Leaving behind the faintest trace of cologne.
And a boutique brighter than before.
Khushi sitting cross-legged beneath the now-lit fairy lights.
Threading a tiny star bead onto a piece of ribbon.
Whispering to herself—
> "Maybe some things can be fixed."
-----
Khushi sat beneath the newly glowing fairy lights, her knees hugged to her chest, a soft ribbon threaded between her fingers. She wasn't working.
Not really.
She was replaying the way he'd said it.
> "The lights aren't the only thing that glow in here."
Cheeky. Unexpected. Way too smooth for Mr. Buttoned-Up-Boardroom.
And now? She was smiling. Like a girl who'd just discovered the world wasn't as cruel as she'd feared.
Soft. Private. The kind of smile you stitched between breaths and wrapped in dupattas so no one would notice.
Which, of course, meant—
> "Hai Re Nandkishore!"
Too late.
Buaji stood in the doorway.
Arms folded. Eyebrows doing a full inquisition.
> Buaji (smirking): "Why is my bitiya grinning like a heroine in a Rajshree film? Did someone leave laddoos under your cushion?"
> Khushi (startled): "W-what?! No! I wasn't—I mean—fairy lights! They're fixed!"
She gestured wildly at the display like it had solved world hunger.
Buaji walked in, slowly, deliberately, with that knowing glint in her eye that only elderly women blessed by gossip gods possessed.
> Buaji: "Achha… fairy lights got fixed all by themselves? Or did a certain Singh Raizada ji drop by with his electrician aura?"
> Khushi (muttering): "He wasn't even here long..."
> Buaji: "But long enough to untangle wires and your mood, hmm?"
Khushi groaned.
Hid her face in her knees.
> Khushi (muffled): "You're imagining things, Buaji."
> Buaji (chuckling): "Nahi bitiya. You're imagining things. His face in every chai bubble. His voice in every sewing machine hum. It's a good age for such dreams."
> Khushi (peeking out): "Buaji!"
Buaji sat beside her, surprisingly gentle now.
> Buaji (softly): "I see the way he looks at you, Khushi. Not like a rich man seeing a boutique girl. But like a man seeing his home."
That made her go quiet.
She twirled the ribbon in her fingers. It shimmered faintly in the fairy light.
> Khushi: "He's not like I thought he was."
> Buaji: "You thought he was a storm. And maybe he is. But sometimes, bitiya, storms bring rain. And rain brings bloom."
Pause.
> Khushi (smiling): "You're being poetic."
> Buaji (snorting): "I read one WhatsApp forward. Don't get used to it."
They both laughed.
Khushi leaned her head on Buaji's shoulder, like she used to when she was little and scared of thunder.
> Khushi: "What if I'm reading into things? What if this—whatever this is—goes away?"
> Buaji (gently): "Then let it go. But don't stop smiling because you're afraid."
Another pause.
> Buaji (grinning suddenly): "Also, I saw the way you fixed his collar the other day. Don't act innocent."
> Khushi (blushing): "Buaji!"
> Buaji (teasing): "Don't 'Buaji!' me. You were basically proposing in boutique language."
Khushi threw a cushion at her.
Buaji ducked and laughed all the way to the kitchen.
And Khushi?
She leaned back.
Fairy lights glowing above.
And a smile blooming again—this time, she didn't hide it.
Scene ends with:
Khushi picking up her design sketchbook.
On the first page, in fresh ink:
> "Theme 7: Hope."
And somewhere outside, far from the lights, a certain man in a black SUV sat in silence…
Watching the boutique windows glow.
Not with electricity.
But something much more dangerous.
Much more .
The storm begins to hum a new rhythm.
Hope stitched in silk and stubbornness.
----
Next day
The boutique courtyard had transformed.
Once a humble space where saris dried on jute lines and Buaji aired her papads, it now looked like a page out of a dream spun in gold thread. Marigold garlands draped the railing, their orange and yellow petals popping against the pink sandstone. Lanterns swayed gently above, stringed across the sky like stars caught in a net.
The scent of fabric dye mingled with the earthiness of wet clay diyas, freshly painted and drying in rows. Somewhere in the distance, Payal could be heard bossing an electrician who had the unfortunate habit of flirting mid-wiring.
Khushi Kumari Gupta stood barefoot on a stepstool, holding one end of a marigold garland in her hand and biting a pin between her teeth. Her kurti was flecked with sequins and stubborn bits of glitter that refused to let go. Her hair was a cloud pinned loosely with a pencil.
Behind her, the familiar rustle of leather shoes on courtyard stone.
She didn't turn.
"The garland's crooked," came a familiar, low voice.
"No, it's artistic chaos," she said, without missing a beat.
"That's not a real term."
