If Only He Knew

The first thing Riya noticed when she opened her eyes was the weight of an arm around her waist.

Not heavy. Not invasive.

Comforting.

Protective.

His.

Shubman was still asleep — his breath soft against her shoulder, his chest rising in slow, even intervals behind her.

She lay still for a moment, not moving, not speaking, just listening to the rhythm of him.

And for once... her heart didn't race with anxiety or ache.

It simply beat.

Steady. Safe.

She reached for his hand resting on her stomach and gently laced her fingers through his.

He stirred, murmured something unintelligible, and pulled her a little closer, his nose brushing the back of her neck.

A smile tugged at her lips — shy, content, and completely hers.

They eventually got out of bed around 9 a.m., not because they wanted to — but because her stomach growled loudly enough to startle both of them into laughter.

"You're hungry," he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "That's a good sign."

"I haven't eaten since the war," she teased.

"Right," he said, stretching. "Battle of Oberoi Heights. You emerged victorious, by the way."

"Only because Aahana showed up wielding emotional daggers."

He laughed and followed her into the kitchen, watching as she pulled out bread, eggs, and a jar of coffee. She moved around her space with ease — ponytail messy, hoodie oversized, completely unaware of how stunning she looked in her softness.

"Sit," she told him. "You're not allowed to help."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is this one of those 'I'm a doctor, I don't let people into my kitchen' things?"

"No," she said. "It's an 'I've wanted to make you breakfast for months and now you're finally here' thing."

That shut him up.

He sat.

And watched her like she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

They ate on the floor.

Not because they had to, but because Riya dropped a spoon and shrugged, "Might as well commit."

She made him a cup of coffee exactly how he liked it — medium strong, one spoon of sugar, no milk — and he kissed the back of her hand in return, his lips lingering longer than necessary.

"You're staring," she said.

"I'm allowed," he replied.

She flushed. "You're very charming in the morning."

"I'm just in love with the way you crack eggs."

She threw a napkin at his face.

He caught it.

And grinned.

After breakfast, they curled up on the couch again — feet tangled, the empty plates forgotten.

There was a stillness between them now. A good one.

Shubman finally broke it. "Do you want to come to my place tomorrow?"

She looked up. "Really?"

He nodded. "I want you to see it. The quiet side of my life. The one no one photographs."

She tilted her head. "Are there posters of yourself on the walls?"

He deadpanned, "Just one. Above my bed. Life-size."

She smacked his shoulder.

"Seriously," he said, sobering. "It's not much. But I want you in it."

Her smile softened. "I'd like that."

They didn't talk about the future. Not yet.

But that moment — shared, ordinary, private — felt like the beginning of one.

Later that afternoon, Riya walked him to the door.

He paused, hand on the knob, turning back toward her.

"I meant what I said last night," he murmured.

"I know," she whispered.

"I'm in love with you, Riya. In ways I haven't even figured out how to explain yet."

She nodded, heart heavy with warmth. "And I'm not going anywhere."

There was a long, charged pause. His hand brushed her cheek — slow, reverent — and lingered there, like he wanted to pull her closer... but didn't.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, voice low.

"Looking forward to it."

He hesitated. Then smiled softly.

And walked away.

Riya closed the door behind him, her back pressed against the wood, breath caught somewhere between her chest and her lips.

Not yet.
But soon.

And when it happened — she knew it wouldn't just be a kiss.
It would be the culmination of everything.