[Ishita Sharma’s Perspective]**

It was Saturday morning, and I was preparing to go to the Gurudwara—a ritual that always brought me peace. As I braided my long hair, I remembered Rudra’s confession that he would let me be his peace, his anchor.

I picked up my phone, a small leap of faith required.

**Ishita (Text Message):** *I’m going to Gurudwara sahib in an hour. Want to join? I know you hate temples and God, but… just thought I’d ask.*

I fully expected the usual crisp, decisive refusal. Something like, *“My schedule does not permit spiritual detours, Ishita.”*

The reply came immediately: *Yes. I am coming.*

I stopped braiding my hair. *God, seriously?* The man who didn't believe in love or God, who called himself a monster, was agreeing to come to a place of worship? Just for me?

I quickly finished getting ready. I chose a bright, simple Punjabi salwar suit, the colors vibrant and joyful. My hair was secured in a neat, long braid that hung down my back. I slid on my high heels (ignoring Rudra’s earlier warning about my ankle) and added a soft chime with my favorite bangles and the **payal** (anklet) he had gifted me, which I now wore openly.

He arrived promptly, pulling up in the black car. He hadn't changed from his work attire—a perfectly tailored shirt and sharp trousers, looking like he could sign a merger on the steps of the Gurudwara.

I opened my studio door and my gaze immediately connected with those startling **ocean blue eyes**. They were intense, yes, but softened around the edges just for me. He looked serious, imposing, and utterly out of place.

I walked up to him and, without thinking, threw my arms around his neck, hugging him tight against my chest.

**Ishita:** **“Rudra, you can still say no, Mr. Rathor. I don’t want to force you. Seriously. I know this isn't your thing.”**

**Rudra:** (His arms wrapped around my waist, his hold firm.) **“You think I don’t know that, Ishita? But I told you I would let my anchor pull me in. If your anchor leads to a temple, then that’s where I go.”**

I pulled back, looking up at him, admiring the sheer effort he was making for this small piece of my world.

**Ishita:** **“You look so handsome, but you need to change your clothes, silly. It’s a Gurudwara, not a boardroom. We need to cover our heads, and those shoes are definitely coming off.”**

[Rudra Singh Rathor’s Perspective

I saw her message. *Gurudwara sahib. Want to join?*

The logical response was *No*. The spiritual response was *Never*.

But the anchor called. Ishita was asking me to enter her world, the world of faith and simple ritual. She had willingly entered my world of ruthless business and cold fury; the least I could do was step into her sunlight.

*Yes. I am coming.* The response was instant, automatic.

I drove straight from the office. I didn't change my clothes; I didn't have time to process the logistics of visiting a holy site.

When I saw her, I stopped breathing. The vibrant colors of her suit, the long, thick braid—she looked like a vision of pure, traditional joy. The *payal* jingled softly as she walked, a delicate sound that claimed my attention.

She rushed to me and wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling me close. I immediately caged her small waist with my arms, savoring the feeling of her against me.

**Ishita:** **“Rudra, you can still say no, Mr. Rathor. I don’t want to force you. Seriously. I know this isn't your thing.”**

**Rudra:** (I held her tighter, pulling her close enough to inhale her floral scent.) **“You think I don’t know that, Ishita? But I told you I would let my anchor pull me in. If your anchor leads to a temple, then that’s where I go.”**

I looked down at her face, her eyes shining with surprise and affection. She was beautiful, radiating a simple goodness I rarely encountered.

**Ishita:** **“You look so handsome, but you need to change your clothes, silly. It’s a Gurudwara, not a boardroom. We need to cover our heads, and those shoes are definitely coming off.”**

I glanced down at my Italian leather shoes—shoes that cost more than her entire month's rent.

