The boutique had finally exhaled.
Vendors gone. Clients confirmed. Lavanya had vanished in pursuit of a clearance saree sale.
Even Buaji had been pacified—for now—with a piping hot bowl of her own kheer and Payal's flattery.
Khushi lingered in the upstairs studio, the one room untouched by the day's chaos.
The slanting light from the high window turned bolts of fabric into magic carpets and dust into dancing gold.
She bent over the old drawing table—a relic from the boutique's tailoring days—searching for a misplaced invoice.
Instead, she found a sketchbook.
AR Designs. Silver-embossed. Smooth to the touch.
Definitely not hers.
Curious, cautious, she flipped it open.
---
> Page One: A structured jacket. Her silhouette—but softened.
Page Two: A lehenga with unexpected layering. Part Mughal, part Milan.
Page Three: A scarf. Shaded lovingly. At the corner—her name. Khushi.
> Khushi (murmuring): "Arnav…"
The next page made her breath hitch.
A full design.
Her original debut piece. The one she never finalized.
But he'd redrawn it. Fixed the proportions. Tilted the fall.
Added hand-done embroidery, exactly in her threadwork style.
Subtle. Seamless. Respectful.
Titled below in pencil:
> Fusion 01: She Walks Between Stars & Streetlights
She touched the paper like it might burn.
> Khushi (whispering): "You thief."
A whisper not of anger—but wonder.
The studio door creaked open.
She turned.
There he was.
Caught.
Holding two kulfi sticks—and a look so unbothered it was almost adorable.
> Arnav (casual): "You weren't supposed to find that."
> Khushi (folding arms): "So sketching my soul and leaving it in plain sight isn't suspicious at all?"
Khushi: "Is this your version of espionage? Breaking into my studio and stealing silhouettes?"
> Arnav (deadpan): "If I wanted to steal your designs, I wouldn't leave my sketchbook behind."
> Khushi (lifting a brow): "So what is this, then?"
He stepped closer. Slowly. Like he was walking toward a line he wasn't sure he should cross.
She arched a brow. He walked closer, slowly, his steps confident but careful—like he wasn't sure if she'd slap him with a swatch or start quoting poetry.
> Khushi: "You sketch... what you can't control?"
> Arnav: "I sketch what I want to understand."
> Khushi: "So this—" She tapped the sketch. "—was for understanding me?"
> Arnav (softly): "Yes."
Silence fell, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
It was full of things unsaid, and things finally understood.
She glanced at the sketch again.
> Khushi: "You fixed the neckline. I hated how it choked at the collar."
> Arnav: "I know. You always tug at your kurti when you're nervous."
She blinked.
> Khushi (slowly): "You… watch me?"
> Arnav (with zero apology): "I notice things."
He held out a kulfi, quietly.
> Arnav: "Truce kulfi?"
She didn't take it right away.
> Khushi (teasing): "You hate outside food. You once called a perfectly innocent vada pav 'grease with identity issues.'"
> Arnav: "Still true."
> Khushi: "So why are you holding kulfi from a roadside freezer?"
> Arnav: "Because it's what you like. And… I'm learning to like things that make you smile."
Pause.
> Khushi (smiling, taking it): "Don't fall in love with food poisoning on my account."
> Arnav: "Too late."
She blinked.
> Khushi: "What?"
> Arnav (biting into his kulfi, completely nonchalant): "Too late to avoid kulfi. What did you think I meant?"
She turned redder than gulal.
They stood at the work table—him on one side, her on the other.
The sketchbook open between them. Kulfi in hand.
A moment frozen.
And yet, melting.
Khushi flipping the sketchbook to a blank page.
She picks up a pencil and starts drawing. No words. Just lines. Fluid. Confident.
A man's kurta with side embroidery.
A little tighter than usual.
Collar open.
She doesn't look at him.
> Khushi (coolly): "Page Two: He Catches Storms in Silence."
He watches her.
And smiles.
Quietly. Completely undone.
Khushi leaning against the edge of the table, kulfi in one hand, the sketchbook in the other.
He stands beside her, not touching—but near.
And in between them, on the table:
Pages of collaboration.
Pages of confession.
Pages of something new.
----
The sun blazed like it had something to prove. The lanes of Laxmi Nagar were packed—shoulders bumped, rickshaw horns screamed, vendors hawked everything from sequins to sarees with the enthusiasm of a reality show host on finals week.
Khushi marched ahead in jutis and a no-nonsense cotton kurti. Her hair was pinned up, her eyes laser-focused.
Behind her trailed Arnav Singh Raizada.
Sweating.
Sulking.
Suffering.
In limited edition Italian loafers.
> Arnav (muttering): "This is a fire hazard masquerading as a market."
> Khushi (grinning): "Welcome to where real fashion lives. This is not your fancy Delhi showroom, Raizada. This is the runway of rebellion."
He sidestepped a puddle of red dye water with visible horror.
> Arnav: "Was that... beetroot or blood?"
> Khushi: "Red silk rinse. Don't ask what they use for black."
> Khushi (grabbing a rare shade): "This! This is the exact color of hope!"
> Arnav (softly): "You talk like feelings are dyeable."
> Khushi (without turning): "Maybe they are. You just need the right base cloth."
A man in a yellow vest waved aggressively from behind a mountain of chiffon.
> Vendor: "Aree bitiya, aagaye aap! Aur yeh kaun hai? Nawab sahib?"
