Chapter 13: Memories

Friday Morning - 6:30 AM - Haldi Ceremony

Samaira's POV:

Friday morning arrived too early after the late-night sangeet. Samaira woke to Meher shaking her shoulder insistently.

"Get up. Haldi starts in an hour and a half, and we need to shower, dress, and be downstairs."

"Five more minutes," Samaira mumbled into her pillow.

"You said that ten minutes ago. Come on, up. Now."

Somehow, they both managed to get ready—simple yellow outfits appropriate for the haldi ceremony, minimal makeup since they'd all be covered in turmeric paste soon anyway, hair tied back practically.

The haldi ceremony was being held in the courtyard, which had been set up with a decorated seat for Anvitha, bowls of turmeric paste, and family members gathered to participate in the ritual.

The ceremony itself was joyful and chaotic—relatives taking turns applying haldi to Anvitha while she laughed and protested when people got too enthusiastic with the turmeric. Then, as was tradition, everyone started applying haldi to each other, and the whole thing devolved into friendly chaos.

Samaira got thoroughly covered in yellow paste, as did everyone else. She caught sight of Rishaan across the courtyard, also sporting turmeric stains on his white kurta, laughing as Veer chased him with a handful of haldi.

"You look very festive," Rishaan said when he finally made his way over to her, both of them now matching shades of yellow.

"You look ridiculous," Samaira countered, gesturing at the turmeric smeared across his cheek.

"Says the woman with haldi in her hair."

"That's Meher's fault. She got overenthusiastic."

They stood together, watching Anvitha be covered in more turmeric by her giggling cousins, the morning sun warm and bright, the happiness palpable in the air.

"One more day," Samaira said softly. "Tomorrow she gets married."

"Tomorrow she gets married," Rishaan agreed. "How are you feeling about it? Your best friend taking this big step?"

"Happy. Emotional. Ready to cry during the ceremony." She leaned against him slightly, not caring about the turmeric. "But mostly just happy for her. She and Ahaan are perfect together."

"They are. Like someone else I know."

"Who? Veer and Meher?"

"I was thinking of us, actually."

"Oh." She smiled up at him. "Yeah. Like us."

After the haldi ceremony concluded, everyone scattered to wash off the turmeric—a process that took significantly longer than applying it. Samaira spent forty minutes in the shower scrubbing yellow paste out of her hair and off her skin, only partially successful.

"I'm going to be slightly yellow for days," she complained to Meher as they both examined their still-faintly-tinted skin.

"That's the point. It's auspicious. Traditional. Makes you glow."

"It makes me look jaundiced."

"Auspiciously jaundiced. Very trendy."

Friday Afternoon - 2:00 PM - Quiet Moments

After lunch—another elaborate meal that seemed to appear magically despite the constant activity—Samaira found herself with a rare moment of downtime. The next event, the pellikuthuru function, wasn't until evening, and everyone had been encouraged to rest.

She found her parents sitting in a quiet corner of the house's veranda, her father reading a newspaper, her mother working on some embroidery project. Rishaan was there too, sitting with them, all three of them engaged in what looked like a comfortable conversation.

"Am I interrupting?" Samaira asked, approaching.

"Never," her father said, setting down his newspaper. "Come, sit. We were just talking about your upcoming races."

Samaira settled into a chair beside Rishaan, who immediately took her hand, their fingers intertwining naturally.

"Rishaan was telling us about his Belgium trip plans," Lakshmi said, her needlework continuing with practised efficiency. "How he's arranged three days there to watch your race."

"Just three days?" Vamshi asked Rishaan with mock sternness. "My daughter is racing, and you're only staying three days?"

"I'd stay longer if I could, Uncle," Rishaan defended with a smile. "But I have client meetings the following week that I can't reschedule. Three days is the maximum I can manage."

"Hmm. I suppose that's acceptable. As long as you're properly cheering for Ferrari."

"I'm bringing a Ferrari flag. Does that count as proper cheering?"

"It's a start."

They talked for a while about racing, about Rishaan's businesses, about the wedding festivities so far. The conversation flowed easily, no awkward silences, no forced topics. Just family chatting comfortably on a lazy afternoon.

At one point, Lakshmi set down her embroidery and looked at Rishaan with sudden focus.

"Beta, have you eaten lunch? Proper lunch, not just snacks?"

"Yes, Aunty. I had lunch with Uncle and the other men about an hour ago."

"Good. And you're drinking enough water? It's very hot today, and dehydration is dangerous."

"Amma," Samaira interjected with amusement, "he's not a child. He can take care of himself."

"Everyone needs reminding," Lakshmi said firmly. "Even capable adults forget to take care of themselves when they're busy or distracted."

"She's right," Vamshi agreed. "I once got so absorbed in a project at work that I forgot to eat for an entire day. Your mother has been monitoring my food intake ever since."

"Thirty-three years of monitoring," Lakshmi confirmed. "Someone has to make sure you all don't accidentally starve yourselves."

Rishaan was trying not to laugh, clearly charmed by the maternal fussing. "Thank you for looking out for me, Aunty. I appreciate it."

"Of course. You're family now. That means you get fed, hydrated, and fussed over whether you like it or not."

"I like it," Rishaan admitted. "It's nice."

Samaira watched this interaction with warmth spreading through her chest. Her mother had fully adopted Rishaan into her care circle, and her father treated him like the son he'd never had. And Rishaan—Rishaan soaked it up like someone who'd been thirsty for this kind of familial affection his whole life.

"Uncle," Rishaan said after a moment, "can I ask you something?"

"Of course, beta. Anything."

"How do you balance everything? Your career, your marriage, raising Samaira, maintaining friendships—how did you manage to do it all without losing yourself in the process?"

Vamshi considered the question thoughtfully. "That's a complex question with a simple answer: I didn't do it alone. Your Aunty and I are partners in the truest sense. When I was overwhelmed with work, she picked up the slack at home. When she was stressed about Samaira's education, I took on more household responsibilities. We communicated constantly about what we needed, what was working, what wasn't."

"And we prioritised," Lakshmi added. "Some years, work had to come first because we needed the income. In other years, Samaira's education was the priority. Sometimes our marriage needed the most attention. We learned to be flexible and adapt to whatever stage of life we were in."

"But we never forgot that we were a team," Vamshi continued. "Every major decision, we made together. Every challenge we faced together. That's the secret—finding someone you trust completely and building a life as partners, not as individuals who happen to live in the same house."

Rishaan was quiet for a moment, processing. Then he glanced at Samaira. "That's what I want. What we're building."

"That's what we have," Samaira corrected gently. "We're already building it."

"You are," Lakshmi confirmed, looking between them with satisfaction. "I can see it in how you communicate, how you support each other, how you make decisions together, even about small things. You're on the right path."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the afternoon heat making everyone drowsy, the distant sounds of wedding preparations a constant background hum.

"I should check on Anvitha," Samaira said eventually, reluctantly standing. "Make sure she's not having a pre-wedding breakdown."

"Good idea," Lakshmi agreed. "Brides need their best friends on days like this."

Samaira left, and for a moment, Rishaan thought he should leave too, give Samaira's parents their privacy. But Vamshi gestured for him to stay.

"Beta, I wanted to thank you," Vamshi said once Samaira was out of earshot.

"Thank me? For what?"

"For making my daughter happy. For being the kind of man who values family, who asks questions about how to balance life, who clearly wants to build something meaningful rather than just coasting through a relationship."

"Uncle, I should be thanking you. For accepting me, for treating me like family—"

"We accept you because you're worth accepting," Lakshmi interrupted. "Because we can see the quality of your character in how you treat our daughter, how you speak to us, how you engage with this whole friend group. That's not something that can be faked or performed. That's who you are."

"And who you are is someone we're proud to have in our family," Vamshi added. "So thank you, Rishaan. For being yourself, and for loving our daughter the way she deserves to be loved."

Rishaan felt his throat tighten with emotion. "I'll always take care of her. I promise."

"We know you will," Lakshmi said softly. "That's why we trust you."

Friday Evening - 7:00 PM - Pellikuthuru Function

The pellikuthuru function was a smaller, more intimate ceremony—a Telugu wedding tradition where the bride is adorned and blessed by married women in the family. Anvitha sat in the centre, wearing a beautiful purple and gold saree, while aunts and cousins applied oil to her hair, gave her gifts, and offered blessings for her married life.

Samaira participated in the ritual, applying the traditional oil to Anvitha's hair while whispering, "You're going to be an amazing wife. And I'm going to be an emotional mess at your wedding tomorrow."

"We're both going to be emotional messes," Anvitha whispered back, already tearing up.

The ceremony was beautiful and meaningful, and by the end, Anvitha was glowing—partly from the oil and turmeric still faintly on her skin, partly from the happiness radiating from within.

Dinner that evening was more subdued than previous meals—everyone was tired from days of celebration, conserving energy for tomorrow's main event. The friend group ate together at their usual table, but conversation was quieter, more reflective.

"Last night before the wedding," Ahaan said, looking at Anvitha with such love that Samaira felt her eyes sting with tears.

"Last night as your fiancée," Anvitha corrected. "Tomorrow night I'll be your wife."

"Tomorrow night you'll be my wife," he repeated, as if testing out the words. "That sounds perfect."

They all retired early that night, knowing that tomorrow would be long and emotionally exhausting in the best way. As Samaira lay in bed, Meher already asleep beside her, she felt overwhelming gratitude.

For her friends, who were like family.

For her parents, who had welcomed Rishaan so completely.

For Rishaan himself, who fit into her life so perfectly it sometimes took her breath away.

Tomorrow, Anvitha would marry Ahaan.

And Samaira would stand beside her best friend, watching her take this huge step, knowing that someday—maybe two years from now, maybe sooner—she'd be taking the same step with Rishaan.

Life was moving forward.

And it was beautiful.

Saturday Morning - 6:00 AM

Rishaan's POV:

Rishaan woke to his phone buzzing insistently. He grabbed it and saw a text from his father.

Nanna: We've arrived at the village. At the guesthouse. Come meet us when you're awake.

Rishaan sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His parents and grandmother had driven from Hyderabad early this morning to attend the wedding. He quickly showered, dressed in casual clothes—he'd change into his wedding outfit later—and made his way to the main guesthouse where his family was staying.

He found them in the small sitting area—his father Rakesh reviewing something on his tablet, his mother Padma organising their bags, and Savitri sitting comfortably in an armchair, looking fresh despite the early morning drive.

"Good morning," Rishaan said from the doorway.

His parents looked up. "Rishaan," his father said with a nod. "Good morning."

"Beta," his mother added with a small smile.

The greeting was polite, cordial, but still carrying that slight formality that years of distant parenting had created. They were trying—really trying since Kerala—but old patterns were hard to break completely.

Then Savitri's face lit up completely. "Bangaram! Come here!"

Rishaan immediately crossed the room to his grandmother, bending down to hug her properly. "Nannamma. How was the drive?"

"Long but peaceful. Your father drives too fast on highways, but we survived." She held his face in her hands, examining him. "You look tired. Are you sleeping enough? Eating properly?"

"Yes, Nannamma. Samaira's mother has been making sure I eat. She's almost as vigilant as you."

"Good. I like that woman. She has sense." Savitri patted his cheek affectionately. "Now tell me everything. How has the wedding been? How is Samaira? How are you two doing?"

The difference in warmth between his grandmother's greeting and his parents' was stark, and Rishaan felt it keenly. But he pushed the feeling aside and settled into a chair near Savitri, filling her in on the mehendi, sangeet, haldi, and all the festivities.

His parents listened but didn't engage much, still reviewing their things, preparing for the day. It was Savitri who asked questions, who laughed at his stories, who showed genuine interest in his life.

"And Samaira's parents?" Savitri asked. "You've been spending time with them?"

"A lot of time, actually. Her mother has basically adopted me. And her father—" Rishaan paused, emotion creeping into his voice, "—he's been wonderful. We've had some really meaningful conversations."

Savitri squeezed his hand, understanding more than he said. She knew what he'd been missing from his own parents, what he'd found with Samaira's family.

"I want to meet the bride before the wedding," Savitri announced suddenly. "Give her my blessings. Is that appropriate?"

"I'm sure Anvitha would be honoured, Nannamma. Let me check what time would work—the bride is probably getting ready now."

"I'd like to come too," Padma said unexpectedly, looking up from her bag. "To bless the bride. If that's acceptable."

Rishaan was surprised but pleased. "Of course, Amma. I'll take you both."

7:30 AM - Anvitha's Bridal Preparations

Samaira's POV:

Samaira and Meher had woken at 6 AM, showered, and dressed in their wedding outfits relatively quickly. Samaira wore her stunning red and gold lehenga—the most elaborate outfit she'd brought, reserved specifically for the wedding ceremony. Meher was in a beautiful maroon and silver ensemble that complemented without competing.

They'd done their makeup carefully—more dramatic than previous days, befitting the importance of the occasion—and now made their way to Anvitha's room to help the bride get ready.

The room was organised chaos. Anvitha sat in front of a large mirror, wearing her bridal saree—a breathtaking red and gold Kanjeevaram silk with intricate zari work that must have cost a fortune. Her makeup artist was working on her face while a hairstylist pinned fresh flowers into her elaborate updo.

Anvitha's mother, Revathi, Samaira's mother, Lakshmi, and Meher's mother, Shanti, were all there too, supervising, offering suggestions, occasionally tearing up at how beautiful the bride looked.

"Oh, Chinni, Meher!" Lakshmi said when they entered. "You both look stunning! Come, help with Anvitha's jewelry."

The next hour was spent in careful preparation—draping Anvitha's veil perfectly, arranging her jewellery (heavy gold necklaces, earrings, bangles, a maang tikka that sparkled in the light), making sure every detail was flawless.

"I can't believe this is happening," Anvitha said, her voice shaky with emotion. "I'm getting married. Today. In like two hours."

"You're getting married to the love of your life," Samaira corrected, squeezing her friend's shoulder. "To someone who adores you and will make you happy."

"I know. I'm not scared of the marriage part. I'm scared of tripping while walking to the mandap. Or crying so hard I ruin my makeup. Or forgetting the wedding vows."

"You won't trip, we'll have tissues ready for the crying, and the priest will prompt you through the vows," Meher assured her. "You're going to be perfect."

There was a soft knock on the door, and Revathi went to answer it. She opened it to find Rishaan standing there with two older women—one clearly his grandmother, whom Samaira recognised from the engagement, and another elegant woman who must be his mother.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Rishaan said politely. "My grandmother wanted to bless the bride before the ceremony, and my mother as well. Is this a good time?"

"Of course!" Revathi said immediately, opening the door wider. "Please, come in. We're honoured."

Savitri entered first, moving directly to Anvitha with purpose and warmth. "You look beautiful, beta. Absolutely radiant." She placed her hands on Anvitha's head in blessing. "May your marriage be filled with love, laughter, and all the happiness you deserve."

"Thank you, Ammamma," Anvitha said, using the respectful term naturally. "That means so much."

Padma came forward next, more reserved but genuine. "You make a beautiful bride. May you have a blessed marriage and a happy life."

"Thank you, Aunty," Anvitha said, smiling.

Rishaan stood near the door, looking slightly awkward, surrounded by so many women in a bridal preparation space. His eyes found Samaira, and she saw relief in his expression—his anchor in the chaos.

"Lakshmi Aunty," Rishaan called out, and Samaira's mother looked up from where she was adjusting Anvitha's veil.

"Yes, beta?"

Rishaan gestured for his mother to come closer. "Amma, I want you to meet Lakshmi Aunty properly. Samaira's mother."

Padma approached, and Lakshmi immediately smiled warmly. "Padma, it's so good to see you again! We met briefly at the engagement, but there wasn't much time to talk."

"Yes, hello Lakshmi," Padma said, and Samaira noticed how her eyes tracked the easy affection between Rishaan and her mother—how naturally he'd called out to Lakshmi, the warmth in his voice, the comfort in their interaction. Something flickered in Padma's expression—recognition, perhaps, of what her son had found with this family that he'd been missing from his own.

"Your son has been wonderful company this week," Lakshmi continued, oblivious to Padma's internal observations. "So helpful, so respectful. You've raised him well."

"Thank you," Padma said quietly. "He speaks very highly of you and your husband as well."

Samaira, watching this interaction, decided to intervene before it got awkward. She crossed the room to Padma and, without hesitation, hugged her.

Padma seemed surprised by the gesture but returned it after a moment. "Samaira. You look beautiful."

"Thank you, Aunty. I'm so glad you could make it today."

"We wouldn't miss it. Rishaan has been talking about this wedding nonstop."

"It's going to be a beautiful ceremony," Samaira said. "And Anvitha is one of my oldest, dearest friends. I'm so happy everyone's here to celebrate with her."

They chatted for a few more minutes—polite wedding small talk—until Rishaan's phone rang. He glanced at it and immediately tensed.

"It's Ahaan. I need to take this." He stepped slightly away. "Hello?"

Even from across the room, Samaira could hear Ahaan's voice, slightly panicked. "Rishaan, where are you? I'm leaving for the mandap in ten minutes, and I need you here. Veer too. Groom's party is assembling."

"I'm coming right now. Give me five minutes."

He hung up and looked apologetically at the room. "I have to go. Ahaan needs me at the groom's assembly point."

"Go, go!" Revathi said, shooing him. "The bride will be fine here with us. You take care of the groom."

"Nannamma, Amma, we should probably head to the wedding venue as well," Rishaan said. "Find our seats before the ceremony starts."

"Yes, good idea," Savitri agreed. She turned back to Anvitha one more time. "You'll be wonderful, beta. Enjoy every moment."

"Thank you, Ammamma."

As Rishaan, Savitri, and Padma left, Samaira caught Rishaan's eye and mouthed, "See you there."

He mouthed back, "You look beautiful," and then he was gone.

"Your young man is very sweet," Revathi observed, adjusting Anvitha's dupatta.

"He is," Samaira agreed, smiling.

"And his grandmother is lovely," Lakshmi added. "So warm and genuine. You can tell a lot about a person by their family."

"His grandmother raised him more than his parents did," Samaira explained quietly. "That's why he's close to her. His parents are trying now, but it's complicated."

"Family always is," Shanti said wisely. "But what matters is that he's a good man, and he clearly loves you."

"He does," Samaira said softly. "And I love him."

"We know, beta," her mother said, coming over to hug her. "Everyone can see it. You two are good together."

Another knock interrupted them—this time, Anvitha's father came to tell them that the baraat (groom's procession) would arrive in thirty minutes, and Anvitha needed to be ready to make her entrance after.

The room shifted into high gear—final touches on makeup, last adjustments to the saree, checking that all jewellery was secure, making sure tissues were readily available for the inevitable tears.

"Okay," Meher said, taking charge. "Anvitha, you're perfect. Absolutely perfect. Don't touch your face, don't fidget with your jewellery, and remember to breathe."

"Breathe. Right. I can do that."

"You can do more than that," Samaira said firmly, taking her friend's hands. "You can walk down to that mandap with your head high, marry the man you love, and start your beautiful life together. You've got this."

"We've got this," Anvitha corrected. "All of us. Together."

"Always together," Meher agreed.

In the distance, they could hear the sounds of the baraat arriving—drums, music, celebration. The groom was here.

The wedding was about to begin.

Saturday Morning - 9:00 AM - The Groom's Assembly

Rishaan's POV:

Rishaan rushed to the groom's preparation area—a separate section of the wedding venue where Ahaan was supposed to be getting ready with his family. He found his friend pacing back and forth, dressed in an elaborate cream and gold sherwani, looking nervous and slightly panicked.

"Finally!" Ahaan said when he saw Rishaan. "Where have you been?"

"Took my grandmother and mother to bless Anvitha. Sorry, should have texted. What do you need?"

"I need you to tell me I'm not making a mistake. That marriage is a good idea. That I'm ready for this."

