He sighed softly and extended his arm to her, an unspoken gesture of comfort and reassurance.

"Come," he said, his tone gentle but firm, as if nothing unusual had just transpired.

She hesitated for a fleeting second before slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, allowing him to guide her back to the event hall. The rest of the evening passed in a haze. Applause, congratulations, and polite exchanges surrounded them, but she barely registered any of it. Her mind was elsewhere, replaying his confession on the stage and the storm of emotions it had unleashed within her.

Finally, the event came to a close, and they made their way to the car. The silence between them was heavy, yet he seemed unbothered by it, his demeanor calm and peaceful as he navigated the dimly lit streets.

As they drove, he reached over and took her hand in his, his grip firm yet warm. She looked at him, startled, but his eyes remained fixed on the road ahead.

"I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while," he began, his voice steady but tinged with vulnerability. "That night… when your life was in danger, it made me realize something. It made me see just how much you mean to—"

"Stop here!" she exclaimed suddenly, cutting him off with urgency.

His foot pressed the brake instinctively, and the car came to a halt by the side of the road. He turned to her, concern evident in his eyes.

"What’s wrong?" he asked.

"I need to buy some medicine," she said quickly, her voice tight but controlled. "I think the food upset my stomach."

Without hesitation, he nodded and stepped out of the car to help her. He returned shortly with a small paper bag, handing it to her.

She glanced inside and frowned. "This isn’t my usual medicine," she said, shaking her head. "I’ll go in and get it myself."

Before he could protest, she stepped out of the car and walked briskly toward the pharmacy.

Inside, the harsh fluorescent lights seemed to pierce through her tense composure. She approached the counter, her palms slightly damp. The pharmacist, a middle-aged woman with a blank expression, looked up at her expectantly.

"I need sleeping pills," she said, her voice low. She quickly handed over the money, avoiding eye contact as the woman placed the small box on the counter.

Just as she was about to leave, a wild thought seized her. She turned back to the pharmacist, her voice barely above a whisper. "How… how does one seduce a man?"

The woman raised an eyebrow, her expression unchanging. She studied her for a moment before responding in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

"I’ve had three children," the woman said. "I think I can give you some advice. Start by getting close to him. Place a hand on his chest or shoulder—preferably the chest. Look into his eyes, sharp and direct. That usually works if he’s the type to respond to touch. If not… just ask him outright. If he’s a good man, he’ll understand."

The pharmacist’s bluntness startled her, but she managed a weak nod of thanks before retreating to the car.

He glanced at her as she climbed back into the passenger seat. "Are you okay now?" he asked, his tone tinged with concern.

"Yes," she murmured, clutching the box of pills tightly in her hands.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, the tension between them thick but unspoken. When they finally reached home, she stepped out of the car and walked directly to the bedroom without a word.

Inside the quiet room, she stood still for a moment, her thoughts swirling chaotically. She placed the box of pills on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her reflection in the large mirror across the room.

Her heart was a battlefield of conflicting emotions—fear and guilt. She took a deep breath, her fingers brushing the edge of the saree draped over her shoulder. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she began to undo it. The fabric slipped through her fingers and pooled at her feet like a whisper of surrender.

With trembling hands, she reached for the hooks of her blouse, undoing them one by one, her breath hitching as she worked her way to the last one.

The sound of the door opening startled her.

She froze.

His eyes caught on her exposed back, where her hair had been swept aside, revealing smooth skin marked with tiny moles. Her hands were still struggling with the last hook. He stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.

"I need to talk to you," he said, his voice low, the words laced with something unspoken.

Her throat went dry, and her fingers paused.

“I… I was just changing,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “Can you help me with the blouse.”

The air around them thickened, charged with an intensity neither dared to acknowledge. He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he stepped closer. His hand brushed against her back, warm and steady as he unhooked the last clasp.

“You’re not wearing a bra,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question, just a statement heavy with implication.

“This blouse doesn’t require one,” she replied, her voice shaky but determined to sound unaffected.

He gulped, his thumb brushing the center of her spine. The touch was light, almost reverent, but it sent a shiver through her.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

She froze, her grip tightening on the saree draped across her trembling shoulders. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she remained rooted in place. Then, with deliberate slowness, she turned to face him, pulling the saree closer as if it could shield her from his gaze.

Her eyes locked onto his—sharp, calculating, and wary. Yet her hands betrayed her resolve, trembling as they reached out. She fumbled with his tie, her fingers hesitant and unsure.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice laced with suspicion, his body tensing at her unexpected move.

She didn’t respond, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her trembling fingers slid down to his first button, unfastening it with painstaking hesitation. Her gaze darted everywhere but his face, settling momentarily on his chest before flitting away again. She swallowed hard, her movements awkward, uncertain.

His patience frayed. “What are you up to, Asha?” he growled, his tone low and accusatory.

Her hands stilled, hovering just above the next button, her body taut like a bowstring. She looked up then, meeting his eyes briefly before glancing away, her silence heavy with unspoken words.

The question hung in the air between them, his suspicion evident in every word. Her resolve wavered, her hands clutching the edge of the saree as if it could shield her from the intensity of his gaze.

“I’m a man, Asha. I understand what you’re doing,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Clearly.”

The accusation in his tone sliced through her resolve, but she held her expression steady, masking the turmoil within. Her grip on the saree tightened, fingers trembling against the fabric.

“What’s with the sudden change?” he pressed, stepping closer, his presence looming. “And what exactly are you trying to achieve?”

The question hung heavily in the air, each word dripping with suspicion. She glanced down, unable to meet his piercing gaze. Her breath faltered as the silence stretched unbearably, her mind racing for an answer.

“I…” she started, her voice barely a whisper, but the words stuck in her throat. She bit her lip, her heart pounding as she forced herself to speak. “I don’t know.”

His eyes darkened, the weight of his gaze making her feel small and exposed. He took another step toward her, his voice quieter but no less accusing. “That’s not good enough, Asha. Tell me. What’s going on?”

She exhaled shakily, her hands gripping the saree tighter as if it were a lifeline. Panic surged in her chest, but she pushed it down, knowing she couldn’t falter now. “I… I didn’t know you were serious about marriage,” she murmured, the words barely audible.

He froze, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Marriage?” he repeated, the sharp edge in his voice softening slightly.

She nodded, keeping her gaze averted. “I wasn’t sure… if you really meant it.”

For a moment, his expression shifted, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “Asha,” he began, his voice softer now, “if that’s what’s holding you back, you should know I’ve never been more serious.”

She forced herself to look up at him, her lips curving into a small, hesitant smile. “Why don’t we stop asking questions for now?” she whispered, her tone almost playful but faltering at the edges.

His smile didn’t come. Instead, suspicion lingered in his eyes. “That’s not like you,” he said, his voice firm. “You’re always full of questions. Why this sudden change?”

Her chest tightened as his words struck too close to the truth. She forced herself to move closer, her hands reaching for his tie again. Slowly, she loosened it, her fingers trembling with hesitation. “Maybe I’m just tired of fighting,” she said softly, her words careful and measured.