Part 54
He hadn’t said much since that morning.
And maybe she hadn’t either.
But his voice kept echoing in her memory, uninvited—
You remember this place?
She had nodded at the time. Smiled, even. The polite kind. But now, with the apartment blanketed in its late-afternoon hush, the quiet folded around her like gauze, thick and slow, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
What had he meant?
This place? The walls? The furniture he’d changed for her?
Or had he meant that night?
That corner.
That kiss.
Her second kiss. Her first real one. The one she kept telling herself not to think about.
And yet, the thought itched under her skin — not because of the memory itself, but because of how casually he'd spoken, as if it hadn’t lodged itself inside him the way it had inside her.
Why did it feel like the kiss meant more to her than it had to him?
She adjusted the blanket on her lap absently, the familiar weight of her cast brushing against the soft-knit fabric. The nurse had said he’d be back soon with her evening meds. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see him just yet.
But the door clicked open.
And there he was.
Maan stepped into the room quietly, careful not to startle her, a small tray in one hand. The light from the corridor behind him stretched like a warm spill across the rug.
“You’re awake,” he said, softer than usual.
She nodded but didn’t speak.
He walked over, setting the tray down on the bedside table, then moved to help her sit up — one arm gently sliding behind her back, the other adjusting the pillow.
He paused. Hovered.
“Hey,” he said again, this time from near the foot of the bed, not quite meeting her eyes.
She looked up.
There was a brief silence. Then—
“About earlier,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “When I said... You remember this place?”
She blinked once. Slow.
“I meant the house,” he added quickly, as if bracing for a reaction. “Not... that night. Not the kiss. Not like that.”
A breath passed between them. Stillness.
“But I do remember that too,” he went on, voice lower now. “I just... didn’t want to make it heavier than it already was.”
She studied him for a second, her gaze soft but unreadable.
Then she looked away, eyes resting somewhere near the far window.
“You mean the kiss didn’t mean anything to you?” she asked, her voice quiet—innocent almost. But it landed like an accusation anyway, slipping into the room before either of them could stop it.
His breath hitched, barely audible.
And then he stepped closer.
Not too close. But close enough that she could feel his hesitation before his answer ever came.
He sits near her on the bed looking into her eyes
She looks back , trying to search the real him inside those charcoal black dark eyes
His breath hitched, barely audible.
And then he stepped closer.
Not too close. But close enough that she could feel his hesitation before his answer ever came.
He let out a sharp exhale, almost a scoff.
“Yeah, it meant nothing,” he said flatly. “Forgot it the minute you stormed out and left me standing like a f***ing idiot.”
Her eyes flicked to his, startled.
He gave a crooked smile. Not amused. Just... tired.
“Geet,” he said, quieter now, his voice dark around the edges, “you think I go around letting people kiss me like that? Like they’re breaking something open inside me?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“I remember everything about that night,” he went on, his tone turning rougher with each word. “How you smelled like rain and panic. How you looked terrified... and kissed me anyway.”
He sits on the bed beside her, fingers brushing the blanket—absent, restless.
“You looked at me like I was going to ruin you,” he said, voice low, a bitter edge curling underneath, “and I still let it happen. Hell, I wanted it to happen. That should’ve told me everything I needed to know about how f***ed I was.”
Geet’s lips parted slightly. But her breath didn’t move.
Maan finally turned to face her again, hands in his pockets now, eyes suddenly softer.
“I remember that kiss every time I try to forget you,” he said. “So no. It wasn’t nothing.”
There was silence again. This time, not heavy.
Just full.
Like something had finally been said out loud that had been sitting between them for a year.
Geet lowered her gaze. Her hand shifted to the edge of the blanket, fingers curling tight.
Maan watched her for a beat longer. Then sighed, raking a hand through his hair.
“And for the record,” he added, eyes flicking toward her with dry amusement, “if you ever want to rewrite that kiss sometime... maybe next time don’t run out like your ass was on fire.”
Geet blinked and then burst out laughing.
Not a polite chuckle. Not a stifled giggle.
A real laugh—raw and sudden and breathless—the kind that made her tilt her head back slightly and clutch her ribs because even now, her bandages protested. But the pain didn’t stop her. Not tonight.
And for a moment, Maan just sat there—watching her.
That sound.
God.
He hadn’t realized how much he missed it. Not until it filled the room again like sunlight after too many gray days.
“You literally said that about me,” she managed between laughs, wincing slightly but still going. “Run like my ass was on fire.”
Maan shrugged, unbothered, eyes tracing the lines of her face with quiet satisfaction.
“You’re the one who enjoys these terrible jokes,” he said smoothly. “Nobody else laughs.”
She wheezed a bit, pressing her palm to her side, but the smile didn’t leave her face. “That’s true though,” she gasped.
He smirked, leaning casually against the wall beside her, arms folded now.
“I know,” he said. “I took my material straight from the Geetanjali Kumar certified comedy playbook.”
She shook her head, still grinning, tears at the edge of her lashes—not from sorrow, but from laughing too hard for someone in her condition.
Her laughter softened after a moment, breath slowing.
Stray strands of hair had fallen into her face, stuck to the sheen on her forehead.
Maan leaned closer without a word.
His fingers reached out—gentle, hesitant at first—as he brushed the hair away from her eyes. His touch was careful, reverent, like he was afraid he might break something. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.
Just watched him.
His hand lingered near her cheek a second longer than necessary.
Then, softly, like it wasn’t meant for the air between them—
“Why did you run?”
The words fell between them like dust in sunlight—slow, quiet, suspended.
She didn’t answer. Not right away.
Her gaze broke first.
Not sharply, but like a leaf detaching from its branch—reluctant, inevitable.