Veer appeared from behind a decorative partition, also dressed in formal attire. "Oh good, you're here. He's been spiraling for ten minutes. I've run out of reassuring things to say."

Rishaan grabbed Ahaan's shoulders, making his friend look at him directly. "You're not making a mistake. Marriage to Anvitha is the best decision you'll ever make. You're absolutely ready for this. And if you don't get to that mandap soon, she's going to come drag you there herself."

"She would too," Ahaan said, a small smile breaking through his anxiety.

"She absolutely would," Veer confirmed. "Now come on, the baraat is assembled and waiting. Your family is ready. It's time."

The baraat procession was spectacular—Ahaan riding a decorated white horse, drums playing, family members dancing, the whole group making their way through the village to the wedding venue. Rishaan and Veer walked alongside the horse, keeping Ahaan company, occasionally shouting encouragement over the noise of celebration.

When they arrived at the venue—a beautifully decorated outdoor space with a covered mandap at the centre—Ahaan's family performed the traditional welcoming ceremony with Anvitha's family. Then it was time for the groom to approach the mandap.

"Okay," Rishaan said as Ahaan dismounted from the horse. "We need to get the girls. They're supposed to escort Anvitha."

"I'll get Meher," Veer said, already heading toward where the bride's party was assembling.

Rishaan spotted Samaira standing with Anvitha near the main house, both of them watching the baraat's arrival. He made his way through the crowd to them.

"Ready?" he asked Samaira.

"Ready. How's Ahaan?"

"Nervous but good. He just needs to see her, and he'll be fine."

Meher arrived with Veer, and the four friends formed a protective circle around Anvitha.

"Okay," Samaira said, taking charge. "Meher and I will walk on either side of you. Veer and Rishaan will walk slightly ahead, making sure the path is clear. We walk slowly, dignified, no rushing."

"I'm going to trip," Anvitha said, her voice tight with nerves.

"You're not going to trip," Meher said firmly. "We've got you. Literally holding your arms. You couldn't trip if you tried."

"Deep breaths," Samaira added. "Look at Ahaan waiting at the mandap. Focus on him. Everything else is just decoration."

They began the walk. The crowd parted, everyone, turning to watch the bride's entrance. Anvitha looked breathtaking—her red and gold saree catching the sunlight, her jewellery sparkling, her face a mixture of nervousness and joy.

Rishaan and Veer led the way, gently redirecting any guests who got too close, making sure the path stayed clear. Behind them, Samaira and Meher flanked Anvitha, each holding one of her arms for support, matching their pace to hers.

When they reached the mandap, Ahaan's face transformed. All his nervousness evaporated, replaced by pure love and awe as he watched Anvitha approach.

"See?" Samaira whispered to Anvitha. "Look at his face. That's why we're here."

Anvitha's eyes filled with tears, but she was smiling.

They helped Anvitha up the steps to the mandap and guided her to sit beside Ahaan. The priest began immediately, starting the traditional wedding ceremony with prayers and rituals.

Once the bride and groom were settled and the ceremony officially began, the friend group quietly descended from the mandap, giving the couple and their immediate families space for the sacred rituals.

"That was perfect," Meher said, wiping tears from her eyes. "She looked so beautiful. They both did."

"Very smooth execution," Veer agreed. "No trips, no disasters. I'm proud of us."

"The hard part's done," Rishaan said. "Now they just have to get through three hours of ceremony without passing out from the heat."

"Practical concerns," Samaira said, already thinking ahead. "We should check on water bottles, make sure the shade canopy over the mandap is secure, and confirm the photographers know when the important moments are happening."

"You're very organised," Rishaan observed.

"Someone has to be. Come on, let's split up. Meher and Veer, check on the catering and make sure lunch is on schedule. Rishaan and I will handle the venue logistics and coordinate with the photographers."

They dispersed, each pair handling their assigned tasks. Rishaan found himself impressed, as always, by Samaira's ability to shift from emotional friend to efficient problem-solver in seconds.

As they walked through the venue checking various details, Rishaan spotted Vamshi standing near the guest seating area, apparently also surveying the arrangements.

"Uncle," Rishaan called out, approaching him.

"Rishaan beta. How's everything going?"

"Good so far. The ceremony's started, everyone's in place. I'm just checking that—" he gestured vaguely at the venue, "—everything is running smoothly."

"Smart. Always good to have someone coordinating logistics during these events." Vamshi smiled. "Though I'm surprised you're out here handling practical matters instead of watching the ceremony."

"Ahaan doesn't need me to watch him get married. He needs me to make sure nothing goes wrong while he's getting married. Big difference."

"That's good friendship."

They walked together, Vamshi pointing out a few things that might need attention—a flower arrangement that was wilting in the sun, a sound system speaker that seemed to be crackling, a section of guest seating that looked overcrowded.

"You have a good eye for this," Rishaan observed. "Event management."

"Years of practice. When Samaira was younger, Lakshmi and I helped organise countless school functions, community events, and family gatherings. You learn to spot problems before they become disasters."

They continued their circuit of the venue, falling into easy conversation about logistics and planning. Rishaan felt that familiar comfort he always experienced with Vamshi—the sense of being valued, listened to, treated as an equal rather than a subordinate.

9:45 AM - A Father's Observation

Rakesh's POV:

Rakesh Chowdary stood near the mandap with his wife, Padma, ostensibly watching the wedding ceremony. But his attention kept drifting to his son.

Rishaan was across the venue, walking with Samaira's father, Vamshi, both of them clearly discussing something related to the event logistics. They looked comfortable together—like they'd known each other for years rather than days.

"He looks happy," Padma observed quietly, following her husband's gaze.

"He does."

"And comfortable. With that man. Vamshi."

"Yes."

They watched as Vamshi placed a hand on Rishaan's shoulder, saying something that made their son laugh. The gesture was casual, affectionate—the kind of touch Rakesh realised he rarely gave his own son.

"They've bonded," Padma continued. "Rishaan and Samaira's parents. I noticed it this morning too, when he called for Lakshmi. There was such warmth in his voice."

"He's found what he was looking for," Rakesh said, and there was something heavy in his voice. "What we never gave him."

Padma turned to look at her husband. "What do you mean?"

"Parental affection without conditions. Pride without qualifications. Support without expectations of return." Rakesh watched as Vamshi gestured to something, and Rishaan immediately went to investigate, then reported back. "Vamshi treats our son like a son. Not like a business asset or a reflection of family reputation. Like a person he genuinely cares about."

"We're trying to do better," Padma said, though her voice was uncertain.

"We are. But years of distance—that's hard to overcome. And watching this—" he nodded toward where Rishaan and Vamshi were now joined by Lakshmi, all three of them laughing about something, "—it makes me realise how much we failed him."

"Rakesh—"

"I'm not wallowing. I'm observing." He looked at his wife. "Our son is dating their daughter, not even married yet, and they're treating him like family. Lakshmi fusses over whether he's eaten, makes sure he's resting enough. Vamshi talks to him like an equal, asks his opinion, and values his input. They're giving him what we should have given him all along."

Padma was quiet for a moment. "Then maybe we should learn from them. Watch how they interact with him, see what works, and try to incorporate that into our own relationship with Rishaan."

"It's that simple?"

"No. But it's a start."

They continued watching the ceremony, but Rakesh's attention kept returning to his son, who was now introducing Vamshi to someone else, both men shaking hands, easy smiles all around.

10:00 AM - Introductions

Rishaan's POV:

As Rishaan finished coordinating with the caterer about the timing for lunch service, he noticed his father approaching. Rakesh looked slightly uncomfortable, out of place in the organised chaos of wedding logistics.

"Nanna," Rishaan greeted him, surprised. "Is everything okay? Do you need something?"

"I'm fine. I just—" Rakesh paused, seemed to gather himself. "I noticed you were with Samaira's father. I'd like to meet him properly. We only exchanged brief greetings at the engagement."

"Oh. Of course." Rishaan looked around and spotted Vamshi near the drinks station. "Uncle is just over there. Come on."

They walked over, and Vamshi looked up with a welcoming smile as they approached.

"Uncle," Rishaan said, "I wanted to properly introduce you to my father. Nanna, this is Vamshi Uncle, Samaira's father. Uncle, this is my father, Rakesh Chowdary."

"Rakesh ji," Vamshi said warmly, extending his hand. "It's good to see you again. Thank you for making the trip to the wedding."

"Vamshi ji," Rakesh replied, shaking his hand. "The pleasure is ours. It's a beautiful ceremony."

"It is. Anvitha and Ahaan make a wonderful couple." Vamshi paused, then added with genuine warmth, "And your son has been invaluable these past few days. So helpful with organising, so supportive of his friends. You've raised a good man."

Rakesh seemed momentarily taken aback by the compliment. "Thank you. That's—thank you."

"I mean it. The way he takes care of Samaira, the way he engages with our family, the respect he shows—that speaks to his character."

"He's learned a lot from his grandmother," Rakesh said, and there was something almost apologetic in his tone. "She raised him more than we did, in many ways."

"Then she did an excellent job," Vamshi said diplomatically. "Though I'm sure you and your wife contributed as well."

They talked for a few more minutes—polite conversation about the wedding, the weather, and general pleasantries. But Rishaan could sense an undercurrent of something between them—his father's stiffness gradually easing under Vamshi's natural warmth, perhaps seeing in this man what good parenting actually looked like.

Finally, Vamshi excused himself to check on his wife, leaving Rishaan and Rakesh standing together.

"He's a good man," Rakesh said after a moment.

"He is. Both of Samaira's parents are."

"They care about you. Genuinely."

"They do."

Rakesh looked at his son, and Rishaan saw something conflicted in his expression—pride mixed with regret, approval mixed with recognition of his own failures.

"I'm glad you have them," Rakesh said finally. "I'm glad Samaira brought them into your life."

Before Rishaan could respond, Samaira appeared, slightly breathless. "The priest just signalled—they're about to do the thali ceremony. We need to be on the mandap for it."

"Right, yes." Rishaan turned to his father. "I should go."

"Go. We'll talk later."

Rishaan followed Samaira back toward the mandap, where they found Meher and Veer already gathering.

"Big moment coming," Meher said, pulling out her phone to record. "The actual marriage part."

"I can't believe this is happening," Veer said, watching Ahaan, who was clearly nervous again. "Our friend is getting married."

"One of us had to go first," Samaira said. "Might as well be them."

They climbed onto the mandap quietly, positioning themselves behind and to the side of the couple so they wouldn't obstruct anyone's view but could still be close for this important moment.

The priest was chanting Sanskrit verses, explaining the significance of the thali—the sacred wedding necklace that the groom would tie around the bride's neck, the moment that would officially make them husband and wife.

Ahaan was holding the thali, his hands shaking slightly. Anvitha was looking up at him, tears streaming down her face, her smile radiant despite the crying.

"You ready?" the priest asked Ahaan in Telugu.

"Ready," Ahaan confirmed, his voice rough with emotion.

He raised the thali, and the entire venue seemed to hold its breath. Then, carefully, reverently, he tied it around Anvitha's neck—the three knots that symbolised their union, their commitment, their future together.

The moment the third knot was tied, the venue erupted. Drums beat, guests cheered, flower petals rained down on the couple, and someone set off a small firecracker celebration outside.

The friend group immediately surrounded the newly married couple, all of them crying, laughing and hugging.

"You're married!" Samaira said, squeezing Anvitha tightly. "You did it!"

"We did it," Anvitha corrected, pulling Ahaan into the hug. "We're married!"

"Mr and Mrs.!" Meher announced, also crying. "This is so beautiful! I'm so emotional!"

"Group hug!" Veer declared, and suddenly all six of them were in one chaotic embrace on the mandap while the photographer frantically took pictures and guests watched with indulgent smiles.

Rishaan caught Samaira's eye over Anvitha's shoulder, and she smiled at him—one of those smiles that said: "This will be us someday."

And he smiled back, a promise and a confirmation: "Yes. This will absolutely be us."

Saturday Afternoon - 1:30 PM - Wedding Lunch

After the ceremony concluded and all the traditional blessings were given, lunch was served in a large dining area adjacent to the wedding venue. Long tables groaned under the weight of an elaborate spread—traditional Andhra cuisine, multiple curries, biryanis, sweets, and endless varieties of accompaniments.

The newly married couple—Anvitha and Ahaan, now officially husband and wife—were immediately surrounded by relatives wanting to congratulate them, take photos, offer unsolicited marriage advice, and generally prevent them from eating in peace.

The friend group noticed this developing problem immediately.

"Okay, intervention time," Samaira declared, watching an aunty corner Anvitha with what looked like a lengthy story. "They need to actually eat lunch, not just stand there being polite to every relative."

"Agreed," Meher said. "Operation: Give the Newlyweds Space. Everyone, take a position."

They executed their plan with military precision. Veer positioned himself near the lunch buffet, loudly announcing that the special wedding sweets were being served at the dessert station—drawing a significant portion of the crowd away. Meher intercepted a group of aunties heading toward Anvitha with the excuse that the bride needed to fix her makeup. Samaira and Rishaan literally created a physical barrier, standing between the couple and incoming relatives, politely but firmly redirecting everyone.

"But I just want to—" one uncle started.

"You can congratulate them at the reception tonight," Rishaan said pleasantly but with finality. "Right now, they need to eat. Doctor's orders. Wedding ceremony dehydration is very serious."

"That's not a real medical condition—"

"Would you like to risk it?" Samaira asked with a sweet smile that somehow conveyed she would not be moved.

The uncle retreated.

Finally, with the crowd successfully managed, Anvitha and Ahaan were able to sit at a relatively quiet table with just their friend group, actually eating food instead of performing social obligations.

"Thank you," Anvitha said gratefully, taking her first real bite of biryani in hours. "I was about to pass out from hunger."

"That's what we're here for," Meher said. "Strategic crowd control."

"You're all the best," Ahaan added, also eating with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been upright and fasting through a three-hour ceremony. "Seriously, this is exactly what we needed."

They ate together, the conversation flowing easily—reminiscing about the ceremony's beautiful moments, teasing Ahaan about how nervous he'd looked, complimenting Anvitha's composure despite her tears.

"So," Veer said as they finished eating, "we need to discuss travel logistics for tonight. The reception in Hyderabad starts at 7 PM. That's—" he checked his watch, "—about five and a half hours from now. It's a three-hour drive from here."

"We should leave by 3:30 at the latest," Samaira calculated. "That gives us time to drive, arrive by 6:30, change into reception outfits, and be ready before guests start arriving."

"Who's driving with whom?" Meher asked.

There was a pause as everyone looked at each other, mentally calculating vehicle capacity and compatibility.

"Actually," Rishaan said slowly, an idea forming, "Ahaan and Anvitha should take my Ferrari. Just the two of them."

Everyone turned to look at him.

"Your Ferrari?" Ahaan repeated. "Just us?"

"Just you two. You're newlyweds. You should have privacy to process everything that just happened, to talk without an audience, to just be together." Rishaan shrugged. "The Ferrari's a two-seater anyway. Perfect for a couple. The rest of us can pile into Veer's car."

"That's actually really thoughtful," Anvitha said, looking touched. "But are you sure? That's your car—"

"I'm sure. Take it. Consider it my wedding gift—a private, romantic drive as husband and wife."

Ahaan and Anvitha exchanged glances, communicating silently, then both smiled.

"Thank you," Ahaan said sincerely. "That means a lot."

"So the rest of us in my car then," Veer confirmed. "That's four people—totally doable. Comfortable even."

"Rishaan can take the front passenger seat since he's the tallest," Meher suggested. "Samaira and I will take the back."

"Works for me," Samaira agreed.

3:30 PM - Departure

After changing out of their formal wedding clothes into more comfortable outfits for travelling—Samaira in loose cotton pants and a comfortable kurta, Rishaan in jeans and a t-shirt—the group assembled in the parking area.

All their parents had left earlier, wanting to get to Hyderabad with plenty of time to rest before the evening reception. Samaira had hugged her parents goodbye, received the usual instructions about driving safely and eating properly, and watched them drive off with mixed feelings about not travelling together.

But she understood the reasoning—the friend group needed this time together, one last journey before everyone scattered back to their regular lives.

Rishaan handed his Ferrari keys to Ahaan with mock seriousness. "Take care of her. She's sensitive about gear changes."

"I'll treat her like a princess," Ahaan promised.

"That's my car you're talking about, not your wife."

"I'll treat them both like princesses."

"Good answer."

Anvitha hugged each of them goodbye—long, emotional hugs that made her tear up again.

"We'll see you in literally three hours," Meher pointed out, also tearing up. "Why are we acting like this is a forever goodbye?"

"Because it's the end of an era," Anvitha said. "After today, everything is different. I'm married. We're all growing up."

"We're not that grown up," Veer protested. "We still act like children most of the time."

"Speak for yourself," Samaira said, climbing into the back seat of Veer's spacious SUV.

"I am speaking for myself. I'm a child in an adult's body."

"That's accurate," Meher confirmed, getting in beside Samaira. "Now drive, child-adult. We have three hours ahead of us."

Rishaan settled into the front passenger seat, immediately adjusting it to accommodate his longer legs, while Veer took the driver's seat and started the engine.

They pulled out of the village behind the Ferrari—watching Ahaan and Anvitha drive off first, Anvitha waving out the window like a departing queen—and then they were on the highway, heading back toward Hyderabad.

3:45 PM - The Journey Begins

The first part of the journey was filled with conversation—rehashing the wedding, discussing the most emotional moments, laughing about various relatives' reactions, speculating about the reception tonight.

"I can't believe it's actually over," Meher said from the back seat. "Three days of festivities, and now it's done."

"Not done," Samaira corrected. "We still have the reception tonight and the Satyanarayana vratam tomorrow morning."

"Okay, almost done. The main event is over."

"The main event was beautiful," Rishaan said, glancing back at them. "Anvitha looked so happy."

"They both did. You could see how much they love each other in every look, every gesture." Samaira smiled. "That's what it should be like."

"That's what it will be like," Meher said meaningfully. "For all of us, eventually."

The conversation drifted to lighter topics—Veer's terrible driving habits (according to Meher), Meher's backseat driving (according to Veer), Rishaan's surprising skill at wedding logistics, Samaira's emotional crying during the ceremony.

"I did not cry that much," Samaira protested.

"You absolutely did," Rishaan said. "I counted. Four separate crying moments."

"That's a normal amount for a wedding!"

"It's above average. The average is two to three crying moments."

"How do you know the average?"

"I made it up. But it sounds right."

In the back seat, both Samaira and Meher were starting to feel the exhaustion of the past few days catching up with them. The early mornings, late nights, constant activity—it was all hitting at once.

Samaira felt her eyes getting heavy, the steady motion of the car and the comfortable seats making it hard to stay awake. Beside her, Meher was already dozing, her head tilted against the window.

"You two should sleep," Veer said, glancing in the rearview mirror. "We've got at least two more hours. Rest while you can."

"I'm not tired," Samaira said, even as she yawned.

"Very convincing. Sleep, Samaira. We'll wake you when we're close to Hyderabad."

Samaira let her eyes close, intending to rest them for just a moment. But within minutes, she was asleep, lulled by the car's movement and her own exhaustion.

5:45 PM - Rest Stop Swap

About two hours into the drive, Veer started feeling the fatigue himself. The wedding had been long, the ceremony had been in full sun, and driving in highway traffic required constant attention.

In the back seat, Meher had woken up and was looking at him with concern.

"You're tired," she observed.

"I'm fine."

"You're blinking too much. And you just yawned three times in two minutes."

"I'm fine," he repeated, but even he didn't sound convinced.

"Pull over at the next rest stop," Rishaan said from the passenger seat. "I'll drive the rest of the way. You should rest."

"You sure?"

"Positive. I'm wide awake, and you're clearly struggling."

