### **[Ishita Sharma’s Perspective]**

I stared at his face, the realization of what he was demanding—or rather, *commanding*—sinking in. He was going to turn my professional set into a war zone, and he was using the word 'fiancé' as his entry ticket.

**Ishita:** **“Fine!”** I finally conceded, pulling away from his intense gaze, utterly defeated. **“But don’t create any scene there, Rudra! If you interfere, if you make the director angry, or if you even *look* like you’re threatening someone—I won’t talk to you! *Pura ek mahina, yaad rakhna!*”** (A whole month, remember that!)

**Rudra:** (His hand, which had claimed my shoulder, tightened one last time before slowly releasing me.) **“A month of silence from you, Ishita? That sounds like a punishment for me, not for them. I won’t risk it.”** His eyes held a flicker of amusement, acknowledging my threat, but his tone remained steel-hard. **“I will be a professional presence. *But you belong to me, and everyone there will know it.* Consider this my insurance policy.”**

---

### **[Time Skip: Friday, The Jewelry Shoot]**

The set was buzzing with lights, cameras, and the frantic energy of a high-end jewelry commercial. I was dressed in heavy, gorgeous ethnic wear, weighed down by necklaces and earrings.

Rudra was there.

He wasn't lurking in the corner. He was standing near the door, a few feet from the main set, looking every bit the ruthless CEO he was—dressed in a custom suit that screamed "billionaire" and talking into his earpiece, occasionally nodding curtly at the director, Mr. Sinha.

I did my best to focus, to ignore the terrifyingly handsome bodyguard at the door. I was polite to Kabir—just professional nods and brief discussions about the lighting.

**Kabir:** **“Great shot, Ishita! You look amazing in this traditional look.”**

**Ishita:** **“Thanks, Kabir. You too. The sherwani suits you.”**

The air felt thick. Even Kabir seemed subdued, glancing nervously at the door every time Rudra looked up.

Finally, the director called a wrap on the final sequence, the one where Kabir was supposed to touch my shoulder. Rudra didn’t move from the door, but the intensity of his glare felt like a physical pressure on Kabir’s hand. The poor model barely grazed my shoulder before pulling back, looking thoroughly panicked.

I quickly grabbed a bottle of water and headed toward the changing room, when Kabir caught up to me, looking friendly and relaxed now that the shoot was done.

**Kabir:** **“Hey, Ishita. Amazing work today. Look, the whole crew is heading out for a celebratory dinner now. It would be great if you could join us. It’s on the brand, of course.”**

**Ishita:** (I hesitated, thinking about the easy-going crew, but my eyes flickered to the door where Rudra stood—and my resolve crumbled.) **“Oh, thanks, Kabir, but I can’t tonight. I’m exhausted, and I have to—"**

I didn't finish the sentence.

A powerful, warm arm smoothly wrapped itself around my **waist**, pulling me flush against a hard, familiar body. Rudra had moved with the silent speed of a predator.

**Rudra:** (His voice was low, polite, yet utterly commanding as he addressed Kabir over my head.) **“I apologize, Kabir. Ishita won’t be able to make it.”**

He didn't introduce himself. He didn't offer a name. He just claimed me.

Kabir, looking completely out of his depth facing the Greek God of Indian business, stammered a little.

**Kabir:** **“Oh… ah, right. Who… who are you? I mean, are you family?”**

Rudra tightened his grip on my waist, pulling me so close that my spine curved against his chest. I could feel the possessive heat of his body through the heavy fabric of my ethnic wear.

**Rudra:** (He looked down at me, a lazy, satisfied smirk playing on his lips, before looking back at the flustered model.) **“I’m the person who takes care of everything she needs. Including her dinner plans.”** He didn't look back at Kabir again.

He shifted, guiding me towards the door, his arm firmly locked around my waist, essentially **parading** me off the set.

**Rudra:** (He murmured into my hair, his voice low and triumphant.) **“Dinner with the crew? Not happening. You’re having dinner with me. And you will tell me everything about the shoot—including how many times that boy looked at you when I wasn’t watching.”**

### **[Rudra Singh Rathor’s Perspective]**

It was Sunday.