The corner of her mouth trembled before she looked down at her lap.
“I...” Her voice caught. She swallowed, tried again.
“I... I was scared.”
He stilled.
“Scared?” he echoed, his tone low but without mockery, more a quiet ache dressed as curiosity. “Of me?”
She shook her head, slow and deliberate, strands of hair falling forward again with the movement.
“No,” she whispered.
A breath.
Then, even softer—
“Of me.”
The words barely made it out, fragile and raw, like they’d scraped against something deep on the way up.
Maan didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
He only looked at her—really looked—at the way her lashes trembled, at how the sunlight from the window curved along the bruise still faintly shadowing her temple.
Something in his chest shifted, sharp and helpless.
And for once, he didn’t reach for words.
He just sat there in the hush of the room, her confession still humming faintly between them—
something too quiet to answer,
too sacred to interrupt.
She didn’t look up again.
Didn’t have to.
He was still there—his presence hovering steady and tall beside her, his silence louder than any question.
When she finally spoke again, it was barely above a murmur. But her voice held something new this time.
A confession.
“I was scared,” she said, breath catching slightly. “Of... of my heart breaking.”
That made him blink.
Slow. Careful. Like he didn’t want to break the moment.
“I ran to preserve that,” she continued, still looking down at her lap. Her fingers pressed into the blanket now, knuckles pale. “Whatever little I had left of it.”
Maan’s expression shifted. Something in his features softened, but he didn’t speak.
Didn’t interrupt.
Geet swallowed, hard, before continuing.
“I had started to have some feelings... emotions for you.” Her voice trailed for a moment, then returned, steadier. “Maybe infatuation. Maybe attraction. I didn’t know what it was. I just knew it was... too much.”
She finally looked up.
Their eyes met again.
“I didn’t want myself to cross a line.”
Maan’s jaw tightened, but not out of anger. Something in his posture eased, like a tension he hadn’t even noticed had been sitting in his bones finally gave way.
He didn’t look away. Not this time.
And when he spoke, his voice was quieter than it had been all day.
“You thought you’d fall for me?”
A flicker of self-deprecating amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You poor, naïve thing.”
She smiled despite herself.
Only a little.
But it was real.
Maan didn’t look away.
Didn’t blink.
And then—quietly, without theatrics, without smirking—he said,
“And here I was… losing my f***ing mind trying to find you.”
Geet’s brows drew together, lips parting slightly.
“I looked through every damn social media account with your name. Every acting, modeling agency database.”
He gave a dry huff of laughter, low and bitter.
“I watched every one of your stupid saas-bahu soap side roles. Every detergent commercial, shampoo ad, radio voiceover—anything where I could just get a glimpse of you. Just... to hear your voice.”
Geet froze.
Stilled, completely.
He wasn’t joking.
His eyes weren’t teasing. His smirk was gone.
He was just sitting there, spine straight but exhausted, like the weight of that confession had taken a year to reach his mouth.
“I told myself it was curiosity,” he went on, voice lower now. “Just wanted to know where you ended up after you left that night. But it wasn’t that. It was never that.”
He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, restless.
“You disappeared. And I kept looking. And when you finally stopped showing up on screen? When the agency scrubbed your name from the client list?”
His gaze dropped for a second.
“That was worse than the silence.”
Geet’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers gripped the edge of the blanket, knuckles taut.
She hadn’t known.
Not this.
Not any of this.
Geet didn’t speak.
Not right away.
Her expression didn’t shift much—just a stillness that settled into her like snowfall, quiet and sure. No sharp gasp. No grand confession. Just the long pause of someone suddenly understanding how much they mattered when they thought they didn’t.
And then—slowly—she moved.
Her body was heavy with healing, but her gestures were light. Deliberate. Careful.
She inched closer on the bed, the soft blankets shifting beneath her. He didn’t move, still seated beside her, one leg bent slightly on the mattress, sleeves of his light blue shirt rolled up halfway.
And then she let her forehead rest gently on his shoulder.
No words.
Just touch. Soft and simple and devastating.
The cotton of his shirt was warm under her skin, faintly creased from the day. She felt the beat of his breath beneath it—steady, unguarded. As if he was holding himself perfectly still just for her.
Maan said nothing.
But something in him reacted—subtly, almost imperceptibly. His shoulder dipped just enough to meet her weight, his arm shifting behind her ever so slightly, not wrapping, not pulling—just... being there.
The room had no lights on now.
Outside, the sun had set behind the high-rises, and the penthouse lay awash in that hushed, in-between hour—where twilight kissed the moonlight, and the city shimmered like a necklace of moving diamonds far below their glass wall.
They sat like that.
Not quite holding each other, but no longer apart.
And then, in the hush between them, he heard it.
Her breathing.
Soft.
Rhythmic.
Falling into that familiar lull again—like it always did now, after the meds dulled her pain and her body gave in, curling into rest without asking for permission.
He tilted his head just slightly, eyes lowering toward her face.
And sure enough—she’d dozed off.
Her forehead still resting on his shoulder, the corners of her lips relaxed, lashes brushing against her cheek. Completely still. Completely unguarded.
She hadn’t even lasted five minutes.
A smile tugged at his mouth.
Of course.
The girl who once used to walk out mid-conversation was now falling asleep mid-confession.
He exhaled, barely shaking his head.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, the corners of his mouth lifting despite himself. “You really are something else.”
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t shift her away or try to lay her down.
He just let her stay there, head on his shoulder, heartbeat slow against his ribs.
And as the moonlight slipped in through the tall glass behind them, Maan Singh Khurana sat quietly in his blue shirt, holding the softest weight he’d ever known.
Her trust.
Her sleep.
Her silence.
Bhabhi Ji Ghar Pe Hain?
475