"I'm not struggling—"

"Veer, I love you, but shut up and pull over," Meher said. "Let Rishaan drive."

At the next rest stop—a small dhaba with parking and basic facilities—Veer pulled over gratefully. Everyone got out to stretch, use the restroom, and swap positions.

"Okay, new configuration," Rishaan said, getting out of the passenger seat. "I'll drive. Veer, you take the back seat with Meher so you can actually rest properly. Samaira—" he looked at her, still groggy from her nap, "—front seat with me."

"But then Veer and Meher can't sit together—"

"We want to sit together," Meher interrupted, already guiding Veer toward the back seat. "I want to cuddle while he sleeps. You sit up front and keep Rishaan company."

Samaira moved to the front passenger seat, settling in as Rishaan adjusted the driver's seat and mirrors to his preferences. In the back, Veer was already reclining against Meher, her arms around him, both of them getting comfortable.

"Everyone good?" Rishaan asked, starting the engine.

A chorus of sleepy affirmatives came from the back seat.

They pulled back onto the highway, and within minutes, both Veer and Meher were asleep—Veer with his head on Meher's shoulder, Meher with her cheek resting on his head, both of them looking peaceful and comfortable.

"I should stay awake," Samaira said, fighting against the drowsiness still pulling at her. "Keep you company while you drive."

"You don't have to," Rishaan said, his eyes on the road. "I'm fine. You should rest."

"I want to keep you company. But—" she shifted uncomfortably, wincing slightly, "—my feet are absolutely killing me. These heels at the wedding were beautiful but deadly."

Rishaan glanced at her, then made a decision. "Put your feet up on my lap."

"What?"

"Feet up on my lap. Grab that pillow from behind you, put it against the door, lean your back against it, and stretch your legs across so your feet are in my lap. You can sleep like that, and I can help with your feet."

"Shaan, you're driving—"

"I can drive one-handed. Highway driving is easy. Now stop arguing and get comfortable before I pull over and physically arrange you myself."

Samaira knew that tone—the one that meant he'd made up his mind and wouldn't be dissuaded. She grabbed the small travel pillow from behind her seat, wedged it against the passenger door, and carefully manoeuvred so she was sitting sideways, her back against the pillow and door, her legs stretched across the seat with her feet resting in Rishaan's lap.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

"Actually, yes. Very comfortable."

"Good. Now sleep."

"But—"

"Sleep, Ira. I've got everything handled."

Rishaan kept his right hand on the steering wheel, maintaining a steady, careful pace on the highway. His left hand rested on Samaira's feet, occasionally pressing gently against her arches and heels, providing relief to muscles that had been compressed in heels for hours.

The car fell into peaceful silence—just the sound of the engine, the highway noise, the steady breathing of three sleeping passengers.

Samaira tried to stay awake, tried to keep Rishaan company as she'd intended. But the combination of exhaustion, comfort, and the soothing pressure of his hand on her feet made it impossible. Within ten minutes, she was asleep, her head tilted slightly against the window pillow, her breathing deep and even.

Rishaan drove in the quiet, keeping his pace steady, his attention on the road. Occasionally, he glanced at Samaira, checking that she was comfortable, then returned his focus to driving. His left hand continued its gentle pressure on her feet, almost automatically, muscle memory of caring for her even while concentrating on something else.

Two hours passed in this peaceful silence—all three of his passengers sleeping, Rishaan alone awake but content with the responsibility of getting them safely to Hyderabad.

7:45 PM - Coffee Stop

As they neared Hyderabad—about thirty minutes from their destination—Veer and Meher began to wake up naturally. Both of them stretched, disoriented for a moment, then remembered where they were.

"How long was I asleep?" Veer asked groggily.

"About two hours," Rishaan said. "We're almost there. Maybe thirty minutes out."

"I need coffee," Meher announced. "Like, desperately need coffee. There's a Starbucks at the next exit—can we stop?"

"Absolutely. I could use coffee too."

"What about Samaira?" Veer asked, noticing her still asleep in the front seat.

"I'll wake her when we stop. Let her sleep until then."

Rishaan took the exit that led to a familiar commercial area with restaurants and shops. He pulled into the Starbucks parking lot but didn't park immediately.

"You two go ahead and order," he said to Veer and Meher. "I'll park and wake Samaira. You know what she usually gets right?"

"Iced caramel macchiato," Meher said immediately. "With an extra shot. Always."

"Great." He pulled out his phone and quickly texted their coffee preferences to Veer. "Order for both of us. We'll be in shortly."

Veer and Meher got out of the car, stretching and yawning, and headed toward the Starbucks entrance. Rishaan found a parking spot in a quieter corner of the lot and carefully parked, not wanting the motion to startle Samaira awake.

He turned off the engine and looked at her—still sleeping peacefully, her face relaxed, one hand tucked under her cheek, her feet still in his lap.

"Bangaram," he said softly. "We're here. Time to wake up."

Samaira made a small sound of protest but didn't wake.

"Ira," he tried again, slightly louder. "Coffee stop. You need to wake up."

She stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering but not opening. Instead, she shifted position, leaning toward him sleepily, seeking his warmth and proximity even while unconscious.

Rishaan smiled, charmed by her unconscious trust. He needed to wake her properly, but he could do it gently.

He leaned over carefully, one hand supporting her shoulder, and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "Wake up, beautiful. We're at Starbucks."

Another kiss, this time on her temple. "Come on, Ira. Coffee awaits."

A third kiss on her cheek. "If you don't wake up, I'm ordering you decaf."

That did it. Samaira's eyes opened, unfocused and sleepy but definitely open. "You wouldn't dare."

"There she is," Rishaan said, grinning. "Welcome back."

"Where are we?" She looked around, disoriented, still half-asleep.

"Starbucks. About thirty minutes from Hyderabad. Veer and Meher went ahead to order. I texted them our drinks."

"Oh." She was slowly waking up, processing. "How long was I asleep?"

"About two hours. You were exhausted."

"I was supposed to keep you company."

"You did. You were excellent company." He handed her a water bottle from the cup holder. "Drink. You're probably dehydrated."

Samaira drank gratefully, the cold water helping wake her up fully. She pulled down the visor mirror and made a face at her reflection—hair messy from sleeping, face slightly creased from the pillow, eyes still heavy with sleep.

"I look terrible."

"You look like someone who just had a very good nap. There's a difference."

She quickly tried to tidy her appearance—smoothing her hair, pulling it back into a neater ponytail, splashing a little water on her face from the bottle. Not perfect, but presentable.

"Better?" she asked.

"You looked fine before. But yes, very presentable now. Ready to face the world?"

"Ready to face coffee. The world can wait."

They got out of the car—Samaira stretching carefully, her feet still slightly sore but better after Rishaan's impromptu massage during the drive—and walked toward the Starbucks entrance.

Just as they reached the door, another car pulled into the parking lot. A very familiar red Ferrari.

"Is that—" Samaira started.

"Ahaan and Anvitha," Rishaan confirmed, as the newlyweds emerged from the car, also looking like they'd been napping. "Looks like everyone had the same idea about needing coffee."

They waited for the couple to join them, and then all four friends entered the Starbucks together—tired but happy, almost home, ready for one more evening of celebration before this wedding weekend finally concluded.

8:00 PM - Starbucks

Inside the coffee shop, the six friends found Veer and Meher already seated at a large corner table with drinks waiting. The group collapsed into chairs gratefully, everyone looking tired but content.

Samaira reached for her iced caramel macchiato and took a long sip, feeling the caffeine begin to work its magic. She was still groggy, her brain moving more slowly than usual, the exhaustion of the past few days catching up with her all at once.

"Okay," Ahaan said, pulling out his phone with the efficiency of someone running through a checklist. "Veer, did you confirm everyone's hotel rooms for tonight?"

"Done," Veer confirmed, also looking at his phone. "I booked a block of rooms at my family's hotel—one for each couple, plus separate rooms for all the parents. Everyone's already checked in, actually. Your parents, Anvitha's parents, Samaira's parents, Rishaan's parents and grandmother—all settled."

"And transportation for tomorrow morning to your house for the vratam?"

"Three cars are arranged. Pickup at 8 AM from the hotel, should get everyone to your place by 8:30. The vratam starts at 9, right?"

"Right. Perfect." Ahaan made a note in his phone. "Reception venue is confirmed, caterers are set up, photographer is ready. I think we're good."

"Very organised," Rishaan observed. "For someone who got married like six hours ago."

"I'm a lawyer. Organisation is my default setting."

"Even on your wedding day?"

"Especially on my wedding day."

They drank their coffee, the conversation flowing but more subdued than usual—everyone tired, processing the long day, gathering energy for the evening's reception ahead.

Samaira leaned against Rishaan's shoulder, still fighting sleep despite the caffeine. He wrapped an arm around her automatically, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her shoulder.

"You okay?" he asked quietly, just for her.

"Mmm. Just tired. And my brain feels like it's moving through honey."

"The reception is only a few hours. You can make it through, then sleep as much as you want."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

After finishing their coffee—Samaira getting through about half before admitting defeat—they all headed back to their cars for the final thirty-minute drive to Hyderabad.

8:45 PM - The Hotel

They arrived at Veer's family's hotel—an upscale property in central Hyderabad with elegant decor and excellent service. The reception was being held in the hotel's grand ballroom, which meant they just needed to go to their rooms, get ready, and take the elevator down.

"Rooms 504 and 506 for Rishaan and Samaira," Veer said, handing over key cards. "Right next to each other. Very convenient."

"Why do we have separate rooms if we're right next to each other?" Samaira asked, confused.

"Because your mother specifically requested that you have separate rooms," Veer explained. "Something about 'maintaining propriety' and 'not before marriage.' Her exact words."

Rishaan tried not to laugh at Samaira's expression—a mixture of embarrassment and exasperation.

"My mother is very traditional," Samaira said with resignation.

"Your mother is very sensible," Rishaan corrected. "And I respect that. Separate rooms, it is."

They said temporary goodbyes to the group—everyone heading to their respective rooms to shower and change. In the elevator, Veer and Rishaan immediately started discussing logistics.

"The ballroom setup was completed at 7 PM," Veer said, pulling up information on his phone. "Catering is on schedule, bar is stocked, DJ is setting up the sound system now. I need to go check that everything meets standards."

"I'll come with you," Rishaan offered. "Make sure lighting and seating arrangements are good. Then we can both get ready."

"Perfect."

They dropped off Meher and Samaira at their floor, then continued down to the lobby level to inspect the ballroom preparations. Samaira let herself into room 504, immediately toeing off her shoes with relief.

The room was beautiful—a king bed with crisp white linens, modern furnishings, a large window overlooking the city, and a spacious bathroom. Her wedding reception outfit was already hanging in the closet—she'd sent it ahead with her parents earlier—and her makeup and jewellery were neatly arranged on the dresser.

She had about an hour and fifteen minutes before the reception officially started. Time to shower, do full hair and makeup, and get dressed in the elaborate outfit she'd chosen for tonight.

9:15 PM - Getting Ready

Rishaan's POV:

After spending thirty minutes with Veer ensuring the ballroom setup was perfect, Rishaan finally made it to his room—506, right next door to Samaira. He showered quickly, letting the hot water wash away the exhaustion of the long day, then wrapped himself in the hotel robe and began the process of getting ready.

His outfit for tonight was hanging in the closet—a sophisticated dark blue sherwani with intricate silver embroidery, more formal than anything he'd worn during the previous days' events. This was a proper reception, with business associates and professional contacts in attendance, not just friends and family.

Which reminded him—he needed to talk to Samaira about something.

He glanced at the time. 9:20 PM. She'd been in her room for about thirty-five minutes. Probably halfway through getting ready.

He pulled on casual clothes—track pants and a t-shirt—and knocked on the door connecting their rooms. There was a connecting door between 504 and 506, presumably at Veer's family's hotel for exactly this kind of situation.

"Come in!" Samaira's voice called from the other side.

Rishaan opened the door and found Samaira exactly as he'd predicted—halfway through getting ready. She was wearing her reception outfit—a stunning deep navy blue lehenga with gold and silver embroidery that somehow managed to be both elegant and striking. Her hair was styled in loose curls, pinned partially up, and she was currently working on her eye makeup.

"Hey," she said, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "What's up?"

"I needed to ask you something. About tonight."

"Okay, what?" She continued applying eyeliner with practised precision.

"Some of my business clients are going to be at the reception tonight. European clients who flew in specifically for this—I mentioned the wedding during our last video conference, and they asked if they could attend. Ahaan said yes, obviously."

"That's nice of them," Samaira said, now working on the other eye.

"It is. But I wanted to ask—is it okay if I introduce you to them? As my girlfriend, my partner. Some of these people are important professional contacts, and I'd like them to know about you."

Samaira paused, eyeliner wand hovering mid-air, and turned to look at him directly. "Of course it's okay. Shaan, I'm not some secret you need to hide. I'm proud to be with you, and I'm happy to meet your professional contacts."

"You're sure? I know sometimes mixing professional and personal can be complicated—"

"I work in Formula 1. Everything is mixed professional and personal. I'm used to it." She turned back to the mirror, finishing her eyeliner. "Besides, if they're important to you professionally, then they're important to me too. I want to know the people you work with."

"Thank you." He came closer, standing behind her, hands resting on her shoulders. "What time do you think the reception will wrap up?"

"Ahaan said around midnight, probably. Maybe 12:30 at the latest. Why?"

"Just planning. After the reception, there's the vratam tomorrow at 9 AM, and then—" he met her eyes in the mirror, "—then you're leaving. Monday afternoon flight back to Italy."

Her expression shifted to something sadder. "Don't remind me. I'm trying not to think about it."

"I know. But we need to plan. I want to maximise every minute we have left."

"After the vratam tomorrow, we'll have the rest of the day. Just us. No wedding events, no obligations. We can do whatever we want."

"That sounds perfect."

They looked at each other in the mirror for a moment—both thinking about the goodbye looming on Monday, neither wanting to voice it.

"Okay, enough sadness," Samaira said, breaking the moment. "Help me with my necklace? The clasp is being difficult."

Rishaan carefully fastened the heavy gold and emerald necklace around her neck—part of a full jewellery set that complemented her lehenga perfectly. His fingers brushed the nape of her neck, and he felt her shiver slightly.

"You're making it very hard to focus on getting ready," she said, her voice slightly breathless.

"Sorry. I'll behave." But he pressed a quick kiss to her shoulder before stepping back. "You look incredible, by the way. That colour is stunning on you."

"Thank you. Now get out of here so I can finish my makeup, and you can go get dressed in your own room."

"So demanding."

"So necessary. Otherwise, we'll both be late."

Rishaan returned to his room through the connecting door, leaving it slightly ajar. He could hear Samaira moving around, the sound of jewellery clinking, her humming softly to herself.

He got dressed methodically—the sherwani, the straight pants, the mojari shoes, carefully styled his hair, and made sure everything looked sharp and professional. This was technically a social event, but with business clients present, appearance mattered.

When he was ready, he went back through the connecting door to check on Samaira's progress.

She was putting on her earrings—the final touch—and when she turned to face him, his breath caught.

"Wow," he said simply.

"Good wow or bad wow?"

"Very good, wow. You're—" he searched for words, "—you're stunning. Absolutely stunning."

She smiled, pleased. "You clean up pretty well yourself. That sherwani is perfect on you."

"We coordinate well."

"We do everything well together." She grabbed her phone. "We should take pictures. We look too good not to document this."

They took selfies—both of them together, him kissing her cheek while she laughed, her adjusting his collar while he watched her with obvious affection. The photos were beautiful, capturing not just how good they looked but how happy they were together.

"One more," Samaira said, setting up the phone on the dresser with a timer. They positioned themselves in front of it—his arms around her waist, her leaning back against him—and smiled as the camera clicked.

"Perfect," she said, reviewing the photos. "I'm sending these to the group chat immediately."

Before she could, there was a knock on her room's main door—not the connecting door to Rishaan's room, but the hallway entrance.

Rishaan went to answer it and found Vamshi and Lakshmi standing there, both dressed in elegant formal wear for the reception.

"Uncle, Aunty," Rishaan greeted them warmly. "You both look wonderful."

"Thank you, beta," Lakshmi said, then looked past him to see Samaira. "Oh, Chinni! You look beautiful!"

"So do you, Amma!" Samaira came over to hug her parents. "That saree is gorgeous."

"Your father chose it," Lakshmi said with a smile. "He has surprisingly good taste for a man who wears the same three shirts on rotation at home."

"They're comfortable shirts," Vamshi defended.

"They're old and faded."

"Comfortable and old and faded. The perfect combination."

Rishaan laughed, enjoying their banter. "Would you like to come in? We were just taking pictures."

"Actually, we were hoping to take some pictures with you both," Lakshmi said. "Before the reception starts and everything gets chaotic."

"Of course!" Samaira said immediately.

They spent the next ten minutes taking photos—Samaira with her parents, Rishaan with Samaira's parents (which felt natural and right), Samaira and Rishaan together while her parents photographed them.

"One of all four of us," Vamshi suggested. "Set the phone up as you did before."

Samaira positioned her phone on the coffee table, set the timer, and they arranged themselves—Vamshi and Lakshmi seated on the couch, Rishaan and Samaira standing behind them, all four smiling as the camera captured this moment of family.

"Perfect," Lakshmi said, reviewing the photo. "I'm framing this one."

"You're framing everything these days," Samaira teased.

"I have a lot to be proud of. Now come on, we should head down. The reception starts in twenty minutes, and Anvitha and Ahaan will need us there."

10:00 PM - The Reception

The hotel ballroom had been transformed into an elegant reception venue—sophisticated lighting, beautifully decorated tables, a stage for the newlyweds, a dance floor already gleaming and waiting. Guests were arriving in a steady stream, all dressed in their finest, ready to celebrate.

Samaira entered with her parents and Rishaan, immediately spotting Anvitha and Ahaan at the entrance, greeting guests. Anvitha had changed into a different reception saree—lighter than her wedding saree, easier to move in, but still absolutely stunning.

"You made it!" Anvitha said, hugging Samaira carefully to avoid messing up either of their outfits. "You look incredible!"

"So do you! How are you holding up?"

"Exhausted but happy. So, so happy."

The evening proceeded with the typical reception timeline—formal introductions of the bride and groom, speeches from family members, dinner service, cake cutting, and first dance. The friend group stayed close, supporting the newlyweds, making sure everything ran smoothly.

Around 11 PM, during the more social mingling portion of the evening, Rishaan touched Samaira's elbow gently.

"My clients just arrived. Would you like to meet them?"

"Absolutely. Lead the way."

They made their way through the crowd—Rishaan naturally taking her hand, the gesture protective and affectionate—to where a group of well-dressed European businesspeople were standing with drinks, surveying the reception with interest.

Rishaan's parents, Rakesh and Padma, were already there, engaged in polite conversation with the clients. They looked up as Rishaan and Samaira approached.

"Ah, Rishaan!" one of the men said—tall, blonde, Swedish accent. "There you are! Congratulations on your friends' wedding. Beautiful ceremony, I'm sure."

"Thank you for coming, Henrik. It means a lot." Rishaan turned to Samaira. "Everyone, I'd like you to meet Samaira Reddy. My girlfriend."

He made introductions—Henrik Larsson from Sweden, Claudia Bianchi from Italy, and Thomas Müller from Germany, all of them senior executives at companies that contracted with Rishaan's tech consultancy firm.

"Samaira Reddy," Claudia repeated, her eyes narrowing slightly with recognition. "Wait—Samaira Reddy? Ferrari?"

Samaira smiled, used to this recognition in professional circles. "Yes, that's me. I'm the principal engineer for Ferrari's Formula 1 team."

"Oh my god!" Claudia's professional demeanour broke into genuine excitement. "I knew I recognised your name! I follow F1 religiously! You're the engineer who—the Monaco victory two years ago, that was your strategy!"