"Neither is 'depressed mango,' and yet here we are."
She finally turned, just enough to spot Arnav Singh Raizada, arms folded, wearing a navy kurta that made him look far too dangerous for a daylight setting. His sleeves, of course, were rolled up—his personal brand of battle-readiness.
"You could just say thank you," he said, dryly.
"For what?"
"For personally inspecting every diya like it's a business merger."
"And who was fixing the fairy lights at midnight three nights ago, hmm?"
"I was making sure the boutique didn't burn down."
"Sure. Not because you noticed someone was fixing them."
"Arnav Singh Raizada!"
"Just checking your observational skills. Impressive."
She turned too fast in indignation, foot slipping slightly.
He caught her.
Firm hands on her waist.
Their eyes met.
The marigold garland dropped to the ground unnoticed.
"Careful," he said, voice low and steady.
"I can handle myself."
"I know. Doesn't mean I won't catch you."
Time stilled. Even the breeze seemed to hush, like the entire courtyard was holding its breath. The lanterns swayed slower. A diya blinked twice.
"AHEM."
They jumped.
Buaji stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Her dupatta flared with judgment.
"If you two are done recreating a Bhansali scene, there's laddoo batter that needs stirring."
Khushi scrambled down the stepstool like her feet were on fire, cheeks pinker than the peach thread in her embroidery box.
"Coming, Buaji!"
Buaji didn't move. Instead, she turned her gaze to Arnav. Her eyes narrowed like she was scanning for hidden motives—or wedding dates.
She said nothing for a long moment. Just looked.
Then, a slow smile.
"He caught you before you fell. That's a good sign. Beta, stay for lunch."
Arnav blinked, taken off guard.
"I'd be honoured," he said.
She nodded with quiet approval and disappeared into the house, humming an old Rajesh Khanna song.
Khushi looked at him, part-mortified, part-impressed.
"You charmed her."
"I didn't do anything."
"Exactly. That's what's terrifying."
He only smirked.
He just smirked. Not the arrogant smirk she'd once hated. A quieter one. Like he was allowing himself this moment. Just this.
They walked inside together. Quietly. Comfortably.
The wind picked up again, fluttering the fallen marigold garland between them like an omen, or a question not yet asked.
----
Lunch had been chaos. Paneer spilled, Payal's chutney critique started a mini war, Lavanya nearly swallowed a whole green chilli, and Buaji had declared that anyone who didn't finish their kheer would be cursed with ugly embroidery forever.
Somehow, through the laughter and clinking spoons, Khushi had found her eyes drifting toward Arnav more than once.
And each time?
He was already looking.
Now, the house was quiet. The boutique team had gone for their chai break. Khushi returned to her work table.
She shuffled through the sketch stack. Reviewing. Checking folds. Then she paused.
One sketch didn't look like hers.
It had her style. Her lines. But something was different. The neckline of the kurta—adjusted. The dupatta's drape—refined.
Her fingers traced the pencil shading.
She blinked. Stared. And then the tiniest smile curved her lips.
> "So you do know how to hold a pencil."
From the hallway:
> "Better than I know how to hold back."
She turned.
He stood leaning by the doorframe, casual. Like he hadn't just altered her sketchbook and her heartbeat in one afternoon.
She placed the sketch gently back on the board. Right in the center.
Her fingers lingered on the corner with the looped thread.
> Khushi (soft): "Thank you."
Arnav: "For what?"
Khushi: "For not fixing me. Just… helping the fabric breathe."
He didn't say anything.
But he stayed.
And beside her, in the quiet flicker of stitched dreams and altered stars, it felt like something was finally beginning to mend.
She bent to pick it up, and he stepped forward to help. Their fingers brushed.
Neither pulled away.
"That design you altered," she said, voice soft. "The maroon lehenga."
"Yes?"
"You didn't sign it. But I knew."
"Did you like the changes?"
"I kept them."
His eyes flickered, unreadable. But his shoulders relaxed.
"Then it was worth it."
A moment passed.
"The thread you added... it made it stronger. Not louder. Just... surer."
"Like you."
Their eyes met again. Quiet. Charged. Real.
And in the courtyard where thunder once echoed in silence, a new kind of thread tugged tighter.
The kind that stitched people together.
Not with promises.
But presence.
Khushi stepping aside, handing him a spare pencil.
> "Next time you alter one, sign it properly."
Arnav: "Only if I get co-designer credit on the wedding lehenga."
Khushi (deadpan): "Whose wedding?"
Arnav (lightly): "I'm a long-term investor, remember?"
She didn't say anything.
He didn't need her to.
There were some threads too soft to see. But impossible not to feel.
A diya flickering by the corner window. And two hearts finally finding the same rhythm.
...