Usually, I work from home on Sundays—checking emails, attending quick calls with foreign investors, reviewing security reports, and scanning new contracts. But today... something in me didn’t want to touch the laptop. Not today. Not when I knew every tab would eventually lead back to her.

I decided to take the risk. I wanted to see her.

I dialed her number. She picked up instantly, but I wasn't the first person she was talking to.

**Ishita (Talking to someone else, voice chirpy):** "*Haan, achcha, main dekhti hoon... Nahi, woh wala pehen. Yeah, that one.* Just a second, guys.” The sound of muffled, giggling girl voices was distinct in the background.

She excused herself from them, and the muffled sound receded.

**Ishita:** **“Hello?”**

**Rudra:** **“Hi.”**

**Ishita:** **“Hi, what happened?”**

**Rudra:** **“Nothing happened. Just thought to take you somewhere.”**

**Ishita:** **“Ooo, *toh phele bolna cahiye tha na!* Right now, I am with my friends, Mr. Possessive. I can't make it today. Sorry.”**

My jaw tightened. *Friends.* *Girlfriends.* It was ridiculous, but the possessiveness that flared when I heard her laugh with other people—even girls—was instant and sharp. I wanted her attention, her whole, undivided Sunday.

I took a deep breath, forcing the ice into my voice to hide the sudden jealousy. I wasn't going to let her see that I was capable of being jealous of a bunch of giggling girls over chai.

**Rudra:** **“Fine. But be safe, and if you need anything, just message me, okay?”** I couldn't resist the final dig. **“And please, *zyada sundar mt lagana* (don't look too beautiful), *varna fir mujhe kisi ko dhamki deni padegi* (otherwise I'll have to threaten someone again).”**

**Ishita:** (She giggled—a bright, unrestrained sound that instantly softened the edges of my frustration.) **“Ok! I will be exactly like you said.”**

Before I could reply, a girl's voice called out loudly from her side: "Ishita, let's go!"

**Ishita:** **“I need to go, byyy!”**

**Rudra:** (I took a deep, controlled breath. My chance was gone.) **“Hmm. Byy.”**

I hung up, the silence of the massive rathor mansion  suddenly deafening. I walked back to the glass window, staring out at the expansive city that felt meaningless without her in it.

*She is busy. She is laughing. She is not here.*

The jealousy was intense, but it quickly morphed into action. If I couldn't have her, I would surround myself with her

Time skip

I stood near the giant glass window of my room, the Delhi sky lazily shifting above me. Coffee in hand, yet untouched.

I don’t know when I started collecting them. I never meant to. But every time she looked away, I found myself clicking. Saving. Freezing moments that I never had the courage to speak about.

I sat on the edge of the bed, took a deep breath, and called Laksh.

**Rudra:** **“Laksh.”**

**Laksh (Through the phone, instantly alert):** “Yes, sir?”

**Rudra:** **“Check your inbox. I’ve sent something.”**

**Laksh:** “Images?”

**Rudra:** **“Yeah,”** I said, slowly. **“Get them printed. Framed. Full size. But—”** I cut myself off before he could speak. **“Only for my bedroom wall. Hidden from the rest of the house. No one else sees it. Not a single soul.”**

A silence. Then a faint chuckle from the other end.

**Laksh:** **“Understood. Secret shrine to Miss Sharma. Got it.”**

My grip tightened on the phone. **Rudra:** **“Shut up and just get it done. No questions. The highest quality frames. And discreetly. I don't want the staff to see.”**

**Laksh:** **“Consider it done, Sir. But if you’re framing her picture, maybe you should just ask her out properly? It saves on framing costs, you know.”**

I ignored the counsel. **Rudra:** **“The large print of her sleeping in the car—make sure it’s matte, not glossy. And put a security perimeter on the room while you install them. I don’t want any security cameras pointing towards that wall.”**

**Laksh:** (His voice became serious, recognizing the absolute importance of the command.) **“Understood, Sir. Maximum security. Will be installed by Monday evening. The room is locked down.”**

But the truth was—I didn’t want to just look at her in my phone anymore. I wanted her presence *here.*

If I couldn’t tell her yet… If I didn’t have the courage to say *I love you*... Then maybe having those pictures—those fragments of her smile, her chaos, her life—around me would make me feel closer.

