rate, we'll have the most output AND the best quality."

"Listen to yourself," Meher said, shaking her head fondly. "You're bringing production metrics into snack-making."

"Winning is winning."

"You're terrifyingly competitive," Rahul observed.

"Thank you," Samaira said, like it was a compliment.

Anvitha was slicing more vegetables, but she paused to check the thickness. "Is 3 millimetres okay?"

"3 millimetres is perfect for even cooking. Anything thinner crisps too fast, anything thicker stays raw in the middle."

"SAM. You're using millimetres to measure vegetable slices."

"Precision matters!"

"This is why you're single—ow!" Anvitha yelped as Samaira flicked batter at her. "That's assault!"

"That's justice."

They dissolved into giggles, but kept working.

Team Mixture, largely forgotten in all the chaos, was actually doing quite well. They'd been systematically roasting peanuts, frying different types of sev, preparing the spice mix—all without drama.

"Should we... make noise or something?" one of them asked. "Everyone forgot we exist."

"Let them forget," the other said wisely. "We'll finish first and win by default."

At Team Murukku, Ahaan was having a full crisis.

"I can't get the press to work consistently!" he said, frustrated. "It either doesn't come out or explodes out."

"You're pressing too hard, Anna," Diya said patiently. "Gentle, steady pressure."

"I'm a lawyer. I don't do gentle and steady. I am forceful and argumentative."

"That explains a lot," Anvitha called from her station, making Ahaan throw a wadded-up paper towel at her.

"Very mature!" she called back.

"I'll show you mature—"

"Ahaan!" His mother's voice rang out. "Stop throwing things and make murukku!"

"Yes, Amma," he said, chastened.

He tried again, this time with exaggerated gentleness. The dough emerged in a reasonable spiral shape.

"There! That's actually decent!"

"See? You can do it!" Diya encouraged.

"I can do it," Ahaan repeated, gaining confidence. "I'm doing it. I'm making murukku. I'm a murukku master—"

The press got stuck again, and he had to start over.

"I hate this," he muttered.

2:45 PM - Peak Chaos

Things started going wrong at multiple stations simultaneously.

At Team Bondas, Veer's phone rang. He answered it with his oil and batter-covered hands.

"Hello? Yeah, I'm— SHIT!"

The phone slipped from his greasy grip, and everyone watched in horror as it flew through the air in slow motion—

Rishaan caught it one-handed, inches from the floor.

"NICE CATCH!" Krithik yelled.

"Holy—" Veer clutched his chest. "That was my entire life flashing before my eyes."

"Your entire life is in your phone?" Priya asked.

"Yes! Photos, contacts, banking apps—everything!"

"You should really back up your data," Rishaan said, handing back the phone.

"I should really not answer calls with oily hands."

At Team Bajjis, Samaira was reaching for something on a high shelf when she felt someone behind her.

"Need help?" Rishaan's voice was quiet, close to her ear.

Before she could respond, he reached over her shoulder and easily grabbed the container of chilli powder she'd been stretching for.

They were standing very close. His chest was almost against her back, his arm extended above her, and for a moment, the noisy kitchen seemed to fade.

"You could have just asked," she said, not moving.

"Where's the fun in that?" He handed her the container, his fingers brushing hers.

"RISHAAN!" Veer's voice cut through the moment. "Your bondas are literally smoking!"

"What—!" Rishaan quickly returned to his station, leaving Samaira standing there with the chilli powder and an accelerated heartbeat.

"Smooth," Meher said, appearing next to her with a knowing smile. "Very smooth."

"Shut up and slice vegetables."

"Already done. I'm just here to observe the rom-com happening in the middle of our snack war."

"There's no rom-com—"

"Sam. He literally reached over you when he could have just handed you the container from the side. That's a classic rom-com move."

"You're reading too much into—"

"Your face is red."

"It's hot in here! We're frying!"

"Uh-huh."

A few minutes later, Rishaan was trying to check on something at Samaira's station—ostensibly to "borrow some besan" even though Team Bondas had their own.

Nannamma materialised like a ninja. "Rishaan Chowdary. Back to your station."

"I just need—"

"You need to focus on your own cooking. No sabotage, no fraternising with competing teams."

"I wasn't sabotaging—"

"Go!"

Rishaan retreated, but not before catching Samaira's eye and making her laugh.

From Team Bajjis, they started a chant: "Bajji! Bajji! Bajji!"

Team Bondas immediately retaliated: "Bonda! Bonda! Bonda!"

"This is ridiculous," Lakshmi said to Nannamma, but both women were smiling.

"Let them have fun," Nannamma said. "They'll remember this day."

Meanwhile, at Team Murukku, one of the younger cousins had pointed out something to Ahaan.