**Rudra:** **“Fine. Tell me what I need. I will follow your instructions implicitly, *Jaan*. Just stay close.”**

I studied her outfit, specifically the heels. **Rudra:** **“And those heels come off immediately. You are not twisting your ankle on the marble steps of a temple. You will walk barefoot, slowly, and you will lean on me the entire time. No arguments.”**

I reached out and gently traced the line of her braid. **Rudra:** **“You wear a braid like this more often, Ishita. It suits you. It makes you look like a girl from a painting, not a magazine.”**

### **[Ishita Sharma’s Perspective]**

He complimented my braid, comparing me to a painting. I felt my cheeks warm, but I had to stand my ground on the footwear.

**Ishita:** **“Okay, but I am not removing the heels.”**

**Rudra:** (His expression hardened slightly.) **“Ishita, your ankle is barely healed—”**

**Ishita:** **“No, Rudra, because without them, I look like a baby in front of you. Seriously. I need the height advantage.”**

He didn't argue. Instead, he pulled my cheeks lightly, a surprisingly tender, playful gesture that made my resolve wobble.

**Rudra:** **“You are still a baby, *Jaan*. You can’t even reach my shoulder.”**

I gasped and playfully jerked his hand away, slightly offended, even though he was entirely correct. **Ishita:** **“Hey! That’s rude, Mr. Rathor! And height has nothing to do with power!”**

He just chuckled, a rich, deep sound. **Rudra:** **“Fine. If you are not removing the heels, then I am also going in this outfit.”**

He pointed to his pristine work clothes. I glared, knowing that this was his way of imposing his will—if I insisted on a dangerous choice, he would insist on an inappropriate one.

**Ishita:** **“Fine! Do whatever you want! Just try not to acquire any major assets while you’re there.”**

I took a moment to truly appreciate his attire. He was only in a **shirt and sharp trousers**—no coat, no tie, which was practically his casual wear. *Damn.* He was still freaking handsome.

His sleeves were **rolled up till the elbow**, a rare glimpse of raw, masculine power. The action exposed his **veiny forearms**—god, they were amazing. Sculpted, strong, and showing the constant tension of his controlled power. This man had all my weaknesses: his height, his body, and those beautiful, veiny arms.

And, of course, a few buttons of his shirt were open, allowing a tantalizing peek at his **muscled chest**. It was too much for a Saturday morning.

**Ishita** (Whispering to myself): *My Shiv is a masterpiece.*

I grabbed his arm, suddenly needing the physical contact. **Ishita:** **“Okay, let’s go. But no sarcasm about the prayer methods, understood?”**

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

She stood firm about the heels. The reason—*to avoid looking like a baby in front of me*—was ridiculous, yet completely Ishita.

I gave in, but not without a proprietary touch. I pulled her cheeks gently. **Rudra:** **“You are still a baby, *Jaan*. Can’t even reach my shoulder.”**

She gasped and jerked my hand away, indignation flashing in her eyes. I smiled internally. I loved the way she challenged me over trivial things.

**Rudra:** **“If you are not removing the heels, then I am also going in this outfit.”** The compromise was simple: if she insisted on her folly, I would insist on my own.

**Ishita:** **“Fine! Do whatever you want! Just try not to acquire any major assets while you’re there.”**

She didn't realize the power of her command. If I was going to be pulled into a temple, I wanted to go as the man she had softened, not the businessman in armor.

I watched her eyes scan my attire. The sudden heat in her gaze was unmistakable. I had intentionally rolled my sleeves up to my elbows. It was more comfortable, yes, but I also knew what the sight of my **veined forearms** did to her. It was a silent display of strength—a reminder of the power that protected her.

Her breath hitched when she saw the slightly open buttons of my shirt. *Good.* Let her see the man beneath the suit. Let her see the physical reality of the protection she craved.

**Rudra** (Inner Monologue): *I am built for this. To be tall, to be strong, to be the anchor and the wall. If my strength is her weakness, then I will display it for her alone.*

She grabbed my arm, her fingers wrapping around the thick muscle of my forearm, her palm resting right over one of the prominent **veins**. The touch was grounding.

**Ishita:** **“Okay, let’s go. But no sarcasm about the prayer methods, understood?”**

**Rudra:** **“Understood. No sarcasm. Only observance. But you must hold my arm tightly. You will navigate, Ishita. I will follow your lead today.”**

I looked down at her, her small figure in bright colors and high heels, clinging to my arm. This was not a business trip or a hostile takeover. This was a step into her soul, and for her, I would walk on hallowed ground, even if I didn't believe in the architecture.