Maybe they’d remind me why I had to wait. Why I had to be *absolutely sure* before I tell her what she means to me.

Because once I tell her… There’s no going back. And a man like me— **Doesn’t love halfway.**

I stared at the blank wall across my bed, imagining her pictures filling it.

And for the first time in weeks, I smiled.

The next morning came with sunlight... and secrets.

I was dressed sharp, as always—black shirt, sleeves rolled, no tie today. My house staff moved around quietly, well aware of my mood lately: colder, quieter, more focused. But they didn’t know the reason was not some business deal, nor an investor pitch.

It was her. Ishita Sharma. And today, her presence was coming even closer.

The doorbell rang sharply at 9:00 AM. Right on time. Of course Laksh was punctual. He knew better.

I walked down halfway, stopping at the staircase landing. Laksh stood at the entrance with three of my security men—each of them holding two large brown-paper-covered frames. They looked like corporate awards at first glance.

**siya maa (Voice sharp, dramatic, approaching from the side hall):** **“Rudra! What is all this luggage? Did you buy more modern art? *Iss baar toh bedroom mein allowed nahi hoga!* It looks tacky! And who are these strange men?”** (This time it won't be allowed in the bedroom!)

Laksh, smooth as ever, replied instantly, bowing slightly. **Laksh:** **“Just some confidential files, ma’am. Rudra Sir asked me to bring them himself. Extremely sensitive data for the European merger. They are in frames to prevent leakage.”**

**siya,maa** (She peered skeptically at the large packages) **“Confidential data in *frames*? Since when? And why are they so large? Are they new blueprints? Rudra, *yeh kya naya tareeka hai files chupane ka?*”** (What is this new way of hiding files?)

I gave Laksh a small nod—well played.

**Rudra:** (My voice was low, dismissing her before she could ask more) **“They are legal documents, Maa. No concern of yours. Laksh, upstairs. Now.”**

I gestured silently for him to bring everything upstairs, to the *hidden door*—the one no one enters, not even the housekeeping staff.

My corner room. Dark gray walls, warm dim lights... and now... **her.**

Once inside, I locked the door behind us. Laksh placed the frames on the floor and started unwrapping them one by one. And my breath caught.

Her laughing in rain, arms open wide. Her mid-spin, dupatta flying. Her sleepy face, leaning on my shoulder, the tiny frown still there. Her dancing barefoot with wet curls sticking to her face. Even the one where she was simply looking at chai like it was treasure.

**Laksh:** **“Sir, are you sure you want all of these *here*? *Yeh toh... ekdum personal hain.*”** (These are... extremely personal.)

I didn’t reply. I walked over to the main wall—the blank one I had saved for this. **Rudra:** **“Help me,”** I said, more quietly than usual.

We got to work. I directed him on the order—rain photo in the center, chai moment beside it. It took almost an hour.

When we were done, Laksh stood behind me, looking at the wall of frames. A gallery of *her.* Unsaid. Untouched. Unseen by anyone else.

**Laksh:** **“I've seen you win billion-dollar contracts, threaten CEOs without blinking,”** Laksh said quietly, arms folded. **“But I’ve never seen you like this, sir.”**

I gave him a sharp look. **Rudra:** **“I’m still the same.”**

**Laksh:** **“No, boss,”** he smiled, shaking his head. **“You're in love. And for the first time in your life... you're afraid.”**

I didn’t respond. He wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t business. This was *her.*

After Laksh left, I stayed in the room, door locked. Staring at those pictures. Running a finger along the frames.

**Rudra** (Inner Monologue): *This is what happens when you let the sun into the cold room. It blinds you. It saves you.*

And one day... maybe… I’ll bring her here. I’ll show her.

This the example of the sence

And say what I never dared to.

*“This is how I’ve loved you… even when you didn’t know.”*

### **[Ishita Sharma’s Perspective]**

It was a whirlwind kind of day again. Another fashion show, another main model, another storm of fittings, lights, heels, makeup, and long hours of pretending I wasn’t exhausted.

