I'm fumbling with my oversized tote bag, trying to juggle my phone, a coffee cup, and my ever-slipping specs that seem hell-bent on launching a rebellion today. They've slid down my nose so many times I've lost count. I puff a strand of hair out of my face, exasperated, when I hear Riya's familiar voice behind me — part warning, part scolding, all older-sister attitude.

"Tripti, just watch where you're—"

Too late.

Thud.

I collide headfirst into what feels like a brick wall—but it's not a wall. It's a chest. A firm, muscular, suit-clad chest.

The impact sends a squeaky, breathless "oof!" escaping from my mouth like air from a punctured balloon. I stumble back, flailing for balance. My specs shoot off my face like they've had enough of this circus and are making a run for it.

In my frantic attempt to grab them mid-air, I forget the coffee in my hand.

Disaster strikes.

A sharp arc of warm, frothy latte shoots through the air in glorious slow motion, landing smack on the stranger's spotless black shirt.

Silence.

I gasp, horrified. "Oh no! I—I'm so, so sorry!" I blurt, heat flooding my cheeks as I yank a corner of my dupatta and try to dab at the stain. My fingers are trembling. My heart is hammering. The man smells of expensive cologne and cold fury.

He takes a swift step back, his movements precise and controlled—like a predator.

His gaze drops to the brown splatter on his shirt, and when his eyes rise to meet mine, they're glacial. Icy. Like winter mornings and silent rage.

"Careful," he says, his voice low and lethal, slicing through the space between us. "Even if you sold yourself, you couldn't afford this shirt."

His words don't just sting—they slice.

The humiliation is sharp and hot, washing over me like boiling water. My breath catches in my throat. For a split second, I'm frozen. My ears ring with his cruelty, and I feel Riya stiffen behind me.

But then something inside me snaps.

I square my shoulders, straightening up even though my hands are still shaking. My specs are gone, my coffee's gone, my dignity is dangling by a thread—but my fire? That's still burning.

I look him straight in the eye, even if my vision's a little blurry without the specs. My voice, when it comes, is quiet—but razor sharp.

"Maybe I can't afford your designer shirts," I say, slowly and clearly, "but at least I don't wear my arrogance like cheap cologne."

His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare.

There it is—that flicker. Something unspoken flashes across his face. Surprise? Offense? Amusement? I can't tell. But it's there.

And I don't stop.

"I may be clumsy," I continue, stepping forward, my voice rising, "I may not belong in your sleek, perfect world. But I won't be talked down to like I'm something on the bottom of your shoe. I made a mistake. I owned up to it. Maybe try being human for a second."

The world seems to pause, stretching the moment into something heavy and electric. The scent of spilled coffee mixes with the distant tang of rain on concrete. Traffic hums softly behind us, irrelevant.

His lips curl—not into a smile, not quite. But into something dangerous. Something unreadable.

And just like that, I know this isn't over.

Not by a long shot.

His eyes darken, storm clouds gathering in them like they're seconds away from unleashing thunder.
"Brave?" he murmurs, the word curling off his tongue with a shadow of amusement. His voice drops an octave—silky, dangerous. "You have no idea what you're dealing with, girl."

I hold my ground, even as a chill runs up my spine.
"Oh, I think I do," I say, folding my arms, my chin tilted up in stubborn defiance. "You're the blueprint, aren't you? The classic tragic villain—dangerous, brooding, walking around with wounds you won't let anyone see. You've built walls so high, you think they make you untouchable."
I take a breath.
"But guess what? I'm not afraid of walls. Or scars. Or you."

He steps closer.

The space between us shrinks, charged with static. I can see the sharp lines of his cheekbones now, the faint stubble along his jaw. He smells like expensive leather, power—and something darker, more primal.

"Not afraid?" His lips twitch, half-smirk, half-threat. "Bold words from someone who can't even keep her glasses on straight."

I shove them back up with a swift motion, my cheeks heating, but I don't flinch. I don't look away.

"Maybe they keep slipping because I'm too busy keeping my eyes open," I shoot back. "Watching people like you. People who bulldoze through life thinking the world owes them something—because somewhere, someone hurt them and now they think they have the right to hurt back."

He laughs. Low. Rough. Like gravel under a steel boot. It's not amused. It's not warm. It's warning.

"Maybe the world does owe me," he says, voice like velvet soaked in venom.

"And maybe," I say, voice rising, "owning the world doesn't give you the right to rule it like a tyrant."

His eyes snap back to mine—sharp, glittering. Dangerous.

"Tyrant?" he repeats, his voice a low growl now, the air around him turning cold and sharp. "Careful, sunshine. I might just show you what a tyrant really looks like."

I lean forward just a little, heart thundering, but my voice doesn't shake.
"Try me."