"It was a team effort," Samaira said modestly, "but yes, I was the principal engineer for that race."

"That was brilliant!" Henrik added, also clearly a racing fan. "The tyre strategy, the pit stop timing—it was textbook perfect execution."

Thomas was looking between Rishaan and Samaira with dawning understanding. "Wait, you're dating the Ferrari principal engineer? Rishaan, you dark horse, you never mentioned this!"

"I wanted to keep some things private," Rishaan said, but he was smiling, clearly pleased that his clients recognised Samaira's accomplishments. "But yes, Samaira and I have been together for several months now."

Rakesh and Padma were watching this interaction with interest. Padma looked particularly struck by how the European clients reacted to Samaira—with genuine professional respect and excitement, treating her as an equal in achievement to their own business success.

"You must travel constantly," Claudia said to Samaira. "The F1 schedule is brutal."

"It is. I'm actually leaving Monday for Britain, then Belgium for the final races of the season. Then three months off before next season starts."

"And you manage long-distance?" Henrik asked, looking between them. "That's impressive. My wife travels for work, and even two weeks apart is difficult."

"We make it work," Samaira said, and Rishaan squeezed her hand. "Communication, planning, and making the most of the time we do have together."

"Speaking of which," Thomas said to Rishaan, "you mentioned coming to Munich for that conference in January. Will Samaira be joining you?"

"If she can," Rishaan said, glancing at her. "Her schedule is tighter than mine, but we're trying to coordinate."

They talked for another fifteen minutes—about racing, about business, about the challenges of maintaining relationships across distances and demanding careers. The European clients were engaging and genuinely interested, asking Samaira intelligent questions about her work, clearly impressed by her expertise.

When the conversation naturally concluded and the clients moved to get more drinks, Padma approached Samaira and Rishaan.

"That was impressive," she said quietly to Samaira. "The way they recognised you, respected you. You've built something remarkable in your career."

"Thank you, Aunty," Samaira said, surprised but pleased by the compliment.

"And Rishaan—" Padma turned to her son, "—I'm proud of you. For finding someone who matches your ambition and drive. For building a relationship based on mutual respect and partnership."

It was perhaps the most genuine compliment Padma had ever given Rishaan, and he felt emotion tighten his throat.

"Thank you, Amma."

Rakesh joined them, having overheard. "Your clients speak very highly of you," he said to Rishaan. "Henrik mentioned you've tripled their software efficiency. That's significant."

"It's what they hired me to do," Rishaan said modestly.

"It's more than that. It's excellence in execution." Rakesh paused. "I should have said this earlier, but I'm proud of what you've built, Rishaan. Independent of our family business, based entirely on your own merit and expertise. That takes courage and skill."

Rishaan looked at his father—really looked at him—and saw genuine pride there. Not the qualified, conditional pride of his childhood, but real acknowledgement of his achievements.

"Thank you, Nanna. That means a lot."

The reception continued around them—music playing, people dancing, celebrating the newlyweds. But for Rishaan, standing with Samaira and his parents, finally receiving the recognition and acceptance he'd always wanted, this moment felt significant.

He was building something real—with Samaira, with her family, and now, finally, with his own parents.

Everything was coming together.

And it felt exactly right.

Saturday Night - 11:45 PM - Winding Down

The reception was beginning to wind down. Most of the guests had already left, offering final congratulations to the newlyweds before departing. Only close family and the friend group remained, helping to wrap up the final details, chatting in small clusters around the nearly empty ballroom.

Samaira spotted her mother near the exit, talking with Anvitha's mother Revathi about something that was making them both laugh. She excused herself from the conversation she'd been having with some of Ahaan's relatives and made her way over.

"Amma," Samaira said, pulling her mother aside slightly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, beta. What is it?"

Samaira lowered her voice, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed. "Did you ask Veer to book separate rooms for me and Rishaan? He said you specifically requested that we have separate rooms for 'propriety' and 'not before marriage.'"

Lakshmi's face went through several expressions in rapid succession—confusion, realization, and then pure amusement. She started laughing, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Amma, what—"

"Oh, beta," Lakshmi said, still laughing. "No. I absolutely did not ask for separate rooms."

"You didn't?"

"No! Samaira, you should know by now that I'm not that traditional. You and Rishaan are adults. You're both approaching thirty, you've been together for months, and I trust you to make your own decisions about your relationship. Why would I suddenly insist on separate rooms?"

Samaira felt realization dawning. "That—Veer played us. He completely made that up!"

"It sounds like something Veer would do," Lakshmi agreed, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Probably thought it was hilarious to make you both think I was being strict about propriety."

"I'm going to kill him," Samaira said, but she was smiling now, already planning her revenge.

"You should. But first—" Lakshmi pulled her daughter into a hug, "—I love that you checked with me. That you wanted to make sure you weren't violating some boundary I'd set. That's respect, and I appreciate it."

"I would never want to disrespect you or Nanna," Samaira said, hugging her mother back.

"I know, beta. And for the record, I trust you and Rishaan completely. Whatever decisions you make about your relationship, I know they'll be thoughtful and mutual and appropriate for where you are together."

Samaira pulled back and kissed her mother's cheek impulsively. "Thank you, Amma. For being so understanding and supportive."

"Always, Chinni. Now go get your revenge on Veer. I want to hear all about it later."

"Oh, you will. This is going to be legendary."

Samaira scanned the ballroom, her eyes narrowed with determination, searching for her target. She spotted Veer near the stage, talking with Ahaan and Rishaan about something, all three men laughing about whatever story was being told.

She marched over with purpose, and Veer must have recognized the look on her face because his expression immediately shifted from relaxed to wary.

"Samaira! Hi! You look lovely tonight—"

"Veer," she interrupted sweetly. "My mother just told me something very interesting."

"Oh?" Veer took a small step backward. "What's that?"

"She said she never asked for separate rooms for Rishaan and me. Never said anything about propriety or tradition. In fact, she said she trusts us to make our own decisions as adults."

Veer's eyes widened. "Did she? That's—that's interesting—"

"So that means," Samaira continued, taking a step toward him, "you completely made up that story about my mother requesting separate rooms. You lied to us. For entertainment."

"Now, Samaira, let's think about this rationally—"

"I'm thinking about it very rationally. And rationally, I'm going to murder you."

Veer turned and ran.

"Veer!" Samaira shouted, chasing after him. "Get back here!"

"No! I want to live!" Veer shouted back, dodging around a table.

Since the venue was now only family and close friends—no guests to witness the chaos—no one stopped them as they tore through the ballroom. Veer ran toward the exit, Samaira hot on his heels, both of them moving with the speed of people who'd clearly done this before.

"This is assault!" Veer called over his shoulder.

"This is justice!" Samaira shot back.

They ran through the hotel corridor, around a corner, past the elevators, Veer desperately looking for escape while Samaira maintained pursuit with the determination of someone who'd been running and training her whole life.

Back in the ballroom, everyone was watching with varying degrees of amusement.

"Should we stop them?" Meher asked.

"Absolutely not," Anvitha said. "This is the best entertainment all night."

"What did Veer do?" Ahaan asked Rishaan.

"No idea," Rishaan admitted. "But Samaira looks very determined, so it must have been good."

They heard footsteps pounding back toward the ballroom, and Veer burst through the doors with Samaira right behind him. He tried to dodge around the stage, but Rishaan—finally understanding that his help was needed even without knowing the reason—stepped into Veer's path.

"Rishaan, move!" Veer pleaded. "She's going to kill me!"

"What did you do?" Rishaan asked, but he was already positioning himself to intercept.

"Nothing! I did nothing wrong!"

"He lied about my mother!" Samaira announced, nearly catching up. "He said she requested separate rooms for us because of tradition and propriety—complete fabrication!"

Rishaan's expression shifted from confused to understanding to amused betrayal. "You lied about Aunty? Veer, that's low even for you."

"It was funny!"

"It was manipulation!"

Rishaan grabbed Veer from behind in a loose hold—not actually restraining him seriously, but enough to stop the chase. Veer struggled halfheartedly, knowing he'd been caught.

"Rishaan, we're friends! Brothers! You're supposed to have my back!"

"I'm supposed to have my girlfriend's back," Rishaan corrected. "And you lied to both of us."

Samaira caught up, slightly breathless but triumphant. "Thank you, Shaan. Now hold him steady."

"Wait, Samaira, let's talk about this—"

"Oh, we're going to talk about it." She crossed her arms. "But first, I have a question. Since you were so concerned about propriety and tradition and separate rooms—are you and Meher staying in separate rooms tonight?"

Veer suddenly looked very uncomfortable. "That's—that's different—"

"Are you?" Samaira pressed.

"We're in the same room," Veer admitted quietly.

"What was that? I couldn't hear you."

"We're sharing a room!" Veer said louder. "Meher and I are sharing a room! Are you happy now?"

"Very happy," Samaira said with satisfaction.

Rishaan, who had been holding Veer loosely, suddenly tightened his grip and delivered a light punch to Veer's shoulder—playful but with enough force to make his point.

"That's for the lying," Rishaan said.

Another light punch to the other shoulder. "That's for the double standard."

"Ow! Rishaan! We're friends!"

"Friends don't make up stories about mothers requesting separate rooms!" Rishaan delivered one more light punch—this one to Veer's back. "And that's for being a hypocrite."

"Okay! Okay! I'm sorry! I apologize! It was a joke!"

"A joke that backfired spectacularly," Meher said, having appeared beside them. "Veer, you're an idiot."

"You're supposed to defend me!"

"Why? You lied, got caught, and now you're facing the consequences. This is called accountability."

By now, everyone was laughing—even Veer, who had finally been released by Rishaan and was rubbing his shoulders with exaggerated pain.

"I'm wounded," Veer declared dramatically. "Emotionally and physically wounded by my supposed friends."

"You'll survive," Samaira said unsympathetically. "And next time, don't lie about my mother. She's lovely and trusting and doesn't deserve to be used as a prop in your pranks."

"Noted. Lesson learned. Lakshmi Aunty is off-limits for future pranks."

"All mothers are off-limits," Rishaan added firmly.

"Fine. All mothers are off-limits. Happy now?"

"Very," Samaira said, then ruined the stern effect by grinning. "Though I have to admit, the chase was kind of fun."

"Fun for you," Veer muttered. "I thought I was going to have a heart attack."

"You run a hotel empire. You should have better cardio."

"I run a business empire from a desk! My cardio is walking to meetings!"

The tension broken, everyone started gathering their things, preparing to finally leave the reception venue. Anvitha and Ahaan were saying final goodbyes to family members, the hotel staff were beginning cleanup, and the friend group was clustering together for the walk to the elevators.

"Okay," Ahaan said, doing a final headcount. "Everyone's staying in the hotel tonight, yes? No one's driving anywhere?"

"All here," Rishaan confirmed. "We're all on the same floor, right?"

"Fifth floor. Rooms 501 through 510," Veer confirmed. "Newlyweds in the suite at the end, rest of us scattered in between, all the parents on the floor below."

"Perfect. Vratam tomorrow at 9 AM at our house," Ahaan reminded everyone. "Cars picking us up from the hotel at 8 AM. Don't be late."

"We won't be late," Meher promised. "Now come on, I'm exhausted and I want to get out of these heels."

They made their way to the elevators as a group—tired but happy, the wedding weekend nearly complete, just one more event tomorrow before everyone scattered back to their regular lives.

In the elevator, Samaira leaned against Rishaan, his arm coming around her automatically. Across from them, Veer was still rubbing his shoulder with exaggerated pain while Meher rolled her eyes at him.

"You're such a baby," Meher said.

"I'm injured! I need sympathy!"

"You need to stop lying to our friends."

"That too."

The elevator dinged at the fifth floor, and they all filed out, saying sleepy goodnights as they headed to their respective rooms.

Rishaan walked Samaira to her door—room 504—even though his room was literally right next door.

"That was quite a chase," he said, smiling down at her.

"He deserved it. Making up stories about my mother like that."

"He did deserve it. Though I have to admit, I'm glad your mother isn't actually that traditional about separate rooms."

"Me too. Though we're still in separate rooms anyway since Veer already booked them."

"True. But at least now it's our choice, not a parental mandate."

"Exactly."

They stood there for a moment, neither wanting to say goodnight, both tired but reluctant to separate.

"Tomorrow," Rishaan said finally. "After the vratam. We'll have the whole afternoon and evening, just us."

"I'm counting on it. We need to talk about Monday."

"I know. But not tonight. Tonight we just sleep and prepare for one more morning of wedding obligations."

"Deal."

He kissed her goodnight—slow and sweet and full of meaning—then reluctantly pulled away.

"Sleep well, bangaram."

"You too, Shaan. See you in the morning."

She let herself into her room, and he went next door to his own. Through the walls, they could hear Veer and Meher in their shared room, still bickering about the prank.

Samaira smiled, changed into comfortable pajamas, and collapsed into bed.

One more day. One more ceremony. And then she'd have to say goodbye again.

But not yet.

For now, she could just sleep, surrounded by the people she loved, grateful for this weekend of celebration and joy.

Tomorrow would come soon enough.

Saturday Night - 12:15 AM

Samaira's POV:

After Rishaan left, Samaira quickly changed out of her elaborate reception lehenga into comfortable cotton pyjamas—soft pants and a loose t-shirt that felt like heaven after hours in formal wear. She carefully hung up the lehenga, not wanting to damage the intricate embroidery, and began the process of organising her things for tomorrow.

The vratam ceremony in the morning required a simple saree—already laid out on the chair. Her flight back to Italy was Monday afternoon, which meant she needed to start consolidating her luggage, making sure she hadn't forgotten anything scattered between the hotel room and her parents' place.

She was folding clothes and arranging them in her suitcase when she heard the connecting door between their rooms open quietly.

"Samaira?" Rishaan's voice was subdued and tired.

She turned to see him standing in the doorway, freshly showered, wearing track pants and a t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp. But it was his expression that caught her attention—slightly pained, one hand pressed to his temple.

"Hey," she said, immediately concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Do you have any headache tablets? I have a splitting headache—probably from all the chaos, the noise, the exhaustion catching up. I checked my bag and realised I didn't pack any painkillers."

"Of course. Sit down." She gestured to the edge of her bed, already moving to her toiletry bag where she kept a small pharmacy of medications. "When did it start?"

"About twenty minutes ago. Thought it would pass, but it's getting worse."

Samaira found the paracetamol, shook out two tablets, and grabbed a glass of water from the bedside table. She brought both to him, watching as he settled onto the edge of her bed with visible relief at sitting down.

"Here," she said, handing him the tablets and water. "Take both. Have you eaten anything recently?"

"Had some food at the reception, but that was hours ago."

"The tablets will work better with food, but they should still help." She stood in front of him, between his legs as he sat on the bed's edge, her hand gently touching his forehead to check for fever. "You don't feel warm. Probably just tension and exhaustion."

He took the tablets, drank the entire glass of water, and set it aside. Then, without warning, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against her stomach, his arms coming around her waist loosely, seeking comfort in her presence.

Samaira felt her heart clench at the gesture—so vulnerable, so trusting. Her hands automatically moved to his hair, running through the still-damp strands gently, her fingers making small circular motions against his scalp.

They stayed like that for several minutes, Samaira standing, Rishaan leaning against her for support, her fingers working through his hair in a soothing massage. She could feel him gradually relaxing, the tension in his shoulders easing, his breathing deepening.

"Does the massage help?" she asked softly.

"Mmm," he hummed in affirmation, the sound muffled against her shirt. "Feels good."

"Good." She continued for another minute, then gently stepped back, causing him to look up at her questioningly. "Lie down properly. Head on the pillow. I can massage better that way."

"I'm okay like this—"

"Rishaan," she used her no-nonsense tone—the one that meant she wouldn't be argued with. "Lie down. Now."

He recognised that tone and smiled slightly despite his headache. "Yes, ma'am."

She moved to sit on the bed, her back against the headboard, and patted her lap. "Come on. Head here."

"Ira, you don't have to—"

"Shaan. Head. Lap. Now."

He finally surrendered, shifting to lie down properly, his head settling onto her lap, his long frame stretched out across her bed. The position was intimate but comfortable, his body finally able to fully relax.

Samaira leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, then began massaging his temples in slow, circular motions. His eyes closed immediately, a small sigh of relief escaping.

"Better?" she asked.

"Much better."

She worked methodically—temples, then along his hairline, then through his hair with gentle pressure against his scalp. She'd learned from experience that this was the best way to ease his tension headaches, the combination of pressure and motion somehow more effective than medication alone.

"You take care of everyone else all day," she said quietly as she worked. "Making sure Ahaan was okay, coordinating with Veer on logistics, entertaining your business clients, and being present for your parents. When do you take care of yourself?"

"I'm okay," he mumbled, but his voice was already getting slower, sleepier.

"You're exhausted. And in pain. That's not okay."

"Better now. You're taking care of me."

"Someone has to."

She continued the massage, her fingers moving through his hair, occasionally returning to his temples when she felt tension there. Gradually, his breathing evened out, his body going completely lax, the lines of pain around his eyes smoothing away.

"Ira?" he said quietly, his voice thick with approaching sleep.

"Hmm?"

"I should go back to my room. Let you sleep."

"You can stay here. Sleep here tonight."

He was quiet for a moment, and she thought he might protest, but then: "Your mother—"

"My mother doesn't care, remember? Veer lied about that. And besides, you're in pain and exhausted. I'm not making you move to another room when you're comfortable here."

"I don't want to impose—"

"Shaan, you're not imposing. You're my boyfriend, you're in pain, and I want you here." She paused, then added with deliberate lightness, "Unless you don't want to deal with my cuddling. I'm a very clingy sleeper. Fair warning."

That made him smile, even with his eyes closed. "I want the cuddling. I want to stay."

"Then stay."

"Okay," he agreed quietly. "I'll stay."

Samaira continued massaging for a few more minutes, until she was certain he'd fallen asleep—his breathing deep and even, his face completely relaxed, the headache apparently fading under the combination of medication and comfort.

Carefully, she shifted position, sliding down so she was lying beside him rather than sitting up. He stirred slightly, instinctively reaching for her, and she moved into his arms naturally, her head tucked under his chin, his arms around her waist.

"Thank you," he mumbled into her hair, still half-asleep.

"Shh. Sleep. I've got you."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

Within minutes, they were both asleep—tangled together, comfortable and warm, the exhaustion of the long day finally claiming them both.

Outside the hotel window, Hyderabad's lights glittered against the night sky. Tomorrow would bring one more ceremony, one more gathering of family and friends. And Monday would bring goodbye, at least for a little while.

But for now, in this moment, they had each other. They had this peace, this comfort, this certainty of being exactly where they belonged.

And that was more than enough.

Sunday Morning - 7:00 AM

Lakshmi's POV:

Lakshmi walked down the hotel corridor toward Samaira's room, planning to wake her daughter early so they'd have plenty of time to get ready for the 9 AM vratam ceremony. They needed to leave the hotel by 8 AM, which meant starting preparations now.

As she approached room 504, she noticed another woman standing outside room 506—Rishaan's room. Padma Chowdary, dressed in a simple cotton saree, looked uncertain as she stood before the door, her hand raised as if to knock but hesitating.

"Padma ji, good morning," Lakshmi greeted warmly.

Padma turned, looking slightly embarrassed to be caught hesitating. "Oh, Lakshmi ji. Good morning."

"Is everything alright? You look troubled."

Padma glanced back at the door. "I came to wake Rishaan—we need to get ready for the ceremony. But I rang the bell once, and he didn't answer. Now I'm not sure if I should ring again or let him sleep. He looked so exhausted last night."

Lakshmi smiled knowingly. "He's probably not in his room."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he's most likely with Samaira. In her room." Lakshmi said this matter-of-factly, without judgment. "Those two don't waste any opportunity to be together, especially when time is limited. And knowing my daughter, if Rishaan wasn't feeling well last night—which he wasn't, I noticed his headache—she would have insisted he stay with her."

