The air was thick with the scent of sea salt and anticipation as Agashi and Kabir began their journey, the city of Mumbai stretching wide before them, loud and unapologetic. The streets pulsed with life—taxi horns blaring, hawkers calling out their prices, and the heady mix of spices curling through the humid air. Agashi took it all in, eyes glinting with the thrill of escape, while Kabir, camera in hand, was already lost in the details—capturing the life woven into every corner.
They started with vada pav from a vendor near CST, the soft, buttered bread cradling the spicy potato filling. Kabir took a bite, lips curling at the burst of flavors, then turned his camera toward Agashi just as she popped a piece into her mouth. She scowled, knowing he'd caught her mid-chew, but he only grinned.
Later, they wound through Colaba, sipping cutting chai from glass tumblers, their fingers brushing as he passed her the warm cup. By the time the day gave way to night, they found themselves in a rooftop bar overlooking Marine Drive, a city of lights sprawling below. The air between them crackled as they sat side by side, sipping on their drinks, the conversation flowing easy—until he reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Agashi froze, the weight of his gaze too heavy, too knowing.
"Still no strings?" he murmured, voice just above the music.
She exhaled, her fingers curling around the rim of her glass. "None," she confirmed.
But that night, in the dim glow of their Airbnb, she watched him sleep a moment longer than she should have, and when his arm draped over her waist instinctively, she didn't move away.
From Mumbai, they traveled south to the quiet backwaters of Alappuzha. The still waters mirrored the sky as they drifted through in a houseboat, the distant sound of temple bells ringing in the background. At a small family-run eatery, they feasted on karimeen pollichathu, the fish wrapped in banana leaves, steaming as it was unwrapped. Agashi scribbled down flavors in her diary while Kabir photographed the wrinkled hands of the old woman who served them, capturing the generations of skill in her fingers.
In Udupi, the morning was cool, the scent of jasmine lingering in the air as they explored the temple town. Agashi had slipped into a traditional saree—muted gold with a deep green border—and when Kabir turned and saw her, the world seemed to still.
His camera hung useless around his neck as he simply stared.
"What?" she asked, adjusting the pleats, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.
He shook his head, a slow smile forming. "Stay right there."
She barely had time to protest before the camera clicked, capturing her mid-movement, strands of hair falling loose from her bun. He took another—closer this time, her eyes cast down, fingers skimming the fabric.
Later, as they sat at a small roadside stall waiting for their masala dosa, Agashi glanced up to find Kabir missing. She frowned, scanning the street, until he returned, something hidden in his hand. Without a word, he stepped behind her, the scent of jasmine hitting her before she felt the gentle press of fingers against her hair.
A gajra.
She stilled.
His fingers lingered at the nape of her neck before he came back around, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
"There," he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She swallowed, the weight of the moment settling between them, then, slowly, she reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his.
Neither of them said anything.
Neither of them needed to.
YOU ARE READING
No Strings Attached
RomanceAgashi never believed in fairytales. Once, she thought she had her forever-until Aarav left, and love became nothing more than a closed chapter. Then came Kabir-reckless, magnetic, impossible to ignore. What started as stolen moments turned into som...