Reet, as always, was fire. Full energy, full chaos. She wanted *perfection*—and so did I. Especially when I knew *he* was watching. Rudra Singh Rathor. My boss, my safe space, my… whatever he is to me.

We had met earlier with Reet to discuss the theme. Rudra was his usual self—stoic, calm, barely blinking while Reet and I threw color palettes and choreography terms like grenades in a boardroom. But somehow, even without saying much, he agreed.

And now, after the final shoot of the day, my entire body was *crying.* My calves were on fire, lips dry, eyes heavy.

He noticed. Of course he did. He always does.

While talking to one of his senior team members, he subtly tilted his head toward his cabin. No words, no drama—just that silent look that said, **“Go.”**

I bit my lip and nodded, walking there like I’ve done before. This was *his* cabin—and yet the moment I entered, I always felt more… *mine.*

Dim lights. Scent of him. One soft couch. That perfect balance of power and peace.

I dropped my bag. Took off my heels. Let out a soft groan.

God, this man. How much he *cares* in the quietest ways. Not flowers, not chocolates. Just… space. Rest. Ease. The most expensive, rarest love language.

I stretched and lay down, hugging a cushion. The scent of sandalwood and expensive leather wrapped around me.

I could hear his voice—slightly muffled, calm, and commanding—from the Bluetooth speaker on his desk. Virtual meeting. Still working. Always working.

And I… was falling asleep again. I pulled the cushion tighter, inhaling his scent, and letting the exhaustion claim me completely.

### **[Rudra Singh Rathor’s Perspective

My camera was off. My mic muted. The board members from London kept going on about logistics and numbers. I was listening—mostly. But my gaze kept shifting to the side.

She was in *my* cabin. Her tiny figure curled up on my couch. Face bare. Hair loose. Anklet sound faded.

She trusted me enough to sleep here. That alone… Meant everything.

I watched her from the corner screen of the CCTV inside the cabin—no one else had access to it. Her lips parted in soft breaths. Her brow still furrowed, even in sleep. She had given everything to the show. And still didn’t complain.

I paused the meeting for a moment. Put it on hold.

I took out my phone. Snapped a picture of the screen. Another memory. Another version of her.

She had no idea I had a wall of her inside my secret corner room. That every expression she made—sleepy, angry, laughing, excited—lived in frames around me. And now, another picture would join them. Soft. Silent. Sacred.

I exhaled slowly. How can I *not* love this woman? She’s light. She’s chaos. She’s real.

And she doesn’t even know how much she owns me already.

I got back on the call, my focus instantly sharper, my voice colder, ensuring the London board members had no idea the ruthless CEO had just spent two minutes documenting the sleep of the woman he loved.

**Rudra:** **“Gentlemen, let’s resume. The Q3 logistics are non-negotiable. I need immediate confirmation on the Karachi deal by tonight.”**

He spoke of deals and deadlines, his mind still lingering on the girl asleep just behind the wall.

**Rudra** (Inner Monologue): *One day, maybe... I’ll tell her. One day, I’ll tell her that her sleep is more important than all these deals combined.*

### **[Ishita Sharma’s Perspective]**

I woke up after an hour, feeling significantly better, but still heavy with a deep-seated boredom. I had a quick lunch—a perfectly portioned salad and fresh juice, exactly to my taste, which had arrived from his personal chef while he was in his meeting. He knew. He always knew.

I sat up on the couch, stretching. The muffled sound of his voice still came from the speaker on his desk—the London call was ongoing. I was glancing around the minimalist cabin, feeling restless, when my phone buzzed with a message from him.

**Rudra (Text Message):** *You are bored. I know. The laptop is unlocked. Do whatever you want to do. Movies, streaming. It’s better than sleeping again.*

I hesitated. Using his laptop? That felt too personal, too invasive.

**Ishita (Text Message):** *Are you sure? I don't want to mess up anything important.*

**Rudra (Text Message):** *It’s secure. Don’t hesitate. I insist.*

Okay. When Rudra insisted, there was no arguing.