"Anna... you have batter on your face."

"What? Where?" He touched his cheek.

"Other side."

He touched the other cheek.

"No, your forehead."

"My forehead? How did I get a batter on my forehead?"

"No idea, but it's been there for like twenty minutes."

"TWENTY MINUTES?! And no one told me?!"

"We thought you knew!"

Ahaan looked at his reflection in a spoon and groaned. There was indeed a large smear of murukku dough across his forehead, right at his hairline.

Anvitha appeared, took one look at him, and burst out laughing.

"Don't laugh! Help me!"

"Oh, I'm helping," she said, still laughing as she wet a towel. "By documenting this first—" She took a quick photo.

"Anvitha!"

"For memories!" She gently wiped his forehead clean, standing very close. "There. Presentable again."

"Thank you," he said, softer now.

"You're welcome. Now make me some good murukku, okay?"

"For you? The best avant-garde murukku ever created."

"Everyone, come look at the couple being disgustingly cute!" Veer announced loudly.

"VEER!" Both Anvitha and Ahaan yelled simultaneously.

Across the kitchen, a cousin was trying to carry ingredients from one station to another while also checking her phone. She misjudged the distance and bumped into Krithik, who bumped into the counter, which knocked over a container of—

Salt fell directly into Team Bondas' special chutney.

"NO!" Rishaan lunged for it, but it was too late. The entire container of salt had been dumped into their carefully made coconut chutney.

"Emergency!" Veer announced. "We have a chutney crisis!"

"Can we save it?" Priya asked, tasting it carefully. "Oh god, no. That's... that's so salty."

"Make new chutney," Rishaan decided. "Quick, we still have time—"

"We have fifteen minutes!" Karthik protested.

"Then we work fast. Priya, grate coconut. Veer, roast chana dal. Karthik, help me with the tempering. GO!"

The mothers watched as Team Bondas went into crisis management mode, moving with impressive coordination.

"They work well under pressure," Lakshmi observed.

"Rishaan is good at managing chaos," Nannamma said proudly. "He had to be, growing up."

Team Bajjis, witnessing the drama, exchanged glances.

"Should we help them?" Rahul asked.

"Absolutely not," Samaira said immediately. "This is a competition."

"You're ruthless," Meher said, impressed.

"I'm competitive. There's a difference."

They plated their completed bajjis with extra garnishing and presentation. They looked professional—golden, uniform, beautifully arranged.

"These could be in a restaurant," Anvitha said, taking a photo. "Sam, you need to cook more often."

"I literally learned yesterday."

"And you're already better than most people. It's unfair."

Team Mixture had quietly finished and was presenting their snacks to the mothers for early judging.

"We're done!" they announced proudly.

Everyone else stopped and stared.

"Wait, what?" Veer said. "How are you done?"

"We just... worked?" one of them said. "While everyone else was throwing things and flirting and having crises?"

"The strategy of being boring and efficient," Meher said. "Respect."

3:00 PM - Judgment Time

By 3 PM, all teams had finished. The dining table looked like a restaurant buffet—plates of bondas (various sizes), perfect bajjis, artistic murukku, and a professional-looking mixture.

The mothers and Nannamma approached the table with the gravitas of professional judges.

"First, presentation," Lakshmi announced, examining each plate.

"Team Bajjis—very professional. Uniform size, nice arrangement. 9 out of 10."

"Yes!" Samaira fist-pumped.

"Team Bondas—creative interpretation of size variations. 6 out of 10."

"That's generous," Rishaan muttered, eyeing Veer's cricket ball bondas.

"Team Murukku—interesting abstract approach. Very artistic. 7 out of 10."

"Told you it was avant-garde," Ahaan said smugly.

"Team Mixture—professional and complete. 9 out of 10."

Now for taste testing. The mothers tried everything, making exaggerated thinking faces and taking notes.

Nannamma bit into a bajji. "Perfect crispiness. Well-seasoned. The batter-to-vegetable ratio is excellent."

"That's the 3-millimetre slicing," Samaira whispered to Meher.

"Never let that go, will you?"

"Never."

Lakshmi tried a bonda. "These are actually quite good. The inconsistent sizes are charming in a rustic way."

"Rustic," Veer repeated. "We're going with rustic. I like it."

The murukku got tasted. "The flavour is good, but the shapes are... unconventional."

"Intentionally so," Ahaan insisted.

"Sure, beta."

The mixture was sampled with approving nods.

Finally, the mothers and Nannamma huddled to deliberate while everyone waited anxiously.

"The winning team," Nannamma announced dramatically, "is... Team Mixture! For completing on time, with excellent quality, and without any drama whatsoever."

