The dining table was a feast for the senses—adorned with dishes bursting with flavor, their tantalizing aroma weaving through the room like a delicious spell.
At the head of the table sat Mr. Rawat, his sharp, inquisitive gaze flickering between his sons, Aarav and Abhi, who sat beside him.
Their behavior stirred a whirlwind of questions in his mind.
Aarav, usually composed, seemed adrift tonight—his fingers playing absentmindedly with the food on his plate, a dreamy smile tugging at his lips.
In contrast, Abhi looked... bored. As if the food, no matter how flavorful, couldn't awaken his dulled taste buds.
His posture slouched, face unreadable, as if nothing that had happened all day had managed to spark even the slightest interest.
The tension around the table thickened.
Mr. Rawat leaned back in his chair and asked with a curious, mildly exasperated tone,
"What's wrong with you two?"
The question snapped them out of their reveries.
Aarav straightened in his seat, his smile fading into a more neutral expression.
Abhi sighed, the weight of his exhaustion still heavy in his eyes.
Abhi was the first to answer, his voice flat, "That tuition session with that senior, Papa..."
He stabbed at his plate without enthusiasm. "Even my favorite café couldn't save me."
Mr. Rawat chuckled softly, relieved by the explanation. "Well, it was your idea."
He smiled, then turned to Aarav.
"Okay, that explains Abhi. But what about you, Aarav? You seem... happier than usual these days."
Aarav froze.
A flicker of nervousness crossed his face. Under the table, his hand curled into a fist, clammy with sweat. He avoided his father's gaze, thoughts scrambling for an excuse.
But Abhi, ever the interrupter, chimed in with a grumble laced in playfulness.
"Why wouldn't he be? Even that hell of a library turned into a dating spot for Brother."
Mr. Rawat's amusement turned to surprise.
"Wait, what? You had your class at a café and you"—he turned back to Aarav—"were on a date in the library?" he asked.
Abhi nodded with certainty, a smug little expression on his face.
Mr. Rawat glanced between the two brothers and shook his head slowly, an incredulous grin spreading across his lips.
"You two are really something else."
Then, turning fully to Aarav, his voice softened into something more astonished—almost hurt:
"But how come I don't know that you're in love with someone?"
Aarav's expression faltered, the joy from earlier dissolving into a storm of fear. He clenched his fist tighter beneath the table, his throat closing up. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly—trembling—he whispered, "Papa… actually… the person I love… is a boy."
His voice cracked at the end. He lowered his tear-brimmed eyes, unable to look at his father, his chest tightening with fear.
Across the table.
Abhi's eyes widened. He leaned forward slightly, silently watching his father's face.
Mr. Rawat's expression was unreadable. His arms folded, his breath shallow.
For a beat too long, the silence felt like thunder.
Then he asked, voice even yet heavy, "Aarav… do you think I don't love you enough?"
Aarav blinked, confused, and slowly lifted his eyes, afraid of what he might see.
But what met him was not anger.
It was a gentle, proud smile.
Mr. Rawat continued, his voice softer now, his next words laced with quiet hurt.
"Or do you think I'm just some old, narrow-minded man who can't accept his son's happiness?"
That smile, those words meant: I know you. I love you. And I accept you.
Aarav's shoulders slumped in relief. His fist loosened. His breath, until now caught in his chest, came out in a trembling exhale.
And then Abhi, never one to let emotion go uninterrupted, leaned in with a teasing grin.
"Brother, I told you—Papa's easy to talk to."
Mr. Rawat turned to him, chuckling. "Oh, really? Then… do you have someone you love too?"
Abhi raised an eyebrow dramatically.
"Papa, my standards are too high. It's hard to find someone who meets them."
Laughter danced across the table, the tension replaced with warmth.
Mr. Rawat's eyes softened as he looked between his sons.
"I trust your standards… because you brought a boy like Aarav into our lives."
Then, with a gentle finality, he smiled and said,
"Now eat."
The brothers exchanged a glance—Aarav's full of quiet gratitude, Abhi's of playful defiance—and turned back to their plates.
The room, once heavy with unspoken fears, now brimmed with love, laughter, and belonging.
---
[Years Ago]
The park was a peaceful retreat, wrapped in the quiet embrace of tall fences. Its lush greenery danced gently with the breeze, while soft grass basked in the golden afternoon sunlight.
Scattered benches invited weary souls to pause and breathe in the calm.
On one such bench sat a boy—almost ten. His small frame was fragile, his clothes torn and weathered by time.
His gaunt cheeks and tired eyes betrayed a story of struggle, of nights gone hungry and days passed unnoticed.
In his lap rested a soft, milk-white handkerchief, his fingers curled around it as if it were the last piece of comfort the world had left him.
