No one in the room could sleep. She lay awake, her body tense as she remained acutely aware of him behind her. There was an unspoken understanding between them, fragile but present, like a thread stretched too thin. She was holding up her end of their silent deal—staying close, talking to him when he needed it—but she also drew her boundaries firmly. He had agreed to respect those lines, promising not to touch her, and she held him to his word.

He lay on his side, clutching the loose end of her saree in his hand. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had, and he clung to it as if it could soothe the ache in him. His gaze rested on her back. If only she’d face him, he thought, he might have been able to lose himself in her expressions, her eyes. But she wouldn’t. She had made that clear.

“Listen,” he said softly, breaking the silence. His voice was low, uncertain.

Her eyes fluttered open, reluctant. She was on the edge of sleep, drifting, but his words pulled her back.

“Yes?” she asked, her tone soft but cautious.

“Let me touch you,” he said, his voice tinged with yearning.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with unspoken emotions. She turned the words over in her mind, trying to decide how to respond.

“You said you’d listen to me,” she finally said, her voice steady.

“I did,” he replied, his tone defensive. “But I also said I’d kiss you, and kissing includes touching.”

“You didn’t say that,” she countered, her words pointed. “You clearly said you wouldn’t touch me.”

“Come on,” he said, exasperation seeping into his voice. “We both know what you actually meant. You didn’t want me to... well, fuck you. But you’re too decent to say it outright. So instead of ‘touching,’ it should’ve been the other word. Right? Let’s be real here.”

Her eyes narrowed at his deflection, her resolve hardening. “You agreed not to touch me,” she said firmly, her words like a wall between them.

“And I told you in what context I agreed to it,” he shot back, though his voice softened toward the end, knowing he was treading dangerous ground.

“You agreed not to touch me,” she repeated, emphasizing each word with a deliberate pause.

His frustration simmered just below the surface. He wanted to argue, to press her further, but something in her tone made him stop. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice quieter, almost pleading. “I just want to hold you... from behind. That’s all.”

She turned slightly, her gaze meeting his for the first time. Her eyes held a question that cut deeper than his request. “Does my consent mean nothing to you? Does it have any power over your decision?”

Her words struck him like a blow, forcing him to confront himself. His jaw clenched as he weighed his options. He had promised to listen to her, and he couldn’t go back on that promise without losing her trust.

Reluctantly, he replied, “Yes... of course, your consent matters.”

The words were gritted out, heavy with the weight of his own restraint.

“Then don’t touch me,” she said with finality.

Her tone left no room for argument, and he didn’t push further. Instead, he tightened his hold on her saree’s fabric, winding it into his fist as if it were a substitute for the closeness he craved. He closed his eyes, willing himself to find solace in this small connection.

At least they were sharing the same blanket. That thought alone was enough to bring him some comfort.

As the days went by, the tension between them softened into something quieter, more bearable. True to her word, she began talking to him more, her voice filling the silences he hated so much. He kept his distance, respecting her boundaries, but his gaze often lingered on her, his intensity palpable.

One evening, as she stood chopping vegetables in the dimly lit kitchen, he broke the comfortable silence between them.

“You stuff potatoes in your parathas, don’t you?” he asked, his tone light but curious.

She paused, her knife hovering over the cutting board. “Not really,” she said, frowning slightly as she thought. “It’s a similar process, but not the same. For sweet chapatis, we use refined flour instead of wheat.”

“That’s hardly a difference,” he teased, a smirk playing on his lips. “So your sweet chapatis are basically just a rip-off of aloo parathas—replace the potatoes with sugar, slap on a new name, and voilà.”

Her breath caught, and her brows knitted together in indignation. She turned to face him fully, her eyes blazing.

“It is *not* a rip-off,” she said, her tone sharp with defense. “How can you even say that? Sweet chapatis are completely different. They’re made only during festivals, not like your everyday aloo parathas. And we don't just use sugar in it. We use Dal. For all you know, your parathas might’ve been copied from our sweet chapatis!”

Her fervent defense of her food brought a small, amused smile to his lips. He raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “Okay, okay. Sweet chapatis win. I surrender. You’re the custodian of authentic cuisine.”

She huffed and ignored him continuing with her cooking.

"One who doesn't know cooking shouldn't talk about authenticity of food".

He snickered. She was becoming extremely defensive possessive of her maternal food.

"You are wrong. One who tastes the food still can judge despite not knowing how to cook".

"Don't talk to me".

She snapped at him as her frown deepened more.

"You look more beautiful when you are angry".

She huffed as she shut her eyes tight and bit her lips in to control her anger while he his husky laughed sent shivers in her body. She looked up at him and he rose his hands up in surrender and imitated zipping his lips as she began to continue making sweet chapati.

****

Wrapping her hair up in a lazy bun, she left her room, craving a quiet moment to herself. She headed to the kitchen to fix something simple, but the rich aroma wafting through the air made her pause. Her nose twitched as she followed the scent, curiosity overriding her exhaustion.

She froze at the doorway, her breath hitching at the unexpected sight. He was there, cooking. A neat stack of puris rested on the counter, golden and puffed to perfection. He moved with practiced efficiency, flipping something on the stove with the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times.

“You’re awake,” he said, his tone casual but his eyes sharp as they met hers. “Almost finished. Take a seat.”

She hesitated, but the unspoken command in his voice made her obey. She sat down silently, her eyes flickering between him and the spread he was preparing.

He began serving her food, piling her plate with portions that made her stomach churn.

“That’s enough. I can’t eat all this,” she said softly, unsure of how much she could protest without provoking him.

“You will, once you taste it,” he replied confidently, smirking as he sat across from her, his gaze never leaving her face.

She eyed the dishes nervously. “Didn’t you cook too much? And how did you manage this so fast?”

“It’s only 8 a.m.,” she added, her voice tinged with disbelief.

His smirk deepened, pride gleaming in his eyes. “When I was in jail, cooking was my job. I had to prepare meals for dozens of people every day. Big batches, quick work. It became second nature.”

Her fork paused midway to her mouth. She looked at him cautiously, unsure if she wanted to continue this conversation. But curiosity gnawed at her, pushing her to ask.

“If you don’t mind me asking—”

“I don’t mind at all,” he interrupted smoothly, leaning back. “Ask whatever you want.”

“What’s it like… in jail?” she ventured hesitantly. “Don’t take this the wrong way—I just wonder what criminals actually face there.”

His expression didn’t change, remaining unnervingly casual. He took a bite of his food and chewed slowly before answering.

“Since I was a minor, I wasn’t in a regular jail. They sent me to an observation home. Education was there, but it was trash compared to outside. We were forced into labor. There were fights, rivalries, and—occasionally—fun. I survived it all.”

He leaned forward slightly, his tone turning almost conversational. “At first, it was rough. I got targeted a lot. But you know what? Fighting back felt… good. I climbed the ranks. Almost made it to the top of the gang there.”

Her eyes widened, a mix of fear flashing across her face.

I was just one step away,” he continued, his voice laced with bitterness. “But then my grandmother bailed me out. I even asked if I could stay longer, but of course, that didn’t happen.”

“Why would you want to go jail?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled darkly, his gaze softening slightly as he looked at her. “Because I wanted to be the best. The top dog. Living in that place with no aim, no purpose, it eats at you. But when I decided I’d be the leader, suddenly, I had a goal. And then they took it away from me.”

She swallowed hard, his words unsettling her. Her unease deepened as he added, “My brother stopped me from going back. Ironic, isn’t it? He’s in the mafia, and yet he doesn’t want me to join him.”