Two Scenes and a Lifetime Contract

41

As she walked toward him, Reyansh looked up, slipped his phone into his pocket, and strode forward. Without a word, he took her bags from her hands — a little too quickly, then glared at her as if about to scold her — but then stopped himself. Instead, he just motioned for her to get in.

After putting her luggage in the trunk, he joined her in the driver's seat.

Kashvi felt a rush of déjà vu. They'd had so many car moments — too many, maybe — filled with conversations that always left her flustered. She was always the timid one, and he, the carefree one who somehow managed to make her even more nervous. But today, her thoughts were heavier, tangled with feelings of dread, confusion and embarrassment.

All she wanted to ask was, Did we really kiss? Or did I just... blurt out something stupid?
And with every sideways glance at him, she fought the urge to demand the truth.

But before she could gather her courage, Reyansh shot her a glare.
"Why are you so quiet? You know you were wrong, right?"

"Wrong?" Kashvi frowned. "What am I wrong about?"

"Wrong for not coming to me," he said sharply. "You went to that wretched hostel instead. You'd rather stay there than come to me—or Anaya?"

She froze. He knew.
He knew she didn't have a home to go back to.

What else had she said to him that night? What exactly had happened between them?
Was she really beneath him, as she'd thought she was only imagining?
Was that feeling of home she'd dreamed of while wrapped in his arms... also the drunken truth?

She forced herself to dive into the fragments of that night—those blurred, dizzy flashes she had been avoiding. She pushed her mind to show her the foolish things she might've done or said, all the while convincing herself it hadn't been real, that it was just a stupid, drunken dream.

And then—like a flood—the memories came rushing back: sharper, louder, painfully real.

"I don't know..." she had whispered, her voice trembling like a confession. "But I want to kiss you."

And then—boom.
That kiss.
Her first kiss.
With him, the male lead.

Oh. My. God.
She was the one who kissed him. It wasn't a dream — no matter how hard she'd tried to convince herself otherwise.

She remembered his hoarse voice against her ear.

"Kashvi..." 

Her own plead, "don't leave me."

"Please... don't."

And her own broken sobs.

"I just— I want to go home. My mumma... my baba... they'll be looking for me. I don't want this world. I don't want him—that man isn't my father. He doesn't love me. No one does. Where will I go? I just want a home... my own home... where I can go during holidays and not get a message saying, 'Don't come.'"

She'd clutched his shirt then, trembling, words spilling out like a child's desperate prayer.

Now, sitting beside him, realization hit her like a punch.
F**!* she cursed inwardly, tears burning her eyes.

She'd told him everything. About her family. About her pain. About him.

And she'd kissed him.

Now there was no pretending it was a dream.
No escaping the memory of his soft lips, the warmth that had felt too real to be imagined.
Maybe there never had been—not since the moment he'd whispered his promise to wait for her.