The bell above the café door rang again the next evening.
Aanya looked up instinctively—and her heart skipped.
Arjun stood there, rainless this time, holding a folded umbrella like he wasn't sure where to put it. He hesitated, scanning the café, until his eyes found her. Something softened in his expression, like relief.
"You're back," she said before she could stop herself.
He smiled. "I hope that's okay."
"It's a café," she said quickly, embarrassed. "People come back."
"Yes," he replied, amused. "But I wanted to."
She turned toward the counter to hide the warmth rising to her face. "The usual?"
"The honest chai," he said.
This time, he didn't sit by the window. He chose the table closest to the counter, where he could see her as she worked—wiping tables, refilling sugar jars, greeting customers with the same quiet patience she'd shown him.
When the café slowed, Aanya brought the chai herself.
"You look tired today," Arjun said gently.
She shrugged. "Long day."
He studied her for a moment, then said, "You shouldn't have to work this hard."
The words were simple, but something in his tone made her stiffen.
"It's normal," she replied. "For people like me."
He frowned. "People like you?"
She realized what she'd said and waved it off. "I mean… people without choices."
Arjun didn't respond right away. Instead, he looked down at his hands—hands that had signed contracts worth millions that very morning, hands that had shaken with powerful men. Here, they felt useless.
"I think everyone deserves choices," he said finally.
Aanya smiled, but there was sadness in it. "That's a nice thought."
They talked more that evening—about books, about favorite foods, about childhood memories. Arjun spoke carefully, editing himself without realizing it. He talked about work but never mentioned names, companies, or numbers. Just stress. Just responsibility.
"You hate your job," Aanya observed.
He laughed quietly. "Is it that obvious?"
"You talk about it like it's a cage."
That hit closer to the truth than she knew.
As closing time approached, Aanya began stacking chairs. Arjun stood to help.
"You don't have to," she said.
"I want to."
Their hands brushed again as they lifted a chair together. This time, neither pulled away.
Outside, the streetlights flickered on. When they stepped out together, the air felt different—charged.
"Do you live far?" he asked.
"Twenty minutes," she said. "Walking."
"I can walk with you," he offered, then added quickly, "If that's not strange."
She hesitated. Then nodded. "Okay."
They walked side by side, the city humming around them. Aanya talked about her mother's illness, about dreams she'd put away because survival came first. Arjun listened—really listened—like her words mattered.
He wanted to tell her everything then. Who he was. The truth. But fear stopped him.
Fear that the way she looked at him would change.
When they reached her street, she stopped. "This is me."
He nodded. "I'm glad I came back today."
"So am I."
There was a moment—fragile, suspended—where something almost happened. But instead, he stepped back.
"Good night, Aanya."
"Good night, Arjun."
He watched her disappear into the narrow lane, past cracked walls and flickering lights. His driver waited at the corner, unseen by her.
As Arjun slipped into the luxury car, the world he belonged to closed around him again—glass, leather, silence.
He stared out the window, thinking of the girl who believed he was just another tired man trying to survive.
And for the first time in his life, he didn't correct the lie.