Padma looked surprised, then thoughtful. "You don't mind? That they're—"

"Sharing a room? Why would I mind? They're adults, Padma ji. They love each other, they're committed to each other, and they're mature enough to make their own decisions." Lakshmi pulled out a keycard from her purse. "I asked Veer for an extra key to Samaira's room. For emergencies, and also for mornings like this when I need to wake her up."

"That's very... progressive of you."

"That's very practical of me," Lakshmi corrected gently. "Come on, let's wake them both up together."

She knocked firmly on Samaira's door, then called out, "Samaira? Beta? It's Amma. I'm coming in."

"Come in!" Samaira's voice called from inside, slightly hoarse from sleep.

Lakshmi swiped the keycard and pushed the door open, stepping inside. The room was dim—curtains still drawn against the morning light—but she could make out two figures on the bed.

Samaira was sitting up, rubbing her eyes sleepily, her hair messy from sleep, wearing simple cotton pyjamas. Rishaan was beside her, and even as Samaira sat up, he unconsciously moved closer, his head finding her lap like a heat-seeking missile, clearly not fully awake yet.

"Good morning, Amma," Samaira said through a yawn, then noticed her mother wasn't alone. "Oh. Good morning, Aunty."

Padma stepped into the room, taking in the scene with what looked like amusement mixed with something softer—maybe recognition of the genuine affection between them, maybe a touch of envy at their easy intimacy.

"Morning, beta," Lakshmi said, moving to the windows and pulling open the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, making Samaira wince and Rishaan make a small sound of protest, burrowing further into her lap.

"Why is Rishaan looking like a ghost in his sleep?" Lakshmi asked, observing how pale and exhausted he looked despite the rest. "This boy needs better sleep."

"He had a terrible headache last night," Samaira explained, her hand unconsciously moving to stroke his hair. "Came over around midnight asking for painkillers. I gave him medicine and made him stay here so I could make sure he was okay."

"Headache?" Lakshmi frowned with concern. "Did he eat enough yesterday? Drink enough water?"

"He did, but the day was so long, and he was running around handling logistics, taking care of everyone—I think it just caught up with him."

"Or nazar," Lakshmi said decisively. "Evil eye. This boy is too handsome and was too visible yesterday, helping everyone, looking after things. Someone gave him nazar."

Padma looked sceptical. "You really believe in evil eye?"

"Absolutely. And when someone is as handsome and capable as your son, clearly working hard and being admired by everyone—yes, nazar happens." Lakshmi pulled out her phone and dialled. "Room service? Yes, this is room 504. Can you please send up rock salt? The coarse kind used for nazar removal. And three coffees—" she glanced at Padma, "—do you drink coffee, Padma ji?"

"I do, yes."

"Make that four coffees. Two with less sugar, two regular. And quickly, please, we need to leave soon. Thank you."

She hung up and turned to Samaira, who was still stroking Rishaan's hair, the motion clearly unconscious, soothing for both of them.

"Beta, wake him up properly now. We need to get ready."

"Okay, Amma." Samaira looked down at Rishaan, her fingers continuing their gentle motion through his hair. "Shaan. Wake up. We have company."

"Five more minutes," Rishaan mumbled, his eyes still closed.

"We don't have five more minutes. Come on, wake up."

"Don't want to. Comfortable."

Samaira gave her mother an apologetic look, then tried again. "Rishaan. My mother is here. And your mother. You need to wake up."

That got through. Rishaan's eyes opened slowly, squinting against the bright sunlight. He started to stretch, started to shift position, started to say something—then his brain apparently caught up with Samaira's words.

His eyes widened. He looked at Samaira, who widened her own eyes meaningfully and tilted her head slightly toward the rest of the room.

Rishaan turned his head slowly and registered two things: Lakshmi standing by the window, looking amused, and his own mother standing near the door, also looking amused but also something else—maybe pleased? Maybe touched?

"Good morning," he said, his voice rough from sleep, and pushed himself into a sitting position with as much dignity as someone could muster when clearly just woken up in his girlfriend's bed. "Amma. Aunty. I can explain—"

"No need," Lakshmi said before he could continue. "Samaira already explained. Headache, medicine, staying to make sure you were okay. All very reasonable."

"Very reasonable," Padma echoed, and there was something warm in her voice. "Though next time, beta, maybe text me so I'm not standing outside your empty room wondering if you've vanished."

"Sorry, Amma. I didn't think—"

"You were in pain and exhausted. Of course, you didn't think." She moved further into the room. "How's the headache now?"

"Better. Much better. Samaira took care of me."

"I can see that."

There was a knock on the door, and Lakshmi opened it to reveal room service with a tray—four coffees and a small bowl of coarse rock salt.

"Perfect timing. Come in, set it on the table."

The server arranged everything on the coffee table, and Lakshmi tipped him before he left. She picked up the bowl of rock salt and turned to face Rishaan and Samaira.

"Both of you, stand up. Quickly now."

"Amma, really?" Samaira protested, but she was already getting up, pulling Rishaan with her. "The evil eye thing?"

"Yes, the evil eye thing. Now stand still."

Lakshmi moved the rock salt in circles around both of them—around their heads, down their bodies, the traditional nazar removal ritual. She muttered prayers under her breath, protective verses meant to ward off negative energy and jealous looks.

Padma watched with interest—not scepticism now, but genuine curiosity. When Lakshmi finished with the ritual, she went to the bathroom to wash her hands, the rock salt disposed of as tradition required.

"There," she said, returning. "Better. Rishaan, you'll feel much more yourself now."

"Thank you, Aunty," Rishaan said, and despite any personal beliefs about whether the evil eye was real, he looked genuinely touched by the maternal care.

"Now, everyone, sit. Have coffee. We need to discuss timing for this morning."

They settled around the coffee table—Samaira and Rishaan on the couch, Lakshmi in the armchair, Padma in the other chair. The coffee was exactly as ordered—two less sweet for Lakshmi and Padma, two regular for the younger two.

"The cars are coming at 8 AM," Lakshmi began, sipping her coffee. "That's one hour from now. Both of you need to shower, get dressed in proper clothes for the vratam—Samaira, your yellow saree is appropriate, Rishaan, do you have something?"

"I have a white kurta pajama set. Will that work?"

"Perfect. Traditional and respectful." She turned to Padma. "And you and Rakesh ji are ready?"

"We're ready. Just needed to collect Rishaan from wherever he'd disappeared to." Padma smiled slightly. "Though I should have guessed where he'd be."

"He's in love," Lakshmi said simply. "Of course, he'd be with Samaira whenever possible. That's how it should be."

"Yes," Padma said quietly, looking at her son who was sitting close to Samaira, their shoulders touching, her hand in his. "That's how it should be."

They drank their coffee in comfortable silence for a moment, the warmth of the drinks and the morning sun creating a peaceful atmosphere.

"You know," Padma said, addressing Lakshmi, "I admire how you handle them. With trust and understanding rather than rules and restrictions."

"They're adults," Lakshmi repeated. "They've proven they're responsible and thoughtful. Why would I treat them like children who need constant supervision?"

"My parents did that with Rishaan. Constant expectations, constant oversight. I'm realising now—" she glanced at her son, "—that we should have trusted him more. Given him more freedom to be himself."

"You're learning now," Lakshmi said gently. "That's what matters. And from what I've seen this weekend, you and Rakesh ji are making genuine efforts to change. That takes courage."

"It does. And having examples like you and Vamshi helps. Seeing how you interact with Samaira, how you've welcomed Rishaan—it shows us what healthy parent-child relationships can look like."

Samaira and Rishaan exchanged glances, both moved by this conversation happening around them but including them.

"Okay," Lakshmi said, checking her watch. "Enough emotional conversation. It's 7:20. Rishaan, go to your room, shower, and get ready. Samaira, you do the same here. We reconvene in the lobby at 7:55. Move, both of you."

They moved.

Rishaan stood, taking his coffee with him. "Thank you for the coffee, Aunty. And the nazar removal. I do feel better."

"Good. Now go get ready."

He paused at the connecting door between the rooms, turned back to Samaira. "See you downstairs."

"See you downstairs."

Their eyes held for a moment—a private conversation in glances that needed no words—and then he was gone, disappearing through the door to his own room.

Padma stood as well. "I should go check on Rakesh. Make sure he's ready."

"Good idea. Men are terrible at timing."

After Padma left, closing the door behind her, Samaira turned to her mother.

"Thank you, Amma. For being so understanding. And for doing the nazar thing—I know you don't have to believe in it, but it meant something to him that you cared enough to do it."

"I do believe in it, actually. And even if I didn't, taking care of the people we love means doing things that comfort them, even if we don't fully understand the reasoning." Lakshmi stood and kissed her daughter's forehead. "Now shower. Get dressed. Last day of wedding celebrations, and then tomorrow—" she paused, emotion flickering across her face, "—tomorrow you leave again."

"I know, Amma. But in December, I'll be back for three months. We'll have so much time together."

"I'm counting on it. Now go. The clock is ticking."

Samaira hugged her mother tightly, grateful for her understanding, her support, her unconditional love.

Then she grabbed her clothes and headed for the shower, ready to face one more day of celebrations before the goodbye she was dreading.

Sunday Morning - 7:50 AM - Ready to Leave

Samaira emerged from her room at exactly 7:50 AM, dressed in a simple but elegant yellow cotton saree appropriate for the vratam ceremony, her hair neatly braided with fresh jasmine flowers woven through, minimal jewellery, and light makeup. She looked fresh and put-together despite the late night.

Rishaan was already waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall outside her room. He was wearing his white kurta pajama set—crisp and traditional, looking every bit the respectful family friend attending a sacred ceremony.

"Ready?" he asked, pushing off the wall as she locked her door.

"Ready. Everyone else is probably already downstairs."

They walked toward the elevators together, and Rishaan reached for her hand, their fingers intertwining naturally.

"We should talk about timing," he said as they waited for the elevator. "For tomorrow. Your flight."

"I know. We need to plan the rest of today and tomorrow morning."

The elevator arrived empty, and they stepped in, finally having a moment of relative privacy.

"Okay, so," Samaira began, mentally organising the logistics. "After the vratam and lunch today, I need to arrange for my parents to get back to Vijayawada. Nanna has work tomorrow, so they'll want to leave this afternoon."

"You need a driver?"

"Yes. Someone reliable who can drive their car back to Vijayawada and then return to Hyderabad on their own. Do you know anyone?"

"I do, actually. One of the drivers we use for my businesses—very reliable, good driver, trustworthy. I'll forward you his contact right now." Rishaan pulled out his phone and quickly sent the contact information to Samaira. "Text him the details, and he'll sort it out."

"Thank you. That's one thing handled." She continued thinking out loud. "After my parents leave, I need to go back to my flat and pack everything for Italy. Clothes, equipment, documents—everything I need for the next three weeks of racing."

"How long will that take?"

"Maybe two hours? I'm pretty organised, but I need to make sure I don't forget anything important."

"Okay. So here's what I'm thinking." Rishaan paused, looking suddenly shy—an expression that was rare on him and therefore utterly endearing. "After you pack at your flat, could we spend the remaining time at my place?"

"Your place?"

"Yes. My flat. You came to my building for gym sessions, but you've never actually been inside my apartment. Not once in all these months." He looked at her with those eyes that made her weak. "I want you to see where I live. Spend time in my space. Wake up there tomorrow morning before I drive you to the airport."

Samaira felt her heart melt. "You want me to see your flat."

"I want you to be in my space. I want to make you breakfast tomorrow morning in my kitchen. I want—" he paused, gathering his thoughts, "—I want you to have memories of being in my home before you leave for three weeks."

"Shaan," she said softly, touching his face. "Of course, we can spend the time at your place. That sounds perfect."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. So the plan is: vratam, lunch with the group, see my parents off with the driver, go to my flat to pack everything, then head to your place for the evening and night. Wake up tomorrow at your flat, and you drive me directly to the airport from there."

"Perfect plan." He kissed her quickly as the elevator reached the lobby. "I love you."

"I love you too."

9:00 AM - The Vratam Ceremony

The Satyanarayana vratam was held at Ahaan's family home—a beautiful traditional house in an older neighbourhood of Hyderabad, with a spacious prayer room that had been decorated for the ceremony.

The ritual itself was sacred and solemn—Ahaan and Anvitha sitting together as a married couple for the first time for a religious ceremony, the priest chanting Sanskrit verses, family members participating in the prayers, the air thick with the scent of incense and flowers.

Samaira sat with her parents and Rishaan's family, watching her best friend go through this traditional blessing ceremony. It was beautiful and meaningful, and she found herself tearing up multiple times—partly from happiness for Anvitha, partly from the realisation that this entire wedding journey was coming to an end.

The ceremony lasted about two hours, followed by the traditional prasadam distribution—blessed food that everyone ate as part of the ritual's conclusion.

After everything concluded, the friend group found themselves in a quiet corner of Ahaan's family garden, away from the older relatives, all six of them together for what felt like the first time in days without wedding obligations pulling them in different directions.

"We actually did it," Veer said, looking around at all of them. "Survived an entire week of wedding festivities. I'm exhausted."

"But it was beautiful," Meher added, leaning against him. "Exhausting but beautiful."

"When are you leaving?" Anvitha asked Samaira suddenly, her voice catching slightly.

"Tomorrow afternoon. 2 PM flight to London, connecting to Italy."

The mood shifted immediately—everyone remembering that their time together was limited, that tomorrow meant goodbye again.

"Then we need one more meal together," Ahaan declared. "All of us. Before everyone goes back to regular life."

"Lunch today," Rishaan suggested. "There's that new restaurant near the neighbourhood—Saffron Gardens. It's supposed to be excellent, and it's convenient for everyone."

"Perfect," Anvitha agreed. "One last meal as a complete group before Samaira leaves and Ahaan and I go on our honeymoon and everyone scatters."

They made plans quickly—leave Ahaan's house around 1 PM, meet at the restaurant by 1:30, have a long, leisurely lunch together before saying proper goodbyes.

The lunch set up was beautiful—elegant but comfortable, with private dining sections that gave them space to talk and laugh without disturbing other guests. The friend group, plus all their parents, gathered around a large table.

The meal was elaborate—appetisers, main courses, desserts, everything ordered family-style so they could share and sample. The conversation flowed easily, mixing nostalgia about the wedding with plans for the future, teasing and laughter punctuating more serious moments.

Samaira found herself memorising everything—the sound of Anvitha's laugh, the way Veer told stories with wild hand gestures, Meher's sarcastic commentary, Ahaan's lawyer precision even in casual conversation, Rishaan's hand finding hers under the table, her parents' comfortable presence across from them.

Three weeks until she'd see most of these people again. Three weeks of racing, travelling, hotel rooms, and missing home.

But she'd get through it. She always did.

As the meal wound down and people began preparing to leave, Samaira quietly excused herself from the table and found her father near the entrance.

"Nanna, can I have the car keys?"

"Why? Are you driving somewhere?"

"Just for a moment. I need to hand them to the driver. He's meeting us here."

Vamshi handed over the Audi keys, looking concerned. "Beta, we can drive ourselves back to Vijayawada. You don't need to arrange a driver."

"Nanna, you're both exhausted. You've been travelling and attending wedding events for days. The driver will take you home safely, and you can both rest in the back seat. Please don't argue."

"Samaira—"

"Nanna. Please. Let me do this for you."

Vamshi studied his daughter's face, saw the determination there, and sighed. "Fine. But I'm paying the driver."

"Already handled. Now let me go talk to him before he thinks we've forgotten him."

Samaira stepped outside the house and found the driver Rishaan had arranged—a middle-aged man named Prakash, standing respectfully beside her father's Audi.

"Prakash ji? I'm Samaira. Rishaan sent me your contact."

"Yes, madam. Rishaan Anna already called and explained everything. I'm to drive your parents to Vijayawada and return to Hyderabad by bus."

"Exactly. Thank you so much for doing this on short notice." She handed him an envelope with cash payment plus extra for the return bus fare and his time. "My father will probably try to pay you. Don't accept it. This is already settled."

"Understood, madam."

"And please drive carefully. They're precious cargo."

"Of course, madam. I've been driving for twenty years. Your parents will be safe."

Samaira went back inside to find her parents preparing to leave, saying goodbye to the group. Rishaan appeared beside her, having clearly been keeping an eye out.

"Driver's here," she told her parents. "Prakash ji. He's waiting by the car."

"Beta, we can drive ourselves—" Lakshmi started.

"Amma, please. You're both tired. Let someone else handle the driving so you can rest. Rishaan arranged everything—the driver is someone he trusts completely."

Rishaan stepped forward. "Uncle, Aunty, Prakash has been driving for my business for three years. He's reliable, safe, and very experienced. He'll get you home safely, and then take the bus back to Hyderabad tonight. Everything is arranged."

Vamshi looked at his daughter, then at Rishaan, then sighed in defeat. "You two are very persistent."

"We learned from the best," Samaira said, smiling at her mother.

"Fine. We accept." Lakshmi hugged her daughter tightly. "But you call us when you get to Rishaan's flat tonight. And tomorrow, before your flight."

"I will, Amma. I promise."

They said their goodbyes to the group—Rishaan's parents and grandmother, the friend group, everyone getting emotional hugs and promises to see each other soon.

Finally, Vamshi and Lakshmi headed out to their car. Samaira and Rishaan followed, wanting to make sure everything was settled with the driver.

Prakash was standing beside the Audi, and when Vamshi approached, he immediately offered a respectful namaste.

"Prakash ji?" Vamshi asked.

"Yes, sir. I'll be driving you to Vijayawada today."

"Thank you. Do you know the route?"

"Samaira madam already gave me the address and all details, sir. I know exactly where to go."

Rishaan approached, speaking to Prakash in Telugu—giving what sounded like additional instructions about rest stops and timing. Prakash nodded seriously, clearly taking the responsibility seriously.

"Anna, Samaira madam already told me everything," Prakash said to Rishaan in Telugu. "I understand. Drive safely, take regular rest stops, call when we arrive."

"Good. These are important people, Prakash. Drive like you're transporting your own parents."

"I will, Anna. I promise."

Vamshi and Lakshmi settled into the back seat of their Audi, both looking relieved to not have to drive the three hours home. Lakshmi rolled down her window.

"Beta, don't stay out too late. Get proper rest before your flight tomorrow."

"I will, Amma. Love you both."

"Love you too, Bangaram," Vamshi said from his side of the car.

As Prakash started the engine and began pulling away, Samaira stood on the sidewalk waving. Rishaan moved to stand beside her, his hand settling naturally on her waist, both of them watching the Audi merge into traffic.

From the back seat, Lakshmi watched her daughter through the rear window—standing there with Rishaan, his arm around her, both of them waving until the car turned a corner and they were out of sight.

"They're good together," Vamshi observed, also watching through the back window.

"They are," Lakshmi agreed. "He takes care of her. She takes care of him. That's how it should be."

"We're lucky," Vamshi said quietly. "That she found someone who loves her like that. Who fits into our family so naturally."

"We are lucky. But so is he. Our daughter is pretty wonderful."

"That she is."

They settled back into their seats, letting the tiredness of the past week finally catch up with them, knowing their daughter was in good hands, knowing that whatever distance separated them, the love and connection remained strong.

Sunday Afternoon - 2:30 PM - Samaira's Apartment

After watching her parents drive away, Samaira and Rishaan his car to her apartment building. The ride was quiet, both of them lost in thought—the reality of tomorrow's goodbye settling over them like a heavy blanket.

"You okay?" Rishaan asked, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand.

"Just thinking about tomorrow. Three weeks feels like a long time."

"It is a long time. But we've done longer before. We can do this."