I walked over to the immense mahogany desk. The laptop screen was black. I tapped the spacebar, and the screen lit up. I minimized his virtual meeting window—he was still talking, face calm and focused—and started searching for a streaming site.

But then, I saw it.

In the corner of the desktop, a simple file icon labeled **"G.T. - PRIVATE."**

Curiosity, that reckless, chaotic part of me, won out. I double-clicked. Inside, there were just two files: a PDF named 'Lyrics' and an MP4 video file named 'Practice.'

*A video file?* Rudra? I clicked on 'Practice.'

The video opened. The lighting was dark, clearly taken late at night in a sparsely furnished room—perhaps a corner of his bedroom. He was wearing a casual grey t-shirt, his hair slightly messy, and he held an acoustic guitar.

*God, this man sings?*

I froze, stunned, as he lifted his eyes to the camera and started playing the intro. His voice, usually so low and commanding, was softened by the melody, raw and utterly vulnerable.

The lyrics hit me like a physical wave, stripping away the distance, the jokes, and the cold demeanor he usually wore.

**Rudra (Singing):**

*“Maanga ae hi duawaan main*

*Channa tu mainu mil ja*

*Tenu na bol paawaan main*

*Tu aape hi samajh ja…”*

*(I ask for only this in my prayers,*

*My beloved, that I find you.*

*I can't say it to you,*

*May you understand it yourself.)*

My heart hammered against my ribs, echoing the frantic beat of the guitar. This wasn't just a song. This was a direct, devastating answer to the unspoken questions that haunted me at midnight.

**Rudra (Singing):**

*“Saamne baith ja takta jaaun*

*Ankhiyon mein teri gum ho jaaun*

*Mujhe dhundhe na phir koi…”*

*(Come sit in front of me, let me keep staring at you,*

*Let me get lost in your eyes,*

*And let no one find me again.)*

Tears pricked the back of my eyes. This was the cold, ruthless Prince of Rajasthan singing about *losing himself* in *my* eyes. The possessiveness he showed wasn't just anger; it was the sheer fear of losing this hidden desire.

**Rudra (Singing):**

*“Tu jo mere saath chale na*

*Manzil meri sab kho jaaye*

*Ik pal tu jo nazar na aaye*

*Dil mera haye ghabraaye…”*

*(If you don't walk with me,*

*My destiny will be lost.*

*If I don't see you even for a moment,*

*My heart panics…)*

I gasped softly, raising a hand to my mouth. He was confessing *everything*—his fear, his dependence, his love—in a melody he never intended for me to hear. This video wasn't just a secret; it was his soul laid bare.

**Rudra (Singing, his voice growing deeper with emotion):**

*“Jeena nahi bin tere sun tu*

*Mera toh haasil bas tu hi tu*

*Bin tere na mera koi…”*

*(I can't live without you, listen,*

*My only achievement is you,*

*Without you, I have no one.)*

The video continued, his eyes closed for a moment as he hit the highest note, pure pain and devotion woven into the sound.

**Rudra (Singing):**

*“Tu guzre jin raahon se maahi*

*Apne do naino ko bichhaun*

*Dekh na loon main jab tak tujhko*

*Lout ke apne dar na jaaun…”*

*(My beloved, on whatever paths you walk,*

*I will lay my eyes there.*

*Until I see you,*

*I won't return to my door.)*

My hands were shaking as I watched. The last verse was the final, overwhelming claim.

**Rudra (Singing):**

*“Shaamil ho ja mujh mein yun tu*

*Aks jo dekhun mujhmein dikhe tu*

*Main Raanjha, Heer tu meri hui…”*

*(Become a part of me like this,*

*That when I look at my reflection, I see you.*

*I am Raanjha, you are my Heer...)*

He finished the song, his eyes opening slowly, looking directly into the camera lens with a raw intensity that mirrored the chaos in my own heart. He didn't smile. He just sighed, putting the guitar down.

I quickly minimized the video, tears streaming silently down my face. I didn't need any more proof. He loved me. Deeply. Completely. And he was terrified to say it.