He clutched it tighter and closed his eyes, seeking solace in its softness.
Then, the silence broke.
Light, playful footsteps echoed through the air.
The boy's eyes fluttered open, startled.
He turned toward the sound—and saw a child, no older than six, darting joyfully across the park. Chubby hands waved in the air, laughter spilling from his lips like sunshine. His tiny body buzzed with life and innocence.
A middle-aged man in a crisp driver's uniform hurried behind, calling breathlessly, "Slow down, Abhi!"
But the child, Abhi, paid no mind. He was lost in his own world of delight.
The older boy's eyes followed him, his expression softening for the first time in a long while. The boy's hunger seemed to fade into the background, replaced by an unfamiliar pull.
Abhi came to a sudden halt, grinning mischievously as he turned back.
But his gaze landed on the quiet figure on the bench.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Something passed between them—a silent understanding only children could share.
Abhi's smile softened. Without a word, he began running again—this time toward the boy.
The older boy blinked, startled. No one had approached him like this before.
He sat frozen as Abhi neared.
But then— Abhi stumbled.
His little legs tangled beneath him, hitting the grass-covered ground with a soft thud.
The older boy's smile disappeared. In a flash, he was on his feet, rushing to the fallen child.
The driver sprinted too, concern written across his face.
Together, they reached Abhi, each grabbing a tiny arm to help him up.
Abhi sniffled, his wide eyes glassy with tears. A small scratch bloomed red on his knee.
The older boy's chest clenched at the sight.
Then, dropping to his knees, he pulled out the one thing he had—his handkerchief—and gently wrapped it around the injury.
His hands trembled, but his touch was careful, protective.
"It's okay," he whispered, voice warm and soft. "Injuries are a sign that we're strong."
Abhi blinked through his tears. His sobs quieted.
The driver let out a breath of relief, "Abhi, you're injured. Let's go home today."
Then smiled kindly at the older boy. "You should go home too."
The boy looked up and hesitated, his voice small and even. "I... don't have a home."
The driver's smile faded into quiet sympathy.
But before he could respond, Abhi reached out and took the boy's hand.
"I have a house," Abhi said brightly. "A very big one… Brother."
The boy froze. His lips parted slightly, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
He looked at the small hand in his and then at the driver, whose brows lifted in stunned silence.
Abhi's smile never wavered. It was the kind of smile that made you believe anything was possible.
[Rawat's House]
The grand door of the bungalow swung open with a melodic chime.
Little Abhi stepped inside, small feet padding across the polished floor. His eyes lit up as they landed on a familiar figure seated behind a large desk in what looked like a home office.
Mr. Rawat, sharp and youthful in appearance, looked up. His handsome features softened instantly.
He stood, arms opening wide. "Abhi!" he called out, voice rich with love.
Abhi rushed to him.
But, Mr. Rawat's smile faltered when he saw the bandaged knee. He knelt down, worry overtaking his expression.
Gently, he gathered his son in his arms. "What happened to my little gunman? Are you okay?"
Abhi nodded against his father's shoulder.
Once he was released, Abhi stepped back and glanced at the boy standing hesitantly in the doorway.
"Papa," Abhi said softly, "can we share the house?"
Mr. Rawat tilted his head. "Share… the house?"
Abhi pointed toward the boy.
"Brother doesn't have a house," he whispered. "We have one. We should share it… right?"
Mr. Rawat turned to the doorway.
There, backlit by golden light, stood a boy with thin arms and solemn eyes. His clothes hung loosely from his frail frame, but he stood with quiet dignity.
His eyes held a strength far beyond his years, and though his shoulders sagged with fatigue, something about him made the room still.
Mr. Rawat looked from the boy to his son—then back again. Something in his chest stirred.
Abhi tugged his father's hand, hopeful. "Please, Papa?"
A pause.
Then a slow, gentle smile curved Mr. Rawat's lips. "Let's welcome him, then."
He walked to the boy and knelt to meet his eye level. "Come here," he said kindly, extending a hand.
The boy blinked, unsure.
Then, he stepped forward slowly, drawn by the warmth in the man's voice.
"What's your name?" Mr. Rawat asked.
The boy's voice was almost a whisper. "Aarav."
Mr. Rawat reached out and ruffled his hair gently. "Would you like to live with us, Aarav?" he asked. "We promise you'll feel safe here. Right. Abhi?'
Abhi stepped forward and grabbed Aarav's hand
He squeezing it tightly in his own. "Promise," he said, smiling from ear to ear.
Aarav looked down at their joined hands, then up at the two kind faces smiling at him.
And for the first time in a long, he felt something stir in his chest. A warmth. A sense of belonging.
And just like that… he felt home.