The Mixture team cheered while everyone else groaned good-naturedly.

"However," Lakshmi added, "special recognition to Team Bajjis for technical excellence—"

"YES!" Samaira pumped her fist again.

"—and to Team Bondas for excellent crisis management under pressure."

"We'll take it," Rishaan said.

"And to Team Murukku for... creativity."

"That's a participation trophy," Ahaan muttered, but he was smiling.

"Now," Nannamma clapped her hands, "losing team does cleanup!"

"Wait, who's the losing team?" Veer asked.

"Everyone except Team Mixture."

"That's everyone!"

"Yes! Now clean!"

But before the cleanup protests could really begin, everyone just naturally started helping. Within twenty minutes, the kitchen was spotless, and all the snacks were properly stored or plated for evening distribution.

They reconvened in the living room, collapsing into chairs and floor space with the satisfied exhaustion of people who'd completed a ridiculous but fun task.

"I can't believe we just spent an hour making snacks," Meher said.

"I can't believe Ahaan discovered his calling as an abstract murukku artist," Veer added.

"I can't believe Veer made cricket ball bondas," Samaira countered.

"They were NOT cricket balls!"

"They absolutely were."

Someone had been taking photos throughout the cooking chaos, and now they were passing phones around, laughing at the captured moments.

"Look at this one of Veer's phone almost dying."

"Oh god, Rishaan's face when the salt spilled—"

"Wait, who got this photo of Ahaan with dough on his forehead?"

"That was me!" Anvitha said proudly. "Saving it forever."

There was a particularly good photo of Rishaan reaching over Samaira for the chili powder—the closeness obvious, the charged moment captured perfectly.

"Who took this?" Meher asked innocently, showing the photo.

Samaira's face immediately flushed. "Delete that."

"Why? It's a nice photo."

"Meher—"

"Very nice composition. Good lighting. Really captures the... tension."

"I will end you."

"You love me too much."

Rishaan was looking at the photo over someone's shoulder, and when his eyes met Samaira's across the room, they both smiled—small, private smiles that didn't go unnoticed by their friends.

"Alright," Anvitha's mother said, entering with fresh coffee for everyone. "You all did wonderfully. The snacks look and taste great. You should all be proud."

"We're exhausted," Ahaan said, but he was grinning.

"Good! That means you worked hard." She handed out coffee. "Now rest for a bit. We have some family visiting around 4:30, but until then, you're free."

"Free to nap," Veer said, closing his eyes where he sat.

"Free to look at our golden hands some more," Meher added, holding hers up to the light. "I'm going to miss this when it fades."

As everyone settled into comfortable exhaustion, Samaira felt her phone buzz. A text from Rishaan, even though he was sitting right across the room.

Rishaan: You looked very professional during that cooking competition. Very focused and competent.

Samaira: Are you seriously texting me from ten feet away?

Rishaan: Yes. Because if I say this out loud, Veer will make fun of me. You were really attractive when you were being all competitive and strategic.

Samaira: You almost burned your bondas three times because you kept staring at me.

Rishaan: Worth it.

Samaira bit back a smile and glanced up to find him already looking at her, his expression soft despite the exhaustion.

Samaira: The reaching-over-me move was smooth. Very smooth.

Rishaan: I have my moments. Though Nannamma almost caught me sabotaging to get closer to your station.

Samaira: You're terrible at subtlety.

Rishaan: Only when it comes to you.

Her heart did that now-familiar flutter, and she had to look away before her face gave away everything she was feeling.

"Sam," Anvitha said quietly, sitting down next to her. "You're texting him, aren't you?"

"What? No—"

"You have that smile. The 'Rishaan just said something sweet' smile."

"I don't have a—"

"You absolutely do. You've had it since the gym sessions started."

Samaira glanced at Rishaan again. He was talking to Ahaan about something, laughing, but then his eyes found hers across the room and held.

"Yeah," Samaira admitted quietly. "I do."

"Good," Anvitha said, squeezing her hand—her golden, turmeric-stained hand. "You deserve this, Sam. You deserve someone who makes you smile like that."

"We'll see," Samaira said. But for the first time in years, she was letting herself hope.

Maybe this could work.

Maybe he was worth rearranging her whole life for.

Maybe she was brave enough to try.

3:30 PM - Village Expedition

After about twenty minutes of rest and coffee, Veer sat up with sudden energy.

"We should explore the village properly," he announced. "We're here, we're fed, we have time before the evening visitors—let's go see what this place has to offer."

"What it has to offer is rice fields and temples," Ahaan said, but he was already standing. "But sure, why not?"

"Village tourism!" Meher said enthusiastically. "I'm in. We never do this anymore—just explore and walk around."