"I know. Doesn't make it easier, though."

They reached her apartment—a modern building in Jubilee Hills, the flat she'd bought two years ago when she'd started making serious money with Ferrari. It was her Hyderabad sanctuary, decorated simply but elegantly, a place that felt like home even though she was rarely there.

"Okay," Samaira said, surveying her bedroom and the chaos that needed to be organised. "I need to pack for three weeks of racing. Britain, Belgium, and Abu Dhabi. Three different climates, multiple events, team meetings, everything."

"How can I help?" Rishaan asked, already rolling up his kurta sleeves.

"You can help me pull out my suitcases from the top of the closet. I need the large one and the carry-on."

They worked together systematically. Rishaan pulled down luggage while Samaira started sorting clothes—race weekend casual wear, team meetings professional outfits, evening clothes for sponsor dinners, workout gear for hotel gyms.

"Do you always pack this much?" Rishaan asked, watching her create organised piles on the bed.

"Three weeks, three different countries, multiple events per weekend. Yes, I always pack this much." She held up two nearly identical black blazers. "This one is for formal sponsor meetings, this one is for media appearances. Completely different."

"They look exactly the same."

"The buttons are different. And the cut. Completely different blazers."

"If you say so."

She threw a sock at him, which he caught easily, grinning.

The packing process took about ninety minutes. Samaira was meticulous—rolling clothes to save space, using packing cubes to organises by category, double-checking her electronics (laptop, tablet, phone chargers, portable battery packs), her Ferrari team credentials and passes, her passport and travel documents.

"Medication?" Rishaan asked, reading from a checklist on his phone that he'd apparently been making.

"Packed. Painkillers, antihistamines, prescription stuff, vitamins—all in the toiletry bag."

"Workout gear?"

"Three complete sets. In the blue packing cube."

"Formal shoes?"

"Two pairs. In the shoe bags at the bottom of the suitcase."

"Snacks for the flight?"

"Rishaan, that's not on any official packing list."

"It should be. You get cranky on long flights without snacks."

She paused, considered, then added a bag of trail mix and some protein bars to her carry-on. "Fine. Happy?"

"Very."

Finally, everything was packed, organised, and ready. Two large suitcases, one carry-on, one laptop bag. Her entire life for the next three weeks compressed into luggage.

"Done," Samaira announced, zipping the final suitcase. "Everything's ready."

"Good. Now let's get everything to my place." Rishaan started loading bags.

"Right. I'll grab my keys, and we can load everything."

Twenty minutes later, Rishaan's car was loaded with Samaira's luggage, and they were headed across the city to his apartment building—the same building where Samaira came for gym sessions but had never actually visited his flat.

3:45 PM - Rishaan's Apartment

Rishaan's building was in Jubilee Hills, upscale and modern, with excellent security and amenities. Samaira had been to the gym on the ground floor multiple times, but as they took the elevator to the eighth floor, she felt nervous butterflies.

This was his space. His home. Where he lived his daily life when they weren't together.

"Okay, full disclosure," Rishaan said as he unlocked his door. "I didn't know you were coming over until this morning, so I haven't cleaned as thoroughly as I would have if I'd planned this."

"Shaan, I don't care if your apartment is messy—"

She stopped talking as he opened the door and she stepped inside.

The apartment was beautiful. Modern but warm, with an open floor plan that flowed from the living room to the dining area to the kitchen. Large windows overlooked the city, letting in natural light. The furniture was expensive but comfortable-looking—a large sectional sofa, a dining table that could seat eight, and a kitchen with top-of-the-line appliances.

But what caught Samaira's attention were the personal touches. Bookshelves lined with actual books—business texts mixed with fiction, some in Telugu, some in English. Framed photos on the walls and surfaces—his grandmother, his parents from when he was young, his friend group at various gatherings.

And there, on the bookshelf near the window, a photo of Samaira. One she hadn't known he had. From Monaco recently, when Ferrari had won, and she'd been on the podium celebrating with the team. She was laughing in the photo, champagne bottle in hand, pure joy on her face.

"You have a photo of me," she said softly, touching the frame.

"Of course I do." He came to stand behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist. "That was the moment I realised I was in trouble. Watching you celebrate that win, seeing how brilliant and passionate and alive you were—I knew I was falling for you. Even though we barely knew each other then."

"You never told me that."

"I'm telling you now." He kissed her temple. "Come on, let me give you the full tour."

He showed her everything—the living room with its comfortable furniture and collection of tech gadgets, the kitchen that was clearly well-used despite his claims of being a mediocre cook, the home office with its three monitors and impressive setup, the guest bedroom that doubled as storage.

And then his bedroom.

It was masculine but not aggressively so—a large bed with dark blue bedding, minimalist furniture, another bookshelf, and a wall of windows with blackout curtains currently drawn back to let in light.

"This is where you sleep," Samaira said, sitting on the edge of his bed, testing the mattress.

"This is where I sleep," he confirmed. "Though I sleep better when you're with me."

"Smooth."

"Honest." He sat beside her. "We have—" he checked his watch, "—about twenty hours before we need to leave for the airport. What do you want to do?"

Samaira looked at him—this man she loved, who had brought her into his home, who was trying to make these last hours special despite the looming goodbye.

"I want to just be with you. No agenda, no schedule. Just us."

"I can do that." He stood and extended his hand. "But first, you haven't eaten properly since breakfast. I'm making you food."

"Shaan, you don't have to—"

"I want to. Come sit in the kitchen and talk to me while I cook."

4:15 PM - Cooking Together

The kitchen was clearly Rishaan's domain—organised, well-stocked, with ingredients that suggested he actually knew how to use them. He pulled out vegetables, spices, and rice and started prepping with efficient movements.

"What are you making?" Samaira asked, perched on one of the kitchen counter stools, watching him work.

"Vegetable pulao and raita. Simple but good. And I know you like it."

"I do like it."

She watched him cook—the precise way he chopped vegetables, the practised ease with which he heated oil and added spices, the concentration on his face as he monitored multiple pots at once.

"You're better at this than you claim," she observed.

"I've had to learn. Living alone means either cooking or eating out every meal, and eating out gets old."

"Still. This is impressive."

As the rice cooked and the vegetables simmered, Rishaan came around the counter to where Samaira sat. He positioned himself between her knees, hands on her waist, looking up at her with such tenderness that her breath caught.

"I'm going to miss this," he said quietly. "Having you here. In my space. In my home."

"I'm going to miss it too. I wish I'd come over sooner. Seen where you live, been part of your daily life here."

"You're part of it now. And when you come back—" he pulled her closer, "—you'll come here often. Fill this space with your presence until it feels like ours instead of just mine."

"Ours," she repeated, liking the sound of it. "I like that idea."

He kissed her then—slow and deep, one hand moving to cup the back of her head, the other still on her waist. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him impossibly closer, needing to feel every point of contact between them.

The kiss intensified, hands starting to wander, both of them breathing harder, until—

The rice cooker beeped, signaling completion.

They broke apart, both slightly dazed, and Rishaan laughed breathlessly.

"Food first. Then we can continue this."

"Promise?"

"Definitely promise."

They ate at his dining table—the pulao perfectly cooked, the raita cool and refreshing, the conversation flowing easily about everything and nothing. Plans for her races, his business meetings, their friend group's future weddings (Veer and Meher were definitely next), and the three-month break in December.

After eating, they cleaned up together—Samaira washing dishes, Rishaan drying and putting away, moving around each other with easy coordination like they'd been doing this for years.

6:30 PM - The Couch

As the sun began to set, casting golden light through the living room windows, they collapsed onto Rishaan's large sectional sofa. Samaira curled into his side, his arm around her, her head on his chest.

"We should talk about tomorrow," Rishaan said quietly, his fingers playing with her hair.

"I know. But I don't want to."

"Me neither. But we should."

Samaira sat up slightly, facing him. "Okay. Tomorrow. 11:30 AM lunch with everyone at Saffron Gardens. Then you drive me to the airport. Flight at 2 PM."

"And then three weeks apart."

"Three weeks. Britain next weekend, Belgium the weekend after, Abu Dhabi the final weekend."

"And you're coming straight home after Abu Dhabi? Not staying in Italy?"

"Straight home. I land in Hyderabad on December 1st. And then I'm here until the end of February."

"Three months," Rishaan said, smiling now. "Three whole months of having you here. No racing, no travel, just us and family and friends."

"And you're coming to Belgium for that race, right? That's in two weeks?"

"Already booked. I'm flying in Friday morning, staying through Sunday night. Watching you work, meeting your team, finally seeing you in your element properly."

"I'm excited for you to see it. The garage, the pit stops, the strategy meetings—all of it."

"I'm excited too. Though mostly I'm excited just to see you. Two weeks is too long."

"Way too long."

They fell quiet, just holding each other, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink.

"Shaan?" Samaira said after a while.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for bringing me here. To your home. This—" she gestured around the apartment, "—this makes the goodbye easier somehow. Knowing where you are, what your space looks like, being able to picture you here when we're apart."

"That's exactly why I wanted you here." He kissed her forehead. "So you'd have these memories. So you could picture me making coffee in that kitchen, reading on this couch, sleeping in that bed. So I'd feel less far away."

"You're never far away. Not really." She touched his chest, over his heart. "You're always right here."

"And you're always here." He mirrored her gesture, hand over her heart. "No matter where you're racing, which country you're in, how many time zones apart we are—you're always right here."

The sun finished setting, and the room grew dark except for the city lights outside. Neither of them moved to turn on lamps, content in the dimness, wrapped up in each other.

"We should probably think about dinner eventually," Rishaan said, though he made no move to get up.

"Eventually. Not yet."

"Not yet," he agreed.

They stayed on the couch for another hour, talking quietly, stealing kisses, memorising the feeling of being together like this. Finally, hunger drove them to the kitchen, where Rishaan made simple sandwiches, and they ate standing at the counter, feeding each other bites, laughing at nothing.

"Movie?" Rishaan suggested after they finished eating. "Something mindless we can half-watch while cuddling?"

"Perfect."

They returned to the couch, Rishaan queuing up some action movie neither of them cared about. Samaira stretched out along the couch, her head in his lap, his fingers absently playing with her hair as the movie played.

"This is nice," she murmured, eyes already closing. "Just quiet and peaceful and together."

"It is nice. We should do this more often."

"When I'm back in December. Lots of couch time."

"Lots of couch time," he agreed. "And cooking together. And you're meeting my grandmother properly for longer visits. And introducing you to more of my business associates. And—"

"And everything," Samaira finished. "We'll do everything."

She fell asleep somewhere around the halfway point of the movie, exhausted from the week of wedding festivities and the emotional weight of the impending goodbye. Rishaan let her sleep, content to just hold her, watch her breathe, and memorise the feeling of her weight against him.

Around 10 PM, he carefully shifted her, gathering her into his arms and carrying her to his bedroom. She stirred slightly but didn't wake, just curled into his chest.

He laid her on his bed—the first time she'd ever been in his bed, and she was asleep for it—and carefully removed her jewellery, her watch, and pulled a blanket over her. Then he changed into sleep clothes himself and slid into bed beside her.

Immediately, even in sleep, she moved toward him, seeking his warmth. He pulled her close, her head on his chest, his arms around her, and breathed in the scent of her hair.

Tomorrow would come too soon. Tomorrow meant goodbye.

But tonight, she was here. In his home, in his bed, in his arms.

And for now, that was enough.

Monday Morning - 6:45 AM

Samaira's POV:

After her shower, Samaira changed into comfortable clothes—soft cotton pants and a loose kurta, appropriate for travelling later but relaxed enough for a casual morning. She towel-dried her hair, letting it fall in damp waves down her back, and applied minimal makeup.

When she emerged from the bedroom, she could smell coffee brewing and heard voices from the kitchen—Rishaan's deeper tone mixed with a woman's voice, both speaking in Telugu.

She grabbed her laptop from her bag—might as well check emails and racing updates while she had a moment—and made her way toward the kitchen.

The scene that greeted her was domestic and sweet: Rishaan, still shirtless in just his track pants from sleeping, standing at the stove with a woman who looked to be in her late fifties, both of them cooking together with the easy familiarity of years of practice.

"No, no, Anjali aunty, more ghee," Rishaan was saying. "She likes the dosas crispy."

"I'm making them crispy, bangaram. Don't you trust me after all these years?"

"I trust you completely. I'm just saying—"

He looked up and saw Samaira standing in the doorway, and his face lit up completely. "Good morning. Again. Properly this time."

"Good morning," she replied, smiling. "You're cooking?"

"Anjali aunty is cooking. I'm supervising poorly." He moved toward her, picking up a mug of coffee from the counter on his way. "Coffee, made exactly how you like it. Two sugars, splash of milk."

"Thank you." She took the mug gratefully, taking a sip. Perfect, as promised.

Before she could say anything else, he leaned down and kissed her—soft and quick but definitely not just a friendly peck. When he pulled back, she was blushing, very aware of the other person in the room.

"Shaan," she hissed quietly. "There's someone here."

"I know. That's Anjali aunty. I wanted to introduce you." He turned toward the woman at the stove, switching to Telugu. "Aunty, this is Samaira. My girlfriend. Samaira, this is Anjali aunty. She's been taking care of me since I was a child—she and my Nannamma basically raised me."

Anjali turned from the stove, a warm smile on her face as she studied Samaira with the assessing look of someone who'd earned the right to be protective.

"So this is the famous Samaira," Anjali said in Telugu, wiping her hands on a towel. "The Ferrari engineer who has our boy running around like a lovesick puppy."

"Aunty!" Rishaan protested, but he was smiling.

"I'm just stating facts." Anjali came closer, taking Samaira's free hand in both of hers. "It's wonderful to finally meet you, beta. Rishaan talks about you constantly. 'Samaira said this,' 'Samaira did that,' 'Did you know Samaira can calculate tyre degradation rates in her head?'"

Samaira laughed, charmed despite her slight nervousness. "It's wonderful to meet you, too, Anjali aunty. Rishaan's told me about you, how you took care of him when his parents were busy with work."

"Someone had to. This one—" she gestured at Rishaan, "—would have lived on instant noodles and forgotten to eat half the time if left to his own devices."

"That's accurate," Rishaan admitted. "I'm hopeless at taking care of myself."

"Not hopeless," Anjali corrected. "Just easily distracted by work. Which is why I still come three times a week to cook proper meals and make sure he hasn't turned into a complete mess."

"She's very valuable," Rishaan said, putting his arm around Samaira's waist naturally. "And I wanted you to meet her properly since she's basically family. You're going to see a lot of her when you're back in December."

"I look forward to it," Samaira said sincerely. "Though I should warn you—I'm also terrible at remembering to eat when I'm focused on work. We'll probably both need supervision."

"Perfect. I'll supervise both of you." Anjali smiled and turned back to the stove. "Now, breakfast will be ready in ten minutes. Samaira beta, does she eat spicy food in the morning, Rishaan?"

"Medium spice. Not too hot, but she likes flavour."

"Good. I made the chutney accordingly. You two go sit. I'll bring everything out."

Rishaan guided Samaira to the dining table, pulling out a chair for her. She set down her coffee and laptop, intending to check her emails while they waited for breakfast.

"You're checking work emails?" Rishaan asked, looking at her laptop screen over her shoulder.

"Just a quick scan. Making sure nothing urgent came up overnight that I need to handle before the flight."

She opened her email and immediately saw several new messages—including one from Ahaan with the subject line "Wedding Photos - The Complete Collection."

"Oh! Ahaan sent the wedding photos!" She clicked it open and found two folders: one labelled "Friend Group Photos" and another labelled "Rishaan & Samaira - Private Collection."

"He made us a private collection?" Rishaan said, pulling his chair closer so he could see the screen better.

Samaira opened the first folder and gasped. There were hundreds of photos—professional shots from the photographer, candid pictures from friends and family, selfies from their group, everything from the entire week of festivities.

"This is amazing," she said, scrolling through. "Look at this one from the mehendi—Anvitha looks so happy."

"And this one from the sangeet when we were all dancing together," Rishaan added, pointing at a photo of the friend group mid-performance.

Without warning, Rishaan stood, pulled his dining chair closer to Samaira's, and sat down. Then, in one smooth motion, he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto his lap.

"Shaan!" Samaira protested, her eyes immediately darting to where Anjali was working in the kitchen. "Anjali aunty is right there!"

"Don't mind me, beta," Anjali called from the kitchen without turning around. "I've seen worse. And you two are sweet together. Browse your photos."

Samaira turned to smack Rishaan's bare chest lightly. "You can't just pull me onto your lap when there are other people around! And put a shirt on!"

"Why? You like my chest," he said with a grin, catching her hand against his skin. "You were very appreciative of it this morning."

"Rishaan!" Her face flamed red.

"Besides, Anjali aunty has seen me shirtless since I was a baby. She doesn't care. And I want you on my lap while we look at photos. It's more comfortable this way."

Samaira gave up protesting and settled against him, his arms coming around her waist as she balanced the laptop on the table in front of them. She could feel his warmth against her back, his chin resting on her shoulder as they scrolled through photos together.

"Look at this one," he said, stopping at a picture from the reception. They were dancing together, his hand on her waist, her head thrown back laughing at something he'd said. The photographer had caught them in a perfect moment—completely absorbed in each other, joy evident on both their faces.

"That's beautiful," Samaira said softly.

"You're beautiful."

They continued browsing—finding photos of themselves they hadn't known were being taken. Rishaan is feeding her water during the sangeet. Samaira is fixing his collar before the wedding ceremony. The two of them standing together watching Anvitha and Ahaan exchange vows, Rishaan's hand protectively on Samaira's lower back.

"We look good together," Samaira observed, studying a photo of them at the reception, both dressed in their formal outfits, looking at each other with obvious affection.

"We do. We look like—" he paused, considering, "—we look like we belong together. Like this is right."

"It is right."

A new email notification popped up—this one from Meher.

From: Meher Subject: Photo Selection for Social Media

Okay, people, I need you all to select your favourite photos from the wedding for Instagram posting this afternoon. Since I handle PR for all of you (willingly for some, by force for others - looking at you, Veer), I'm taking charge of the social media narrative.

Ground rules: 1. Select 3-5 photos you're comfortable posting publicly 2. Tag everyone properly 3. Keep captions sweet but not sappy 4. We'll discuss final selections at lunch before posting

Samaira - this includes you. I know you hate social media, but one post about the wedding won't kill you. Your fans will love seeing you at a personal event.

Deadline: Bring your selections to lunch. No excuses.

- Your Friendly Neighbourhood PR Manager

"Meher's taking charge of our social media," Samaira said, amused. "Apparently, we're discussing photo selections at lunch."

"She's very efficient," Rishaan said, scrolling through the photos. "We should probably pick some now. Get it done."

"Okay. Which ones do you like?"

They spent the next ten minutes going through photos, debating which ones were appropriate for public posting versus which ones were too private and personal.

"This one from the sangeet is good," Rishaan suggested. "We're dancing, but it's not too intimate."

"And this one from the wedding ceremony where we're all standing together as a group," Samaira added.

"Definitely this one from the reception," he said, stopping at the photo of them dancing, her head thrown back laughing. "This is my favourite."

"Mine too. We look so happy."

"We are happy."

Anjali appeared then, carrying plates loaded with perfectly crispy dosas, an array of chutneys, and steaming sambar. "Breakfast is ready. Close the laptop and eat, both of you."

Rishaan reluctantly released Samaira from his lap so they could both sit properly at the table, though he kept his chair pulled close to hers, their shoulders touching.

The dosas were incredible—crispy on the outside, soft inside, with just the right amount of ghee. The chutneys were perfectly balanced, and the sambar was hot and flavorful.

"This is amazing, Anjali aunty," Samaira said after her first bite. "Thank you so much."

"It's my pleasure, beta. Any girl who makes this one—" she nodded at Rishaan, "—look this happy deserves good food."