> Khushi (smirking): "Bas mere assistant hain. Samjho intern type."
> Arnav (flatly): "I own five companies."
> Vendor (laughing): "Wah! Toh chhathi company ka naam hoga 'Gupta Boutique ke Naukar Pvt Ltd'!"
Khushi wheezed with laughter. Arnav looked personally attacked by the syllables.
She dived into the fabric jungle, comparing shimmer qualities with precision.
Arnav, meanwhile, tried to look useful. Which was hard when he kept sneezing near tulle.
> Khushi (holding up a deep maroon brocade): "This one. Feel the weave."
> Arnav (touching it skeptically): "It's scratchy."
> Khushi: "It's royal."
> Arnav: "It's what I imagine medieval carpets felt like."
---
Near a Chaiwala
Khushi handed him a kulhad of steaming masala chai.
> Arnav (eyeing it): "It's... hot and suspicious."
> Khushi: "Like you on a Monday."
He sniffed it cautiously.
> Arnav: "There are... bits floating in it."
> Khushi: "Elaichi. Flavor. Welcome to India."
He sipped.
Paused.
> Arnav (softly, defeated): "It's… good."
> Khushi (mock surprise): "What? The Raizada likes roadside chai?"
> Arnav: "Let's not make this public knowledge."
--
Khushi reached for a pack of antique buttons.
Arnav's gaze lingered on a rack of multicolored thread.
He picked up one roll.
Bright yellow. Familiar.
> Arnav (quietly): "This is the one from your scarf... the one you stitched stars into."
> Khushi (blinking): "You remember that?"
> Arnav: "I remember everything that changed me."
She stared at him.
And for once… didn't have a quip ready.
---
Lunch Chaos
Tiny steel tables. Six fans spinning lazily. One laminated menu stuck to the wall.
Arnav tried to sit without touching the chair with his full weight.
> Arnav: "This looks like a furniture graveyard."
> Khushi: "This looks like my childhood Sunday outing. Shut up and eat."
A waiter slapped down two thalis—piled with aloo gobhi, dal, achar, papad, roti, and ego bruises.
Arnav took a bite.
Eyes widened.
> Arnav: "What… is this?"
> Khushi: "Just aloo. Why?"
> Arnav: "Just aloo? Khushi, this potato just baptized me."
She burst out laughing, nearly knocking her steel tumbler over.
---
Mid-Bite – Buaji Calls
Khushi puts her phone on speaker by mistake.
> Buaji (loudly): "Hai re Nand Kishore! Did he remove his shoes before entering the market? Or are you making him walk like some Shehzada in pucca leather?"
> Khushi (facepalming): "Buaji—"
> Buaji: "Tell him, if he wants to impress my laadli, he better eat street foods too!"
> Arnav (grinning): "Noted, Buaji."
> Buaji (pause): "...Hai re, he's polite! Bitiya, lock this one before Diwali."
---
Khushi paying for three bundles of lace and two rolls of organza, while Arnav carries them.
The vendor yells after them—
> Vendor: "Shaadi pe invite zaroor dena, babuji!"
> Khushi (to Arnav): "They think we're getting married."
> Arnav (with the softest smile): "Maybe we are… collaborating very seriously."
She elbowed him.
He didn't stop smiling.
And the market? It glowed a little brighter that day—not because of the fairy lights or the sequins, but because Laxmi Nagar got a rare sight:
The mighty ASR. Carrying fabric.
And maybe… carrying something else too.
---
Night , Gupta's house
The world outside had gone quiet.
Even Laxmi Nagar, the neighborhood that never really slept, had lulled itself into a hush. The distant clatter of a late-night rickshaw faded into the hum of the fan above her head.
Khushi sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by a mess of fabric scraps, dulled pencils, and old sketch pads.
A fresh cup of chai had gone cold beside her.
The showcase prep had drained her—but not her mind. That? It was wide awake.
She turned a page.
And began to sketch.
Not consciously.
Not deliberately.
But with the kind of muscle memory that betrays the heart.
First came the eyes.
Sharp, restless. Watching but never demanding. She shaded the brow—furrowed in thought, like he was solving a problem that didn't have numbers.
Then the jawline—firm, with just a shadow of stubbornness.
Then the sleeves.
Always rolled.
> Khushi (to herself): "This is not a crush. This is just... artistic documentation of a frequent collaborator."
She added the slightest curve to his lips—not a smile, but the ghost of one. The kind he wore when Buaji yelled at Lavanya, or when he caught Khushi humming while pinning fabric.
> "Maybe I need therapy," she muttered.
A sudden knock on the door jolted her.
> Payal (muffled): "Khushi? You awake?"
Khushi shoved the sketchpad under a stack of old bridal magazines like it was contraband.
> Khushi (casual panic): "Haan, haan! I'm just doing...tax math."
> Payal (opening the door): "It's 1:15 a.m. Why are you doing tax math in eyeliner?"
> Khushi (wide-eyed): "Because... fashion is tax deductible?"
Payal raised an eyebrow. Khushi smiled sheepishly.
> Payal: "Well, good luck with that. I'm making chai. You want?"
> Khushi (relieved): "Please. Extra adrak."
As soon as Payal left, Khushi tugged the sketchpad back out.
Her fingers hovered over the half-finished drawing.
She sighed.
Then drew in the missing button near his collar—the one from that day.
And in tiny script beneath the image, she scribbled:
> "He doesn't belong in sketchbooks."
> "But I can't help it."
---