"Because we live in cities where walking is done in malls and gyms," Anvitha pointed out, but she was smiling. "But yes, let's go. I haven't explored this village properly in years."

Within minutes, the entire friend group, plus several cousins, were putting on shoes and preparing for an expedition. The parents watched with amused expressions.

"Don't get lost," Lakshmi called.

"We're adults, Amma," Samaira called back.

"Adults who spent an hour making snacks like it was a competitive sport. Forgive me for being cautious."

"Fair point," Rishaan conceded.

They set off in a loose group—fifteen young people wandering through the village, drawing curious looks from elderly people sitting outside their homes and children playing in the streets.

The village was beautiful in the afternoon light—traditional houses with tiled roofs, narrow streets lined with temples at every major intersection, trees providing shade, and the distant green of rice fields beyond the houses.

"This is so peaceful," Samaira said, walking beside Rishaan. The group had naturally spread out—couples walking together, cousins chatting in clusters, everyone enjoying the slower pace.

"It is," Rishaan agreed. "Different from Hyderabad. Different from your Italy."

"Very different. In Italy, everything moves so fast. Racing circuits, factory deadlines, constant travel. This—" she gestured around, "—this is like stepping back in time."

"In a good way?"

"In a very good way."

They walked past a small temple, its colourful gopuram rising against the blue sky. Some of the group stopped to bow respectfully; others continued walking.

"There's the village pond," one of Ahaan's cousins pointed ahead. "We used to swim there as kids during summer visits."

"Is it clean enough to swim?" Meher asked skeptically.

"Probably not anymore. But it's pretty."

The pond was indeed pretty—surrounded by trees, with steps leading down to the water, lotus flowers floating on the surface. They stood at the edge, watching dragonflies skim across the water.

"This is very Instagram-worthy," Meher said, already pulling out her phone.

"Everything is Instagram-worthy to you," Veer teased.

"I'm a PR manager. Aesthetic documentation is literally my job."

They took photos—group shots at the pond, candid pictures of couples, silly poses that made everyone laugh. Samaira found herself pulled into multiple photos, always ending up near Rishaan, their hands almost touching in frame after frame.

As they continued walking, they heard shouting ahead—children's voices, excited and competitive.

"Cricket match," Ahaan said immediately, recognising the sounds.

They rounded a corner to find an open area where about a dozen kids were playing cricket with a tennis ball and makeshift stumps.

The kids stopped when they saw the group approaching.

"City people!" one of them called out—a boy of maybe twelve.

"How can you tell?" Veer asked, amused.

"Your clothes are too clean," another kid said bluntly. "And you look confused by mud."

"We're not confused by mud," Rishaan protested.

"Prove it! Play cricket with us!"

"Oh, we don't want to intrude—" Ahaan started.

"Scared you'll lose?" the first boy challenged.

Veer's eyes lit up. "We accept your challenge! City people versus village kids!"

"Veer, we're in sarees and kurtas—" Anvitha protested.

"Minor details! Come on, it'll be fun!"

Somehow, they all got pulled into it. Teams were formed—the friend group and cousins versus the village kids, who were clearly at an advantage with home-ground knowledge and regular practice.

"I haven't played cricket in years," Samaira said, but she was already rolling up her saree pallu and tucking it in properly.

"None of us have," Meher agreed. "But we can't back down now. Pride is at stake."

The kids let the city team bat first, which was either sportsmanship or confidence that they'd win regardless.

Veer went first, swinging wildly and missing completely.

"HOWZAT!" the kids shouted gleefully.

"That wasn't out! I wasn't ready!"

"That's not how cricket works, Uncle!"

"Uncle? I'm twenty-eight!"

"Exactly. Uncle."

Veer grumbled but stepped aside for Ahaan, who managed to hit a decent shot but got run out trying for a second run in his kurta.

"These clothes are not designed for athletics," he complained, sitting down dramatically.

"Excuses," Anvitha said, then stepped up to bat herself.

"A girl?" one of the younger kids said doubtfully.

"A girl who's about to make you regret that tone," Anvitha said sweetly.

She hit the ball solidly, and it sailed past the fielders for what was definitely four runs.

"YES!" Meher cheered. "Go Anvitha!"

"That was luck," the kid insisted, but he looked less confident now.

Samaira was up next. She took her position, and Rishaan called encouragement from where he was waiting.

"Remember, it's just physics! Angle of trajectory, force of impact—"

"Rishaan, not helping!"

"You've got this!"

The bowler—a skinny kid with impressive form—sent the ball toward her. Samaira swung, connected, and felt the satisfying thwack of ball meeting bat.