They ate together, the three of them at the table, Anjali telling stories about young Rishaan that made him protest and Samaira laugh.

"He once tried to cook breakfast for his Nannamma when he was eight," Anjali recounted. "Ended up setting off the fire alarm and coating the entire kitchen in eggshells and flour."

"I was trying to make pancakes!" Rishaan defended. "The recipe didn't mention removing the shells from the eggs!"

"The recipe assumed basic common sense!"

Samaira was laughing so hard she nearly choked on her dosa. "You put eggshells in pancake batter?"

"I was eight! How was I supposed to know?"

"Most eight-year-olds know eggs have shells that need removing, bangaram," Anjali said with affection.

After breakfast, Anjali cleaned up despite their protests, then prepared to leave.

"I'll be back on Wednesday as usual," she told Rishaan. "Try not to survive on delivery food while I'm gone."

"No promises."

She turned to Samaira, taking her hands. "You take care of yourself, beta. And take care of this one too—he needs someone to remind him to eat and sleep properly."

"I will," Samaira promised.

"Good. And when you're back in December, come for a proper visit. I'll cook you a full traditional meal."

"I'd love that."

After Anjali left, the apartment felt quieter, more intimate. Just the two of them again, with a few precious hours before they had to leave for lunch and then the airport.

"Your turn to shower and get ready," Samaira said, starting to clear the remaining dishes despite Anjali having done most of the work.

"Join me?" Rishaan suggested with a mischievous grin.

"Nice try. Go shower. I'm going to finish checking emails and then select our photos for Meher's approval."

"Fine. But for the record, that was a serious offer."

"Noted. Still no. Shower. Now. Alone."

He went, and Samaira returned to the laptop, going through the wedding photos one more time, selecting her favourites, trying to memorise every moment before she had to leave.

In a few hours, she'd be on a plane. Away from him for three weeks.

But they'd have lunch with their friends first. One last meal together before she left.

And in two weeks, he'd be in Belgium. And after that, just one more week before Abu Dhabi and then three months together.

She could do this.

They could do this.

They'd done it before, and they'd do it again.

Because what they had was worth every goodbye, every separation, every moment of missing each other.

It was worth everything.

Samaira's POV:

After selecting photos and responding to a few urgent emails, Samaira closed her laptop and walked to the large living room windows that overlooked the city. The morning sun was bright now, Hyderabad stretching out below in its organised chaos—traffic already building, the city coming alive.

She pressed her palm against the cool glass and felt an unexpected wave of emotion wash over her.

Two months. Just two months since she and Rishaan had properly started this relationship. Two months since they'd decided to try, to make the distance work, to build something real despite the complications.

And in those two months, everything had changed.

She'd found love—real, genuine, partnership-based love. Not the conditional, approval-seeking relationship she'd had with Karthik, where she'd constantly felt like she needed to prove her worth, to earn her place, to be grateful for being chosen.

This was different. This was mutual. This was equal.

Rishaan loved her for exactly who she was—ambitious, driven, passionate about her career, sometimes scattered, occasionally stubborn. He didn't ask her to change or tone herself down or prioritise his needs over her own. He supported her racing, celebrated her achievements, and encouraged her dreams.

And he'd done something she hadn't expected, hadn't even realised she needed: he'd repaired his relationship with his parents.

Not for himself—well, partly for himself—but also for her. So she wouldn't have to face another Karthik situation, another family that looked at her and found her wanting, another set of future in-laws who made her feel like an outsider, like she wasn't good enough.

The memory of Karthik's parents still stung. The subtle comments about her career being "unladylike," the suggestions that she should "settle down" and "focus on family," the constant comparisons to other daughters-in-law who were more traditional, more domestic, more willing to put their husbands' careers first.

She'd tried so hard to win their approval. Had toned down her personality, minimised her achievements, bent herself into smaller and smaller shapes, trying to fit their expectations.

And it had never been enough.

Breaking up with Karthik had hurt, but it had also been a relief. Freedom from constantly trying to prove she was worthy of love.

And now—now she had Rishaan. Who thought she was worthy exactly as she was. Who had seen the damage his parents' initial coldness had done and had actively worked to fix it, to create a family dynamic where she'd be welcomed rather than tolerated.

But in a few hours, she had to leave. Three weeks apart. Three weeks of hotel rooms and race tracks and missing him.

And somehow, this goodbye felt harder than all the previous ones. Maybe because she'd seen what they could have—mornings in his apartment, breakfast with Anjali aunty, lazy moments on the couch, falling asleep in his bed. A normal couple of things that their long-distance relationship usually didn't allow.

She felt tears prick her eyes and tried to blink them away, but one escaped, trailing down her cheek.

She didn't hear Rishaan approach—too lost in her thoughts—but suddenly she felt his presence behind her, and then his lips pressed against her cheek in a soft, tender kiss.

That broke something in her. The careful control she'd been maintaining crumbled, and more tears fell, silent but steady.

Rishaan saw them immediately. Without a word, he gently turned her around and guided her to the couch, sitting down and pulling her onto his lap like a child—her legs across his thighs, her head tucked under his chin, his arms wrapped securely around her.

"Talk to me," he said quietly. "What's wrong? What are you thinking about?"

Samaira took a shaky breath, trying to compose herself, but his gentle concern just made her cry harder for a moment before she could speak.

"I'm being silly," she managed. "It's just—leaving today feels harder than usual. And I was thinking about how much has changed in two months. How different this is from before. From Karthik."

She felt Rishaan's arms tighten around her. "Tell me about that. About what it was like with him."

"It was exhausting," Samaira said quietly, her tears slowing as she talked. "Constantly trying to be smaller, quieter, less ambitious. His parents—they never said anything openly cruel, but there were constant little comments. About my career taking me away from my family. About me being too focused on work. About how their friend's daughter-in-law was so much more devoted to her husband."

"That's terrible, Ira."

"I tried so hard to make them like me. To approve of me. I thought if I could just prove I was good enough, if I could just show them I could balance everything, they'd accept me." She wiped at her eyes. "But it was never enough. I was never enough. And eventually, I realised I was changing who I was fundamentally just to chase approval I was never going to get."

"I'm so sorry you went through that."

"It's okay. Breaking up with Karthik was the right decision. I know that. But it left—" she paused, searching for words, "—it left this fear. That anyone I dated would eventually want me to choose between my career and the relationship. That their family would look at me and see someone deficient, someone who needed fixing."

"And then I came along with my difficult parents," Rishaan said with understanding.

"Your parents weren't like Karthik's," Samaira corrected quickly. "They were distant and formal with you, not specifically critical of me. But still—I saw how they were in the beginning, and I was terrified it would happen again. Another family that didn't want me."

"But they changed."

"Because of you." She shifted to look up at him, cupping his face. "You saw what their distance was doing, and you fixed it. You had that conversation in Kerala, you pushed them to be better, you made space in your family for me. Do you know how much that means? That you didn't just accept dysfunction, that you actively worked to create a family dynamic where I'd be welcomed?"

"Of course I did. I love you. I wasn't going to let you walk into another situation where you felt unwelcome or unwanted."

"That's exactly what I mean. You protect me—not by fighting my battles, but by making sure I don't have to fight those battles in the first place. You create safety for me."

"You deserve safety. You deserve to be celebrated, not tolerated."

Fresh tears fell, but these were different—grateful, relieved, happy tears rather than sad ones.

"Thank you," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for seeing me, for valuing me, for making your family a place I can belong. Thank you for—for everything."

"Ira, listen to me." He gently tilted her face up so she was looking directly at him. "Even if my parents hadn't changed, even if they'd remained distant and disapproving, I would still choose you. Every single time. Their approval is nice, and I'm grateful they've come around, but it was never a requirement for us. You understand that, right?"

"I—yes. I know. But it's easier this way."

"It is easier. But I need you to know—really know—that you're my priority. Not my parents' opinions, not family expectations, not anyone else's approval. You. Us. That's what matters."

"I know," she said again, and this time she meant it fully. "I know you'd choose me. You've proven it over and over. I'm just—I'm emotional because leaving today feels harder than it should. Because I got to see what our life could look like when we're in the same city. And I don't want to go back to hotel rooms and video calls and missing you."

"I know, Bangaram. I don't want that either. But three weeks—we can do three weeks. And then Belgium, and then Abu Dhabi, and then you're home for three months. Three whole months of this—" he gestured around the apartment, "—of being together properly, of building routines and making memories and just being a normal couple."

"Normal with a very abnormal girlfriend who calculates tyre degradation rates for fun."

"My favourite kind of abnormal."

She laughed through her tears, and he wiped her face gently with his thumbs, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Better?" he asked.

"Better. Sorry for the emotional breakdown. I'm usually more composed than this."

"You're allowed to have feelings, Ira. You're allowed to be sad about leaving. And you're allowed to be grateful and relieved and happy about how things have changed. All of it is valid."

She hugged him tightly, her face pressed against his chest, breathing in his scent, trying to memorise the feeling of being held by him like this.

"I love you," she said against his skin. "So much. More than I knew I was capable of."

"I love you too. More than anything."

They stayed like that for several minutes, just holding each other, finding comfort in the closeness. Finally, Samaira pulled back slightly and looked down at his bare chest.

"You're still shirtless," she observed.

"So?"

"So you've been walking around shirtless all morning. Even when Anjali aunty was here. Even now. Do you own shirts? Do you remember shirts existed?"

"I own many shirts. I'm just comfortable without one. And you like my chest, so why would I cover it?"

"That's not the point—"

"Seems like exactly the point."

She smacked his shoulder—not hard, just firmly enough to make her point. "Put a shirt on. We have to leave for lunch soon, and you can't go to a restaurant shirtless."

"I could. Would be a bold fashion statement."

"Rishaan."

"Fine, fine. I'll put a shirt on. But only because you asked so nicely." He grinned at her exasperated expression. "Also, that shoulder smack was weak. You can do better."

"I was being gentle!"

"Try again. Put some force behind it."

"I'm not going to hit you harder just because you're being annoying—"

He tickled her sides, making her shriek with laughter and squirm on his lap. "Take it back. Say I'm not annoying."

"Never! You're the most annoying—stop tickling me!"

"Not until you take it back!"

They wrestled playfully on the couch, Samaira trying to escape while laughing helplessly, Rishaan keeping her trapped on his lap while continuing his tickle assault. Finally, she managed to grab his hands and pin them against his chest.

"Truce!" she gasped, still laughing. "Truce!"

"Do you surrender?"

"I surrender. You're not annoying. You're wonderful and perfect, and I love you."

"Much better." He kissed her, both of them still smiling, the earlier sadness transformed into joy and laughter and love.

When they finally broke apart, Samaira rested her forehead against his, her breathing still slightly uneven from laughing.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"For what?"

"For making me laugh when I was crying. For understanding why I was emotional. For being exactly what I need, when I need it."

"Always, Bangaram. Always."

They sat there for a few more minutes, just being together, before reality intruded in the form of Rishaan's phone alarm.

"That's our warning," he said, checking the notification. "We need to start getting ready to leave in an hour."

"Okay. You go put on a shirt—finally—and I'll fix my makeup and pack my laptop."

"Deal."

He stood, lifting her with him before setting her gently on her feet. Then he headed to the bedroom to actually get dressed while Samaira went to repair her tear-streaked makeup and gather her things.

One more hour in the apartment. Then lunch with their friends. Then the airport.

Then goodbye.

But not forever. Just three weeks.

She could do this.

They could do this.

And when she came back, it would be for three whole months.

That thought carried her through as she finished getting ready, preparing herself for the day ahead—the goodbyes, the flight, the distance.

But also for the reunion. For Belgium in two weeks. For Abu Dhabi, after that. For December, January and February together.

For the future they were building, one goodbye and one reunion at a time.

Monday Morning - 10:00 AM - Final Preparations

Samaira's POV:

In Rishaan's bedroom, Samaira was doing a final check of her belongings while he got dressed. He'd finally put on a shirt—a simple navy blue button-down that fit him perfectly—and was now pulling on jeans.

"Before we leave," Samaira said, opening her laptop one more time, "we should finalise our photo selections for Meher. She'll want them at lunch."

"Good idea. Show me what you've picked."

Samaira pulled up her selected folder and turned the laptop so they could both see. "Okay, I went with seven photos total. First—" she clicked on the first image, "—this one of Anvitha and Ahaan during the wedding ceremony. It's beautiful and it's their day, so they should be featured first."

The photo showed the newlyweds during the thali ceremony, Ahaan tying the sacred thread around Anvitha's neck while she looked up at him with tears of joy streaming down her face.

"Perfect choice," Rishaan agreed.

"Second—" next image, "—the group photo of all six of us right after Ahaan tied the thali. We're all on the mandap, surrounding them, everyone crying and laughing."

The photo was chaotic and beautiful—all six friends in a cluster, Anvitha and Ahaan in the centre, still processing being married, the rest of them clearly emotional and celebratory.

"Definitely keeping that one," Rishaan said. "That captures the moment perfectly."

"Third—" Samaira clicked to the next image, "—this photo of my parents. They look so happy and elegant. Amma will love that I'm posting this."

The photo showed Vamshi and Lakshmi at the reception, both dressed in formal wear, looking at each other with the comfortable affection of thirty-three years of marriage.

"Your parents are adorable," Rishaan observed.

"They are. Fourth—" next photo, "—picture of us girls. Meher, Anvitha, and I at the mehendi. We're laughing about something, covered in henna, looking ridiculous and happy."

"That's a good one. Shows the friendship."

"Fifth—me with Ahaan and Veer. From the sangeet, I think. We're all mid-dance move, completely uncoordinated but having fun."

The photo showed the three of them attempting some Bollywood choreography with varying degrees of success—Ahaan looking serious and focused, Veer hamming it up dramatically, Samaira laughing at both of them.

"The boys will love that," Rishaan said.

"And then—" Samaira clicked to the sixth photo, her voice softening, "—this one of us."

The photo was from the reception. They were dancing together, Rishaan's hand on her waist, Samaira's head thrown back laughing at something he'd said. The photographer had caught them in a perfect moment—completely absorbed in each other, the rest of the world faded away.

"That's my favourite photo from the entire weekend," Rishaan said quietly. "You look so happy. So beautiful."

"We both look happy. That's why I chose it."

"And the seventh?" he asked.

Samaira smiled and clicked to the final photo. "Saving the best for last."

The image made Rishaan's breath catch. It was a candid shot—him looking at Samaira with such open adoration and love that it was almost overwhelming to see captured on camera. But the photographer had used selective focus, keeping Rishaan sharp and clear while Samaira in the background was artistically blurred.

"When was this taken?" Rishaan asked, leaning closer to study it.

"During the reception, I think. You were watching me talk to someone—maybe my parents or one of the aunties. The photographer caught you looking at me when you thought no one was watching."

"I look—"

"You look like you're in love," Samaira finished softly. "Completely, obviously, beautifully in love. And I wanted the world to see that."

He pulled her close, kissing her temple. "You're going to make me emotional before lunch."

"Good. Your turn. Show me yours."

Rishaan pulled up his own laptop and opened his selections. "Okay, I'm keeping your first two—the Anvitha and Ahaan ceremony shot and the group photo. Those are perfect and shouldn't be changed."

He clicked through. "Then I have this one—me with Ahaan and Veer from the sangeet. We're toasting with drinks, looking very pleased with ourselves for some reason I don't remember."

"Probably because the dance performance didn't completely fall apart," Samaira suggested.

"Probably. Next—me with Meher and Anvitha. From the mehendi, I think. They're both showing off their henna designs, and I'm pretending to admire them very seriously."

"That's sweet. You're good with the girls."

"They're family. Of course I am." He clicked to the next photo. "And then—these last four are all of us. You and me."

The first photo showed them at the mehendi, sitting side by side, Samaira getting her henna done while Rishaan sat next to her, keeping her company, both of them mid-conversation, looking relaxed and comfortable.

The second was from the haldi ceremony—both of them covered in turmeric paste, laughing at the chaos around them, his hand casually on her shoulder.

The third was the same reception dancing photo that Samaira had selected—the one where she was laughing and they looked utterly absorbed in each other.

"Those are beautiful," Samaira said. "But you said four photos of us. That's only three."

"The fourth—" Rishaan clicked to the final image, and Samaira gasped.

It was just her. A solo portrait from the reception, professionally shot, perfectly lit. She was looking off to the side at something, a soft smile on her face, her reception lehenga catching the light beautifully. She looked elegant and happy and absolutely radiant.

"When was this taken?" she asked, studying it.

"I asked the photographer to get some solo shots of you. You were talking to someone—I don't remember who—and the photographer caught this moment. You look—" he paused, searching for words, "—you look ethereal. Like something out of a dream."

"Shaan—"

"I'm posting this one separately from the others. The three couple photos will go in one post, but this one deserves its own post."

"You're posting four photos of us total? Isn't that excessive?"

"No. And before you argue—" he pulled her onto his lap, both of them sitting on the edge of his bed with the laptops nearby, "—I want to do this properly. The three couple photos will be in one carousel post with a caption about the wedding and our friends. But this solo photo of you gets its own post with its own caption."

"What kind of caption?"

"Haven't written it yet. But something about how beautiful you are, how lucky I am, how proud I am to be with you."

"People are going to lose their minds," Samaira said, already imagining the response. "Your business contacts, your social media followers—they don't know about us yet. This will be a complete revelation."

"Good. Let them know. I want everyone to know you're mine and I'm yours."

"Possessive."

"Proud. There's a difference." He kissed her neck, making her shiver. "Besides, you're posting that photo of me looking at you like you hung the moon. Fair is fair."

"That's different—"

"That's the same. We're both going public with our relationship today. Properly, officially, no more keeping it quiet or private."

Samaira thought about it. They'd been relatively private so far—their close friends and family knew, of course, but they hadn't made any public announcements, hadn't posted about each other on social media, had kept their relationship out of the public eye.

Going public meant attention. Questions. Probably some intrusive interest, especially given her public profile as Ferrari's principal engineer and his as a successful entrepreneur.

But it also meant honesty. No more pretending they were just friends when they appeared in photos together. No more careful avoidance of couple-y pictures. Just honest, open acknowledgement of what they meant to each other.

"Okay," she said finally. "Let's do it. Full reveal at lunch, photos posted after we finalise with Meher, official relationship announcement to the world."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. I love you, and I don't want to hide that anymore."

"I love you too. So much." He kissed her properly then—deep and thorough, one hand cupping her face, the other on her waist, pouring everything he felt into the kiss.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Samaira rested her forehead against his.

"We need to stop," she said reluctantly. "Or we'll never make it to lunch."

"One more minute."

"Shaan—"

"One more." He kissed her again, softer this time but still intense, making her forget why they needed to stop, why leaving this apartment mattered, why anything mattered except being close to him.

Finally—reluctantly—they separated. Rishaan stood, pulling her up with him, and they did a final check of everything they needed.

Samaira's luggage was already in his car from when they'd loaded it yesterday. Her laptop and carry-on were packed and ready by the door. Rishaan had his wallet, keys, and phone. Everything was set.

"Ready?" he asked.

"As I'll ever be."

They were heading toward the door when Samaira's phone pinged with a message.

Meher: Veer and I are leaving now. See you at Saffron Gardens in 20 minutes. Don't be late!

Samaira: We're leaving now, too. See you soon.

She showed Rishaan the message. "Meher and Veer are already on their way."

"Then we should go. Can't have them getting there before us and claiming the best seats."

They left the apartment together, Rishaan locking the door behind them, both of them carrying the bittersweet knowledge that the next time Samaira saw this apartment, it would be after three weeks apart.

In the elevator, Rishaan pulled her close one more time, kissing the top of her head.

"Three weeks," he said. "We can do three weeks."

"We can," she agreed, even though her heart was already aching at the thought of leaving.