And just like that, the air between us crackles—electric and scorching.
For one suspended second, we're locked in a silent standoff. Fire meeting ice. Rage meeting raw nerve.

Then—he turns.

No warning. No parting shot.

Just the sharp pivot of his polished shoes as he stalks away, leaving behind the echo of his presence and the lingering scent of danger.

I stand there, chest heaving, adrenaline crashing in waves through my veins. My specs? Slipping again, as usual.
But this time, I let them.

Because for once, I've seen clearer than ever.

I storm into the house like a tornado in leggings and bad decisions, my dupatta trailing behind me like it's just as exhausted. I'm fuming—positively radiating rage. That man. That man. With the glacier eyes and the ego the size of Jupiter. Who did he think he was, talking to me like I was a stain on his precious shirt?

"Ugh! Why are all the good-looking ones either taken, toxic, or emotionally constipated?" I grumble to no one, dramatically flinging my bag by the door like I'm starring in a soap opera. "God really said: here, have one—just not all three."

I'm still muttering curses about leather cologne and devilish smirks when I hear soft footsteps from the kitchen, followed by the most magical sentence in the known universe.

"I thought you'd be hungry. Made your favorite—mango ice cream," comes my bhabhi's voice, sweet as ever, holding out a bowl like an angel in a salwar suit.

I pause mid-rant, blinking.

The anger simmers down, just a notch. Because if rage is hot lava, mango ice cream is my personal fire extinguisher.

"How do you do that?" I ask, taking the bowl and plopping onto the sofa like a deflated balloon. "Are you psychic? Or just criminally kind?"

She winks, taking the seat beside me. "I'm your bhabhi and your best friend. Comes with the job description. Right under 'Domestic Goddess' and just above 'Emotional Lifeguard'."

I laugh through a mouthful of creamy heaven, letting the cold sweetness melt some of the leftover bitterness inside me. "You really are a goddess. A mango-bearing miracle."

But fate has a way of humbling even mango queens.

My specs, traitors that they are, choose this moment to slip—again—and with the comedic timing of a stand-up special, they land plop right into my bowl of ice cream.

"Ahhh! No, no, no!" I squeal, diving in like a soldier retrieving a fallen comrade. "Come back to me, you slippery little beasts!"

Bhabhi bursts into laughter, clutching her stomach. "Tripti! Seriously! Your glasses cause more drama than your entire love life."

I fish them out, now dripping in mango and cream, and give her an indignant look. "Hey! Maybe they're just trying to blend in. Become part of the family. Very inclusive of them."

She snorts, handing me a napkin. "At this rate, I'll have to invite them to Diwali."

I clean the sticky specs, still grinning like an idiot. Somehow, in this chaotic little living room—with ice cream in one hand and mango-soaked dignity in the other—everything feels okay again.

Maybe the world outside is filled with cold glares and unkind words.

But in here?
Here, there's laughter. There's comfort. There's home.

Later, I sit on the porch steps, the evening breeze playing with the ends of my hair like a whispering friend. The sky's turning a dusky orange, and the memory of him still lingers—his voice, that glare, the way my heartbeat refused to calm even after he walked away.

I hug my knees, unsure if it's the chill or the ache making me shiver.

Then I hear quiet footsteps. The old wooden chair beside me creaks under familiar weight. Dad.

He doesn't say anything for a while—just sits beside me, the two of us watching the world slow down together.

Finally, he speaks, voice warm and steady like a favorite song.

"You know, Tripti," he begins, "you're a Xerox copy of your mother."

I glance at him, surprised. "I am?"

He nods, his gaze drifting toward the horizon.

"She was a riot, your mom. Always laughing. Always lighting up a room. She could make the saddest soul smile just by humming her favorite song. She had that... spark. That sunshine you don't forget."

He pauses, his voice softer now.

"When I met her, I didn't fall for her beauty—not first. I fell for the way she felt. The happiness she carried in her heart and sprinkled everywhere she went."

He turns to me, eyes filled with memories and something deeper—love.

"And you have that same light, beta. Don't let anyone—anyone—make you feel like you're not enough. The world will try. Oh, it will try hard. But it can't dim what you were born to shine."

My throat tightens. I reach for his hand, squeezing it.

"Sometimes I don't feel like I'm... enough," I whisper. "I stumble, spill things, cry at detergent ads. And I always—always—say the wrong thing."

He chuckles gently, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles.

"And yet, you're exactly what this house, this family, and this broken world needs. You, with all your clumsiness and chaos—you are joy, Tripti. You are the light your mother left behind."

The wind sighs around us, stars beginning to blink in the sky. And for the first time in days, the knot in my chest loosens.

Because sometimes the greatest strength isn't in being fearless.

It's in being loved. Just as you are.