The ball flew through the air, past the boundary markers they'd set up.

"SIX!" multiple people yelled simultaneously.

"SAM!" Meher was jumping. "You hit a six!"

"I hit a six?" Samaira looked stunned.

"You HIT A SIX!" Anvitha was laughing and cheering.

Rishaan was staring at her with an expression of delighted surprise. "That was incredibly attractive," he said, just loud enough for her to hear as she jogged past.

"Shut up," she said, but she was grinning.

She hit two more solid shots before finally getting out, and by then the city team had a respectable score.

"Maybe we won't totally embarrass ourselves," Veer said optimistically.

When it was the village kids' turn to bat, they proved why they'd been so confident. These kids played every day—they knew every angle, every strategy.

Rishaan was bowling, and despite his best efforts, the kids were hitting his deliveries easily.

"You're going too easy on them!" Veer called.

"They're children!"

"They're destroying us! Show no mercy!"

But even when Rishaan tried his best bowling, the kids were just better. They won with three overs to spare.

"Good game!" the captain kid said magnanimously, shaking everyone's hands.

"You all play really well," Samaira said genuinely. "Do you practice every day?"

"Every evening! We have a tournament next month against the next village."

"You'll definitely win," Ahaan said.

After exchanging more pleasantries and promising to come back if they were ever in the village again, the group continued their exploration, now slightly sweaty and definitely dusty.

"I have mud on my saree," Anvitha said, examining the hem.

"You have victory on your saree," Meher corrected. "You hit a four. That's honourable mud."

"Sam hit a six," Krithik pointed out. "Her mud is more honourable."

"Mud hierarchy," Rishaan said seriously. "Based on cricket achievement."

"You're all ridiculous," Samaira said, but she was laughing.

They reached the village market—a small collection of shops and stalls selling everything from vegetables to clothing to random household items.

"Souvenir shopping!" Meher announced. "Everyone must buy something ridiculous."

"Why ridiculous?" Rahul asked.

"Because it's more fun. Come on!"

They spread out through the market. Veer found a hat—a truly terrible hat made of woven palm leaves that looked like something a scarecrow would wear.

"I'm buying this," he announced.

"Veer, why?" Anvitha asked.

"Because it's amazing and I need it."

"You will never wear that again."

"I'll wear it right now." He put it on. It looked exactly as ridiculous as expected.

Meher found traditional glass bangles and bought a dozen sets in different colours. "For memories," she explained, distributing them to all the girls.

Ahaan found a small brass statue of Lord Ganesh. "For my office," he said. "Blessings for the law firm."

"Very professional," Anvitha approved.

Rishaan was at a flower stall, and Samaira watched as he bought jasmine flowers—a whole string of them, freshly strung together.

He came over to where she was looking at traditional handloom sarees with Anvitha.

"These are beautiful," Samaira was saying, running her fingers over the fabric. "My mother loves handloom."

"You should get one for her," Anvitha suggested.

Before Samaira could respond, Rishaan was there, holding the jasmine strand.

"May I?" he asked quietly.

Samaira nodded, not trusting her voice.

Gently, carefully, he reached up and tucked the jasmine flowers behind her ear, his fingers grazing her temple as he secured them. It took longer than necessary, and she wondered if he was deliberately prolonging the moment.

"Perfect," he said softly, his hand dropping, but his eyes still on her face.

Around them, their friends had definitely noticed. Meher was grinning widely, Anvitha looked misty-eyed, and Veer was making exaggerated kissy faces until Ahaan elbowed him.

"That's disgustingly romantic," Meher said. "In the best way."

"Smooth," Veer added, nodding approvingly despite his teasing. "Very smooth, bro."

Rishaan's ears were red, but he didn't step away from Samaira. "It's just flowers."

"Uh-huh. Just flowers that you're giving to just a friend in a totally platonic way," Meher said. "We all believe you."

"Leave them alone," Anvitha said, still smiling. "Come on, I want to see if they have any good pottery."

As the group moved on, Samaira touched the flowers behind her hair. "Thank you," she said to Rishaan.

"You're welcome. They suit you."

"Jasmine in my hair, turmeric on my hands—I'm a walking traditional wedding aesthetic."

"You look beautiful."

The simplicity of the statement, the sincerity in his voice, made her chest feel tight.

"You're not subtle," she said, but her voice was gentle.

"I don't want to be subtle. Not with you."

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, and Samaira felt something shift—a decision being made, a step being taken, a door opening that she'd kept closed for so long.

"Six more days," she said quietly.

"Six days to make you want to come back," he replied.

"I'm already planning my return trip."