"And then Belgium. And then Abu Dhabi. And then three months together."

"Three months," she repeated, holding onto that thought like a lifeline.

The elevator reached the parking level. They got into Rishaan's car—Samaira's luggage already loaded in the back, ready for the airport trip after lunch.

As Rishaan started the engine and pulled out of the parking garage, Samaira looked back at his building one more time, committing it to memory.

This was his home. The place where she'd woken up in his arms this morning, where they'd had breakfast with Anjali akka, where they'd laughed and kissed and talked about the future.

And in three weeks—no, in December—she'd be back. Not just for a visit, but to really be part of his life here. To make this city feel like home again, not just a stop between races.

She reached over and took his hand, lacing their fingers together.

"I love you," she said quietly.

"I love you too, Bangaram." He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. "Now let's go have lunch with our friends. One last meal together before you leave."

"One last meal," she agreed. "And then three weeks until Belgium."

"Three weeks until Belgium," he confirmed.

And they drove toward the restaurant, toward their friends, toward the last few hours together before goodbye.

But also toward the future—toward reunions and homecomings and the life they were building together, one separation and one reunion at a time.

Monday Afternoon - 11:30 AM - Saffron Gardens Restaurant

The restaurant was beautiful—upscale but not pretentious, with private dining sections and excellent lighting. Meher had reserved a large corner table that gave them privacy from other diners while still having windows with natural light.

Anvitha and Ahaan were already there when Rishaan and Samaira arrived, both looking refreshed and happy despite the exhaustion of the wedding week. They were sitting close together, holding hands under the table, still in that newlywed bubble where everything felt magical.

"There you are!" Anvitha said, standing to hug Samaira tightly. "I was worried you'd changed your mind and left early."

"Never. Wouldn't miss this lunch for anything."

Veer and Meher arrived moments later, Meher carrying her tablet with the efficiency of someone who meant business.

"Okay, people," Meher announced before anyone could even sit down properly. "Before we order food, before we do anything else, we're handling the social media situation. I need everyone's photo selections, and we're posting them now."

"Now?" Veer protested. "Can't we at least sit down first?"

"No. Because if I let you all sit and get comfortable, you'll start ordering drinks and appetisers and get distracted, and then Samaira's flight will be in two hours, and nothing will be posted. So we're doing this now. Everyone, pull out your phones."

They settled around the table with varying degrees of compliance—Meher clearly in charge, the rest of them following her instructions.

"Okay," Meher said, opening a shared folder on her tablet. "I've compiled everyone's selections. Let me show you the posting protocol."

She pulled up a detailed spreadsheet that made Ahaan laugh and Veer groan.

"You made a spreadsheet for Instagram posts?" Veer asked, incredulous.

"I'm a PR professional. Of course, I made a spreadsheet. Now listen up—"

Meher walked them through her plan: Each person would post their selected photos as a carousel with consistent caption formatting. They would tag everyone appropriately, post at the same time for maximum impact, and use a unified hashtag (#AnvithaAhaanWedding2025).

"This is very organised," Samaira observed.

"This is how you manage group social media when you have five people who would otherwise post random, unedited photos with terrible captions at different times, creating a disjointed narrative," Meher said pointedly.

"I feel attacked," Veer muttered.

"You should. You tried to post a blurry selfie with the caption 'weddings r fun' last night. I had to physically restrain you."

Everyone laughed while Veer looked offended.

"Okay, final check," Meher continued. "Anvitha and Ahaan—you're posting your selection of ceremony photos, reception highlights, and couple shots. Veer—you're posting the group photos, your photos with the guys, and that one terrible dance photo you insisted on including."

"It's not terrible, it's artistic!"

"It's blurry, and your eyes are closed."

"Artistically blurry with artistically closed eyes."

Meher ignored him and turned to Samaira. "You're posting—let me see your selection again."

Samaira pulled up her seven photos on her phone and showed Meher, who nodded approvingly at each one.

"Good choices. Balanced between group shots, family, friends, and—" she stopped at the photo of Rishaan looking at Samaira with obvious adoration, "—oh. Oh wow. This is gorgeous. When was this taken?"

"During the reception," Samaira said. "I didn't even know the photographer caught it until I saw the photos this morning."

"This is going to break the internet," Meher said with professional certainty. "The expression on his face—Samaira, this is the kind of photo that goes viral. Everyone's going to lose their minds."

"That's what I said," Rishaan interjected. "Which is why my posting strategy is slightly different."

Everyone turned to look at him.

"Different how?" Meher asked, her PR senses tingling.

"I'm making two posts," Rishaan explained, pulling up his phone. "One carousel with the group shots, couple photos with Samaira, wedding highlights—the standard post. But then a separate, second post that's just one photo."

He showed them the solo portrait of Samaira from the reception—the one where she looked ethereal and radiant.

The table went silent.

"Rishaan," Anvitha said quietly, her voice emotional. "That's beautiful."

"That's not just beautiful," Meher corrected, her professional mask slipping to show genuine feeling. "That's a statement. That's you telling the entire world, 'This woman is mine, and I'm proud of it.' That's—that's a relationship announcement post."

"That's exactly what it is," Rishaan confirmed, looking at Samaira. "We've been keeping things relatively private. But I'm done with that. I want everyone to know."

"Are you sure?" Samaira asked, even though they'd already discussed this. "Your business contacts, your clients—they don't know about us yet. This is going to raise questions."

"Let them ask questions. I'll answer honestly: I'm in love with an incredible woman who's brilliant and beautiful and way out of my league."

"You're not out of my league—"

"Definitely out of my league."

"Can you two stop being adorable for five seconds so I can finalise the posting schedule?" Meher interrupted, but she was smiling.

They spent the next fifteen minutes perfecting captions, double-checking tags, and making sure photo quality was optimal. Meher was ruthlessly efficient, catching spelling errors, suggesting better phrasing, and ensuring everything was polished and professional.

"Okay," Meher finally announced. "We're posting in three... two... one... now!"

Six phones tapped "post" simultaneously.

And then they waited.

It took approximately thirty seconds for the notifications to start rolling in.

Likes, comments, shares—all six posts are gaining traction immediately. Their friends and family who'd been at the wedding started commenting with heart emojis and congratulations. People who hadn't attended were surprised and delighted by the photos.

But it was Rishaan's second post—the solo portrait of Samaira—that really exploded.

Within two minutes, it had hundreds of likes. Within five minutes, over a thousand. Comments poured in from his business contacts, his clients, his social media followers:

"Who is this beautiful woman?" "Rishaan, you've been holding out on us!" "Is this your girlfriend? She's stunning!" "Wait, is this THE Samaira Reddy? Ferrari's principal engineer?" "You're dating Samaira Reddy?? How did we not know this??"

"It's going viral," Meher said, watching the engagement numbers climb on her tablet. "Rishaan, your post is getting shared by motorsport fan accounts. Someone recognised Samaira, and now the F1 community is losing their minds."

"Really?" Samaira pulled out her own phone and checked. Sure enough, her Instagram was also exploding with notifications—people who followed her for racing content were suddenly very interested in her personal life.

"This is what happens when two successful, attractive people in different industries go public with their relationship," Meher explained in her professional PR voice. "You've got his business world and your racing world colliding. Everyone wants to know the story."

"Should we be worried?" Anvitha asked.

"No. It's good attention. Positive engagement. And honestly—" Meher showed them a screenshot of some of the comments, "—people are being really sweet. Look at this one: 'Two brilliant people who found each other. This is beautiful.'"

"And this one," Ahaan added, reading over her shoulder: "'I follow her for F1 content and him for tech entrepreneurship advice. This crossover is everything.'"

The waiter appeared then, saving them from further social media obsession, and took their orders. As food began arriving, they finally put their phones away—at Meher's insistence—and focused on actually being present with each other.

"So," Ahaan said, raising his water glass. "To Samaira's last day before she abandons us for three weeks."

"I'm not abandoning you!" Samaira protested. "I'm working!"

"Details. You're still leaving." He smiled to show he was teasing. "But seriously—safe travels, successful races, and hurry back home."

"I'll drink to that," Veer agreed, raising his own glass.

They toasted, and conversation flowed easily around the table. The food was excellent—an upscale Indian fusion menu that somehow managed to be both innovative and comforting. They ate family-style, sharing dishes, stealing bites from each other's plates, laughing and talking over each other in the chaotic way of people who'd known each other for years.

"So the honeymoon is definitely happening?" Meher asked Anvitha and Ahaan. "You're not too exhausted to actually go?"

"We're exhausted," Anvitha admitted. "But the Maldives sounds perfect. Two weeks of doing absolutely nothing except lying on a beach and sleeping."

"And being newlyweds," Ahaan added with a meaningful look that made Anvitha blush.

"Okay, no details," Veer said immediately. "Some things we don't need to hear about."

"Agreed," Samaira added. "You two enjoy your honeymoon, send us some photos of the beaches, and we'll see you when you get back."

"Which will be—" Ahaan calculated, "—mid-november. Right when you're back from racing for your last race."

"Perfect timing," Rishaan said. "We can all do a proper reunion dinner when everyone's back in town."

"Speaking of reunions," Meher said, turning to Samaira. "Abu Dhabi. Final race of the season. We're all coming, right?"

"That's the plan," Samaira confirmed. "December 1st. Amma, Nanna, all of you—everyone's coming to watch the final race."

"We'll make a whole weekend of it," Veer said enthusiastically. "Hotel accommodations at my family's property, paddock passes from Samaira, celebrating the end of the season together."

"And then you're home for three months," Anvitha said to Samaira, her voice wistful. "Three whole months. We can actually spend time together like we used to."

"We can," Samaira agreed, feeling emotional again. "Movie nights, dinner at each other's places, random weekend plans—all of it."

"I'm holding you to that," Meher said. "You're not allowed to disappear into racing mode during your break. You have to actually be present and social."

"I promise. Three months of being completely present."

They talked about Abu Dhabi plans—where to stay, what to do in the city, and how to coordinate schedules. Veer was already looking at restaurant reservations, Meher was planning photo opportunities, Ahaan and Anvitha were just happy to have something to look forward to after the honeymoon.

As lunch wound down and dessert was served, the mood shifted. Everyone was aware that this was it—the last time they'd all be together until December. Samaira was leaving in a few hours, Anvitha and Ahaan were leaving tomorrow for their honeymoon, and everyone was scattering back to their regular lives.

"Group photo," Anvitha announced suddenly. "One more. Before we say goodbye."

They flagged down their waiter and asked him to take a photo of all six of them. They crowded together—Anvitha and Ahaan in the center as the newlyweds, the rest of them clustered around, arms around each other, genuine smiles despite the bittersweet feelings.

"Perfect," the waiter said, handing back the phone. "Beautiful group of friends."

"The best group of friends," Veer corrected.

Finally, it was time. The bill was paid (Rishaan insisted on covering it despite protests), phones were collected, and bags were gathered.

They stood in the restaurant parking lot, none of them quite ready to say goodbye.

Anvitha hugged Samaira first, holding on tight. "Three weeks. Then Abu Dhabi. Then three months of having you home."

"Three weeks," Samaira confirmed, her voice thick. "I'll be back before you know it."

Meher hugged her next. "Kill it at those races. Make us proud. And text us when you land."

"I will. Take care of these idiots while I'm gone."

"Someone has to."

Ahaan's hug was brief but warm. "Safe travels. Successful races. We'll see you in Abu Dhabi if not sooner."

"You'll see me in Abu Dhabi for sure. You all better be there."

"We will be. Wouldn't miss it."

Veer picked her up in a bear hug that lifted her off the ground. "Don't let those European tracks give you any trouble. Show them what Indian engineers can do."

"Always," she said, laughing despite her tears.

Finally, she turned to her friends one last time. "I love you all. Thank you for—for everything. For being my family."

"Always family," Anvitha said, wiping her own tears. "No matter where you are or how far away you travel. Always family."

They group-hugged one more time—all six of them in a tight circle, holding on to each other, to this moment, to the friendship that had carried them through everything.

When they finally separated, Rishaan gently took Samaira's hand. "We should go. Don't want to miss your flight."

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

They said final goodbyes—waves and blown kisses and promises to text and video call—and then Rishaan was guiding her to his car, helping her into the passenger seat, checking her bags that were already in the trunk.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Samaira looked back to see her four friends still standing there, waving, watching them leave.

She waved back until they turned a corner and her friends disappeared from view.

Then she turned forward, facing the road ahead, and let Rishaan take her hand.

"Okay?" he asked quietly.

"Okay," she confirmed. "Let's go to the airport."

"Let's go to the airport."

And they drove toward the next goodbye, the next separation, the next chapter of their story—together for a few more precious hours before distance separated them again.

Monday Afternoon - 1:15 PM - Rajiv Gandhi International Airport

The drive to the airport was quieter than usual. Not uncomfortable silence, but the weighted quiet of two people trying to memorise every last moment together before separation.

Rishaan kept one hand on the wheel, the other holding Samaira's hand, his thumb tracing absent circles on her skin. Samaira watched the familiar Hyderabad streets pass by, landmarks she'd known her whole life now tinged with melancholy because each one meant they were getting closer to goodbye.

When they pulled into the airport departure area, Rishaan didn't immediately park. He drove past the main entrance, circling to a quieter section—the premium parking area that was less crowded, where they could have a moment of privacy.

He parked the car and turned off the engine. For a long moment, neither of them moved.

"We should get your luggage checked in," Rishaan finally said, though he made no move to get out.

"We should," Samaira agreed, also not moving.

"You need to get through security with enough time before boarding."

"I do."

"But I don't want to let you go yet."

"I don't want to go yet."

They sat in the car, hands clasped together, both fighting the reality of what came next.

Finally—because time didn't stop no matter how much they wanted it to—Rishaan opened his door. "Come on. Let's make this quick, like ripping off a bandage."

"I hate that analogy."

"So do I. But it's accurate."

He got her luggage from the trunk while she gathered her laptop bag and carry-on. They walked into the airport together, Rishaan pushing her large suitcase, Samaira trying to keep her composure.

The departure hall was busy—families saying goodbye, business travellers moving efficiently through check-in, the organised chaos of a major international airport on a Monday afternoon.

After checking in her luggage and collecting her boarding pass, they had about forty-five minutes before Samaira needed to go through security. They found a relatively quiet corner near a large window overlooking the tarmac, away from the main flow of passengers.

Rishaan set down her carry-on and pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her waist, her hands coming up to rest on his chest.

"Three weeks," he said, his voice rough with emotion he was trying to control.

"Two weeks," Samaira corrected gently. "You're coming to Belgium in two weeks. Not three."

"Right. Two weeks. That's nothing. We've done longer."

"We have. Two weeks is easy."

But even as she said it, she could see the emotion in his eyes—the unshed tears he was fighting, the tightness in his jaw as he tried to hold himself together.

"Shaan," she said softly, cupping his face with both hands. "Hey. Look at me."

He met her eyes, and she saw everything there—love, sadness, longing, the effort it was taking to not break down.

"Two weeks," she repeated firmly. "Fourteen days. You're flying to Belgium on Friday the 19th, landing Wednesday night. I'll pick you up from the airport myself. We'll have the whole weekend together—you can watch practice sessions, meet my team, and see me work. And then Sunday you'll watch the race, and we'll celebrate together afterwards."

"I know. I know all that. But saying goodbye still sucks."

"It does suck. But we're good at this now. We know how to do distance. We know how to stay connected even when we're apart."

"Doesn't make it easier."

"No. But it makes it possible." She pulled him down to rest his forehead against hers. "And after Belgium, just two more weeks until Abu Dhabi. And after Abu Dhabi, three whole months together. December, January, February—ninety days of being in the same city, sleeping in the same bed, waking up together every morning."

"Ninety days," he repeated, holding onto that number like a lifeline.

"Ninety days. And in those ninety days, we're going to make up for all the time apart. We're going to have breakfast with Anjali akka every week, movie nights at your place, dinners with my parents, friend group hangouts—everything normal couples do, but we never get enough time for."

"I want that. I want all of that."

"Then two weeks is nothing. In two weeks, I'll see you in Belgium. Two weeks and you'll be in my world, watching me do what I love, being part of that side of my life."

He pulled her impossibly closer, burying his face in her neck, breathing her in. "I love you. So much. More than I have words for."

"I love you too. More than racing, more than anything. You know that, right?"

"I know. I just—I hate saying goodbye to you. Every single time, it gets harder instead of easier."

"I know, baby. I know." She ran her fingers through his hair soothingly, the way she had that morning when he'd had a headache. "But this is our life right now. Distance and reunions, goodbyes and hellos. And we're making it work because what we have is worth it."

"It is worth it. You're worth every goodbye."

They stood like that for several more minutes, just holding each other, finding comfort in the closeness before distance separated them again.

Finally—too soon but inevitably—Samaira's phone alarm went off. The thirty-minute warning she'd set for security clearance time.

"I have to go," she said, her voice breaking slightly.

"I know."

"Two weeks."

"Two weeks. I'll be there. Belgium. I promise."

"I'm holding you to that promise."

He pulled back just enough to look at her face, memorising every detail. Then he leaned down and kissed her—deep and thorough and full of everything he couldn't put into words. She kissed him back with equal intensity, her hands tangling in his hair, trying to pour three weeks' worth of love into this one moment.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard, and both had tears in their eyes.

"Go," Rishaan said, even though everything in him wanted to hold her here. "Before I do something dramatic like buy a ticket and follow you to London."

"Don't tempt me to let you." She kissed him one more time—quick and fierce. "I love you. Text me when you get home safely."

"I love you too. Text me when you land in London. And again, when you land in Italy. And basically just text me constantly for the next two weeks."

"I will. I promise." She picked up her carry-on and laptop bag, took one last long look at him, then forced herself to turn toward the security checkpoint.

She walked away, joining the line of passengers, not letting herself look back because she knew if she did, she wouldn't be able to leave.

But when she reached the security checkpoint and handed over her boarding pass and passport, she couldn't help it. She turned back.

Rishaan was still standing exactly where she'd left him, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on her. Even from this distance, she could see he was struggling—his jaw tight, his posture rigid with the effort of not following her.

She raised one hand in a wave.

He raised his hand back, and she saw him mouth the words: "Two weeks."

She nodded, mouthed back: "Two weeks. I love you."

Then security was moving her forward, through the scanners, past the checkpoint, into the international departure area, where he couldn't follow.

She didn't look back again. Couldn't look back again.

Just kept walking forward, toward her gate, toward her flight, toward three weeks of racing and then the reunion that would make this goodbye worthwhile.

Rishaan's POV:

Rishaan stood in the departure hall long after Samaira had disappeared through security. He could still see the checkpoint where she'd vanished, could still picture her turning back to wave one last time.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. He could do fourteen days.

He had to do fourteen days.

Finally—when standing there any longer would be pathetic—he turned and walked back through the airport, out to the parking area, back to his car.

The drive home felt longer than it should have. The apartment, when he let himself in, felt too quiet, too empty, too full of her absence.

He could see evidence of her everywhere—the coffee mug she'd used that morning still in the sink, the pillow on his bed still holding the indent of her head, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

He picked up his phone and texted her, even though her flight wouldn't take off for another hour and she probably wouldn't see it until she landed.

Rishaan: Made it home. The apartment feels empty without you. Miss you already.

Then he sat on his couch—the same couch where they'd cuddled yesterday, where she'd fallen asleep during the movie, where he'd held her this morning when she cried—and let himself feel the sadness of her absence.

Two weeks. Then Belgium. Then two more weeks. Then she and Abu Dhabi'd be home for three months.

He could do this.

They could do this.

They'd done it before, and they'd do it again.

Because what they had was worth every goodbye, every separation, every moment of missing each other.

She was worth it.

They were worth it.

And in two weeks, he'd see her again.

That thought—that certainty—carried him through.

Word count: 28777

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