I wiped my face frantically and minimized the video, quickly navigating back to the streaming site, pretending I hadn't just witnessed the most beautiful, devastating confession of my life.

I looked at the desk speaker. His muffled voice was still talking about 'Karachi logistics.' I put my head in my hands, trying to quiet the hammering in my chest. *What do I do now?*

### **[Rudra Singh Rathor’s Perspective]**

The virtual meeting finally ended.

Three long hours of strategic reports, brand planning, and international expansion talks—none of which could hold my mind. Because I knew she was out there, bored out of her mind, curled on that couch like a baby panda, probably tapping her nails on the wood and waiting for time to pass.

I opened the cabin door quietly.

There she was.

Asleep.

Just like I thought. One leg curled under her. Hair like a waterfall across the cushion. Laptop slightly tilted. The streaming site still running... but the volume low.

I looked at her again.

Peaceful. Her lips slightly parted. Lashes casting shadows on her cheek. Her wrist lay over the edge of the laptop like a child protecting a secret.

*God.*

I sat on the edge of the desk, just staring for a moment. How did I become this man? I never cared about anyone like this. Never let anyone in. But her? She walked in with that stubborn sass, fire eyes, and candy-scented hair—and burned every single wall I’d built.

I slowly took the laptop from her lap, closed the lid gently, and placed it aside.

Then I brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, careful not to disturb her.

She moved slightly, snuggled into the cushion again, murmuring my name in sleep—**“Rudra…”**

My throat tightened.

She’s everything I never believed in. She’s chaos. She’s poetry. She’s twenty. She’s wild. And I… I’m hopelessly hers.

I placed a soft, cashmere blanket over her shoulders, dimmed the lights further, and sat down beside the couch on the floor, leaning my head back against the cushion edge.

I didn’t even realize when it happened. Maybe it was the softness of the moment. Maybe it was the way she whispered my name even in her sleep. Or maybe… maybe it was the silence that wrapped around us like a blanket.

But I closed my eyes.

Just for a second. That’s what I told myself.

I leaned my head back against the couch. One knee up, one hand resting near her, like an unconscious protector.

The smell of her shampoo was still in the air. The echo of her laughter from earlier still lingered in the walls of my cabin. And even in sleep, she owned the space.

Me?

I—I was supposed to be reading a report. Signing off a billion-dollar deal. Checking international calls. I had emails from Japan, Europe, Singapore...

But no.

Here I was.

Rudra Singh Rathor. President of Eternity. Ranked among the **Top 5 wealthiest men in the world.** Sleeping—on the *floor.* Beside *her.*

No mattress. No silk bedding. No private jets. No butlers. No noise. No press. No boardrooms.

Just… cemented floor, soft lighting, a couch, and the soft sound of her breath above me. And for the first time in years—I didn’t feel alone.

I didn’t feel like I had to perform. Or pretend. Or push.

It felt… normal. Real. Quiet.

I turned my head a little to glance at her. Still sleeping. Hands curled like a child. Her lips twitching into a smile even in dreams.

*God, you’re dangerous, Ishita Sharma.*

You made me forget who I was.

Or maybe... you made me remember what I *could be.*

And with that thought, as the sound of distant horns melted into the stillness of my cabin, I let go of the tension in my body… Let my eyes close…

And the floor under me, cold as it was, felt warmer than any penthouse bed I’d ever slept on.

---

### **[Laksh perspective]**

**A few hours passed...**

Laksh knocked once.

Twice.

No answer.

*He’s late for the Singapore video conference,* Laksh thought, frowning. He couldn’t afford to let Rudra miss it.

He opened the door softly to check.

And froze.

Rudra Singh Rathor. In crisp black shirt sleeves. Head tilted to the side.

Sleeping on the **floor**—beside a couch—beside a girl.

Laksh blinked, then suppressed a loud burst of laughter. The most feared man in Asia, choosing the cold, hard marble floor over his plush ergonomic chair, just to guard a sleeping makeup artist.

His eyes widened. And he did the only smart thing in that moment.

He pulled out his phone, quickly snapped a **silent, secret photo** of the absurd, heartwarming scene—for his private vault of 'Rudra's Failures'—and then quietly shut the door.