His smile was bright enough to rival the afternoon sun. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The fields were beautiful—open spaces of rice paddies, the crop swaying gently in the evening breeze, paths between the fields wide enough to walk. They found a good spot with a clear view of the western horizon.

The cousins immediately started playing music and dancing around. The friend group claimed a spot slightly apart from the main group—close enough to be part of the gathering but with a bit of their own space.

Couples naturally gravitated together. Anvitha curled up against Ahaan, his arm around her shoulders. Meher leaned back against Veer, who was absently playing with her hair.

And Rishaan and Samaira ended up sitting close—not quite touching, but near enough that if either of them shifted slightly, they would be.

"This is perfect," Anvitha said, looking around at everyone. "This moment right here—all of us together."

"It is," Ahaan agreed, pressing a kiss to her temple. "We should do this more often."

"Do what? Cause chaos in villages?"

"That too. But I meant just... be together. No agendas, no plans, just existing in the same space."

"We get too busy," Meher said quietly. "Adult life is all work and responsibility. We forget to just... be."

"Then we make time," Veer said firmly. "We're friends. That matters. We prioritise it."

"Agreed," Samaira said. "Even when I go back to Italy, we make time."

"Video calls," Meher said.

"Group chats," Anvitha added.

"And visits," Rishaan said, looking at Samaira. "Definitely visits."

"Definitely," she agreed softly.

The sun was sinking lower now, the sky transforming into shades of orange and pink and gold. The fields reflected the light, making everything glow.

"It's beautiful," Samaira breathed.

"It really is," Rishaan said, but when she glanced at him, he was looking at her, not the sunset.

"You're not even watching—" she started.

"I've seen sunsets before. This view is better."

"That's incredibly cheesy."

"Is it working?"

"Annoyingly, yes."

He grinned and finally—finally—reached over and took her hand properly. Not the casual, accidental touching of the past few days, but deliberately threading his fingers through hers and holding on.

Their golden, turmeric-stained hands clasped together looked right somehow—like the universe was highlighting the connection.

"Sam," he said quietly, seriously now. "I know we're figuring this out. I know it's complicated with Italy and Hyderabad and your career and my businesses. But I need you to know—I'm all in. Howeve,r this wor;s, whatever we need to figure out, I'm all in. I'm not going anywhere."

Samaira felt her chest tighten—not with anxiety, but with something that felt like hope and fear and excitement all mixed.

"I'm terrified," she admitted. "Of how much I already care. Of what it means. Of how hard it'll be when I leave."

"I'm terrified too," he said. "But I'm more scared of not trying. Of letting you go back to Italy and always wondering 'what if.'"

"What if it doesn't work?"

"What if it does?"

She looked at their joined hands, then back at his face—open, honest, vulnerable in a way she knew was rare for him.

"I'm all in too," she said quietly. "Even though it's terrifying. Even though I don't know how it works yet. I'm all in."

His smile was brilliant—wide and genuine and full of relief and joy. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles—a gesture so sweet and old-fashioned that it made her heart skip.

"Rishaan—"

"I know we're surrounded by people. I know this isn't the time or place. But I really, really want to kiss you right now."

"That's... that would be very inappropriate."

"I know."

"Everyone would see."

"I know."

"My mother would have opinions."

"Probably."

"Your grandmother would be smug."

"Definitely."

"So we shouldn't."

"We absolutely shouldn't."

They sat there, hands clasped, faces close, the space between them charged with wanting.

"Later?" she whispered.

"Later," he agreed.

"GUYS!" Veer's voice shattered the moment. "GROUP PHOTO TIME! Everyone! Come on!"

"I'm going to kill him," Rishaan muttered, but he was smiling.

"Get in line," Samaira said.

Everyone gathered for photos—the entire group against the sunset backdrop. They tried serious poses first, which lasted about thirty seconds before someone made a face and everyone dissolved into laughter.

"Okay, everyone jump on three!" one of the cousins directed. "One, two, THREE—"

Half the people jumped. The other half just stood there.

"That was terrible! Again!"

They tried ten times before finally getting a photo where everyone jumped simultaneously and looked reasonably photogenic.

"Perfect!" the cousin declared. "This is going in the group chat."

"Everything goes in the group chat," Meher said.

"That's what group chats are for."

They took more photos—couples separately, girls together, guys together, random combinations that made everyone laugh. Rishaan and Samaira ended up in a photo together, his arm around her shoulders, her head tilted toward his, both of them smiling at something Veer had said off-camera.

"You two photograph well together," Anvitha commented, reviewing the photos on someone's phone.

"Thank you", Rishaan said, his ears going slightly red.

"I'm just saying what everyone can see," she said with a knowing smile.

As the sun finally touched the horizon, everyone grew quieter—just watching the last of the light paint the sky in impossible colours.