**Laksh** (Walking away, shaking his head with a wide smile): **“Well, the Singapore deal can wait. Sir is finally working on his most important merger.”**

### **[Ishita's Perspective]**

The AC hummed low. Soft light glowed from the edges of the blinds. I blinked slowly, my head still a little foggy from sleep.

Wait… *Cabin...?*

I sat up groggily on the couch and looked around, adjusting the soft cushion I had unknowingly used as a pillow. My eyes shifted—and stopped.

**Rudra.**

**On. The. Floor.**

*What the actual hell?*

He was lying there, his back against the cabinet, head slightly tilted, lashes dark against his skin, one hand loosely resting near me. His hair had fallen over his forehead, and his face looked... peaceful. Gentle.

I blinked again, heart stuttering. God… he looked like a carved sculpture in this quiet.

I knelt on the couch and leaned slightly forward, still whispering—

**Ishita:** **“Rudra…?”** He didn’t stir. **“Rudraaa…”** I tried again, softer this time, brushing my fingers gently on his shoulder.

His eyes flickered open slowly, those **ocean blue** orbs finding mine instantly like he’d known I’d be the first thing he’d see. It took him a second.

Then he groaned slightly and sat up straighter.

**Rudra:** **“You’re awake,”** he said, his voice gruff, sleepy, low. God, that voice—

**Ishita:** **“Why are you sleeping on the floor?!”** I whisper-hissed, glancing around like someone would come in and see.

He shrugged. **Rudra:** **“Didn’t want to wake you. You looked peaceful.”**

*Peaceful?* I probably drooled. But whatever.

**Ishita:** **“You could’ve gone to your desk or... literally anywhere else!”**

He looked up at me, his lips tilting into a faint smile, and said:

**Rudra:** **“Anywhere else doesn’t have you.”**

*What do I even say to that?!* My heart did a full somersault. The depth of that simple, sleepy sentence felt heavier than his entire empire.

But I had to stay normal. Cool. Calm. Collected. *Don’t mention the video. Don’t mention the song. Don’t show him your heart just skipped twenty beats, Ishita.*

I stood and started fixing my hair, turning my back quickly, hoping he didn’t notice my flushed face.

**Ishita:** **“Anyway… thanks for letting me rest here. And… for lunch.”**

I didn't dare look at him. I could still hear the melody of *'Tu aape hi samajh ja'* ringing in my ears.

### **[Rudra Singh Rathor’s Perspective]**

The moment her voice called my name softly—the rest of the world faded.

She was kneeling on the couch like a sleepy angel, messy hair, confused face, those expressive eyes blinking at me.

And god, how could I tell her? That I slept on the floor willingly. That I watched her breathe for minutes. That I—I would choose that over any five-star suite.

But I had to play it cool. So I smiled lazily and said something like **“You looked peaceful.”**

Truth? I looked at her the way dying men look at miracles.

When she stood to fix her hair, I noticed she didn’t bring up the laptop. Or the video. *Maybe she didn’t see it.* Maybe… thank god. Or maybe she did—and is choosing to stay silent.

Either way, I won’t ask. I don’t want her to feel cornered. That song… it was never supposed to be heard. That room—that version of me—is just for *her.*

She turned around, biting her lip, eyes everywhere but mine and said: **“Anyway… thanks for letting me rest here. And… for lunch.”**

I leaned forward slowly, resting my forearms on my knees, my voice soft, letting my raw, sleepy emotion seep into the words:

**Rudra:** **“You’re welcome, sunshine.”**

And in her flustered breath, in the way her gaze darted to my shoes, avoiding my eyes, I saw it.

She felt it too.

I stood up, closing the remaining space between us, my gaze dropping to her lips.

**Rudra:** **“We should get you home. I’m guessing your mother is planning a *puja* because you finally didn't die of exhaustion.”**

**Ishita:** (She laughed nervously, stepping back towards her bag.) **“Very funny. But yes, please. I need to get out of these work clothes.”**

**Rudra:** **“Good. Let’s go. I’ll drive.”**