Samaira felt Rishaan's hand find hers again in the grass, their pinkies linking, then their whole hands intertwining naturally.

The group was tired but happy, dusty and sweaty but smiling.

"We should head back," Anvitha said, checking her phone. "It's almost 4:30, and Amma said family would be visiting."

They walked back through the village, a slightly slower, more exhausted group than had set out. The jasmine in Samaira's hair had wilted slightly but still smelled sweet. The turmeric on everyone's hands seemed even more golden in the sunset light.

When they reached the house, parents and Nannamma were indeed entertaining visitors—distant relatives and family friends who'd come to offer congratulations for the upcoming wedding.

"There they are!" Anvitha's mother called. "Looking like you've been rolling in fields!"

"We played cricket," Veer explained.

"And lost to children at cricket," Ahaan added honestly.

"But Sam hit a six!" Meher said proudly.

"Did she?" Lakshmi looked at her daughter with surprise and pride. "When did you learn to play cricket?"

"I apparently have hidden talents."

The visitors smiled indulgently at the group of young people, dirty and happy, looking like they'd had the kind of simple afternoon that adults forgot how to have.

"Come, come, refresh yourselves," Nannmma instructed. "Then join us for chai and those snacks you all made."

As everyone dispersed to clean up, Rishaan caught Samaira's hand briefly.

"Today was really good," he said quietly.

"It was," she agreed. "Thank you for the jasmine."

and

"You just wanted an excuse to stand close to me."

"That too," he admitted with a grin.

She laughed and headed inside, touching the flowers in her hair one more time, still feeling the ghost of his hands on hers, still feeling the warmth of his presence.

Six more days, she thought. Six days before, she had to leave.

She was going to make them count.

4:45 PM - The Prank

Freshly cleaned up and in new clothes—Samaira had changed into a simple kurta, Rishaan into a fresh shirt—everyone reconvened in the living room for chai and snacks with the visiting relatives.

The relatives were friendly but had the inevitable questions that came with gatherings of young people.

"So many unmarried young people here!" one aunty said, looking around with the calculating expression of someone about to cause trouble. "Anvitha and Ahaan are getting married soon—who's next?"

Everyone suddenly became very interested in their chai.

"These things happen in their own time, Aunty," Anvitha's mother said diplomatically.

"But look at them—" the aunty gestured around, "—all successful, settled, good families. They should all be thinking about marriage!"

"We're thinking about many things," Ahaan said carefully. "Careers, personal growth—"

"Career, career, always career! What about family? What about continuing the family line?"

"Aunty," Veer said with barely concealed amusement, "we're in our mid to late twenties. We have time."

"Time flies! Before you know it, you'll be too old, and all the good matches will be gone!"

Samaira exchanged a look with Meher that clearly said, "Kill me now."

But then a younger cousin—one of Ahaan's mischievous teenage cousins—got an idea. Samaira could see it forming in the kid's expression, the slight smirk appearing.

The cousin leaned over to another cousin and whispered something. That cousin grinned and whispered to another. Within minutes, it was spreading through the younger generation like wildfire.

Rishaan noticed too. "Why do I feel like something bad is about to happen?" he murmured to Ahaan.

"Because something bad is definitely about to happen," Ahaan agreed.

The teenage cousin—Preethi—suddenly spoke up loudly. "Actually, Aunty, there might be news soon! Very soon!"

"News?" The nosy aunty perked up immediately. "What kind of news?"

"I couldn't possibly say," Preethi said with fake innocence. "It's not my place to announce someone else's happy news."

Every adult in the room was now paying attention.

"Happy news?" another relative asked. "From whom?"

"Well..." Preethi glanced at Rishaan and Samaira with exaggerated significance. "I've heard whispers about a sunset proposal..."

Samaira choked on her chai. Rishaan's eyes went wide.

"A PROPOSAL?" multiple aunties gasped simultaneously.

"I didn't say who," Preethi said, but she was looking right at them.

"Oh my god," Meher whispered, recognising a prank when she saw one. "The kids are trolling them."

"Brilliantly," Veer added, trying not to laugh.

Nannmma caught on immediately and raised an eyebrow at Preethi, but the kid just smiled innocently.

"Someone is getting engaged?" an uncle asked. "Today? Here?"

"Not TODAY, today," another cousin chimed in, joining the chaos. "At sunset. Which is—" they checked their phone, "—in about an hour."

"AN HOUR?" The aunties were now in a frenzy. "We need to prepare! Get flowers! Sweets! Camera!"

"Wait, wait," Rishaan tried to interrupt, his face red. "Nobody is—there's no—"

"Such modesty!" aAunttycooed. "Young love is so sweet!"

"There's no young love—I mean, there IS young love—I mean—" Rishaan was spiralling.

Samaira had her face in her hands, caught between mortification and laughter.

"We should give them privacy to prepare!" another aunty declared. "Come, everyone, let's go to the kitchen and make special snacks for the celebration!"

Half the aunties rushed off to start preparations, ignoring all protests.

The moment they were gone, Veer burst out laughing. "Oh my GOD. The cousins are EVIL."

"That was amazing," Meher wheezed, also laughing. "The looks on your faces—"

"This isn't funny!" Samaira said, but she was starting to laugh too. "They actually believe it!"

"Do we... do we correct them?" Rishaan asked, looking panicked. "This is going to cause so many problems—"

"Oh, let it play out," Ahaan said, grinning. "It'll be entertaining."

"For YOU maybe!"

Preethi appeared, looking far too pleased with herself. "Sorry, Anna, Akka. It was too perfect an opportunity."

"You're grounded," Rishaan told her.

"You can't ground me, you're not my parent."

"I'm going to tell your mother you're a menace to society."

"She already knows."

In the kitchen, they could hear the relatives excitedly planning. "We need to make this special!" "Someone call the priest!" "Should we decorate?"

"They're calling a PRIEST," Samaira said, her voice going high. "Rishaan, they're calling a priest!"

"I'm aware!" He ran a hand through his hair, completely flustered in a way Samaira had never seen before. "This is a disaster."

"A hilarious disaster," Veer corrected.

"Not helping!"

Lakshmi and Nannamma, who'd been watching the whole thing with amusement, finally took pity on them.

"Alright, alright," Lakshmi said, standing. "I'll go explain to the relatives that there's been a misunderstanding."

"Thank you, Aunty," Rishaan said with genuine relief.

"BUT—" Nannamma added, her eyes twinkling, "—this does make me wonder. Eventually, there WILL be happy news, yes?"

"Nannamma!" both Rishaan and Samaira protested simultaneously.

"Just asking!" She stood too. "Come, Lakshmi, let's save these children from their embarrassment. But the question stands for later."

As the two grandmothers left to do damage control, Samaira finally looked at Rishaan properly. He was still red-faced, completely flustered, and somehow adorable.

"That was mortifying," she said.

"That was a nightmare," he agreed.

"Though..." she bit her lip, trying not to smile, "...the idea of you proposing at sunset is kind of romantic. In theory."

"In theory?"

"Very distant theory. Theoretical future. When we've been dating for more than, you know, five days."

"We've been dating for five days?" His expression shifted to something softer.

"Well, we've been... something for six days."

"Something," he repeated, moving closer. "That's romantic."

"Shut up."

From across the room, their friends were watching with barely concealed grins.

"They're good together," Anvitha said quietly to Ahaan.

"They really are," he agreed. "Even when teenagers are pranking them with fake proposals."

"ESPECIALLY when teenagers are pranking them with fake proposals," Meher corrected. "That's when you see someone's true character. And they're both handling it with humour."

"After the initial panic," Veer added.

"Well, yes. But the panic was cute."

In the kitchen, they could hear Lakshmi explaining to the relatives: "There's been a little confusion—the children were joking, and it got out of hand. No proposal today, but someday, who knows?"

"Someday?" an aunt repeated hopefully.

"Someday," Nannamma confirmed. "These things take time. But we're optimistic."

"Very optimistic," Lakshmi agreed.

The relatives seemed disappointed but understanding, and slowly they dispersed—some leaving to go home, others settling back in the living room with their chai.

Crisis averted.

When Lakshmi and Nannamma returned, they were both trying not to laugh.

"You two," Nannamma said, pointing at Rishaan and Samaira, "need to be more careful. When you look at each other the way you do, people get ideas."

"What way?" Samaira asked.

"Like you're the only two people in the room," Lakshmi said gently. "It's sweet, but it's also very obvious."

Rishaan and Samaira exchanged a glance, and Samaira realised her mother was right—when she looked at him, everyone else did seem to fade slightly.

"We'll... try to be less obvious," Rishaan said weakly.

"Or," Lakshmiamma suggested, "you could just accept that you're not fooling anyone and stop worrying about it."

Before either of them could respond, Preethi reappeared. "I really am sorry. It was meant to be funny, not cause actual chaos."

"It's fine," Samaira said, surprising herself. "It was actually pretty funny. In retrospect."

"After the heart attack wore off," Rishaan added.

"We're even," Preethi said, grinning. "But... just for the record... eventually there WILL be a proposal, right? Because you two are very cute together."

"PREETHI!" multiple people yelled.

She ran off laughing.

Word Count: 17171

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