### **[Ishita Sharma’s Perspective]**

We got into his car, the engine a low, powerful growl. I buckled up, but my focus wasn't on the road. It was on the arm resting on the gear shift. His sleeves were still rolled, and those beautiful, prominent **veins** were impossible to ignore. They pulsed slightly with the effort of driving, a testament to his controlled power.

I couldn't help it. I just kept staring, completely mesmerized.

**Rudra:** (He caught my prolonged stare and turned his head slightly, a knowing, amused look in his eyes.) **“Is my driving so riveting, *Jaan*?”**

I blinked, caught. **Ishita:** **“No, Sir. Just… admiring the sheer engineering of your body. It’s a very impressive map.”**

He chuckled—a deep, chest-vibrating sound that sent shivers through me. He said nothing more, concentrating on the traffic, letting me stare at my leisure.

Thirty minutes later, we pulled up outside the magnificent **Bangla Sahib Gurudwara**. The white marble, the golden dome, and the sound of the *kirtan* (hymns) filling the air—it was instantly calming.

We removed our shoes near the entrance. He towered over the crowd, and I felt a strange pride walking beside him.

Before going through the main entrance, I paused. I unfolded my colorful *dupatta* (scarf) and draped it carefully over my head, securing it neatly.

**Ishita:** **“Wait here.”** I instructed, stopping him.

I went to the service area and collected a fresh, crisp handkerchief—the traditional *rumala* for covering one’s head. I returned to him, holding it up.

**Ishita:** **“You need to cover your head, Mr. Rathor. This is sacred space. And this is my job.”**

He just looked down at me, the great CEO waiting for instructions from his 5’3” makeup artist.

**Ishita:** **“Now, bend. Lean down a little. You’re too tall; I can’t reach.”**

He obeyed without hesitation. This Greek-god-handsome, 6’3” businessman, the world’s fifth-richest man, bent his head slowly, patiently, bringing his imposing height down to my level. It was a silent, powerful submission.

My hands, usually applying delicate foundation or false lashes, were suddenly trembling slightly as I carefully unfolded the handkerchief. I tied the cloth neatly, securely, around his head, right over his severe dark hair.

**Ishita:** **“There. Perfect.”** I whispered, stepping back, feeling an overwhelming rush of affection. **“Now you look like you belong here.”**

### **[Rudra Singh Rathore]**

The drive was punctuated by her silent, intense scrutiny of my arm. I could feel her eyes tracking the movement of my muscles, my **veins**. It was possessive and incredibly flattering.

**Rudra:** **“Is my driving so riveting, *Jaan*?”**

**Ishita:** **“No, Sir. Just… admiring the sheer engineering of your body. It’s a very impressive map.”**

I almost laughed. She could turn a compliment into a scientific study. She made me feel less like a man and more like a carefully crafted piece of art she had claimed.

When we arrived at the Gurudwara, the sheer scale of the place was humbling, despite my lack of faith. I removed my expensive shoes, my feet touching the cold marble floor.

She covered her head first, instantly transforming her look—the vibrant *dupatta* framing her face, making her look both traditional and intensely beautiful.

She stopped me, holding up a small handkerchief. **Ishita:** **“You need to cover your head, Mr. Rathor. This is sacred space. And this is my job.”**

I knew the rules. I didn't mind the ritual; I minded the belief. But for her, the ritual was enough.

**Ishita:** **“Now, bend. Lean down a little. You’re too tall; I can’t reach.”**

I bent. I lowered my head, my massive frame bowing down until my eyes were level with hers. It was a conscious act of relinquishing control—a public, silent acknowledgment of the woman who held the anchor to my soul.

I felt her small hands working around my head, tying the thin, simple cloth. Her fingers were surprisingly sure, meticulous, treating the ritual with deep respect. Her face was inches from mine, her focused intensity making my heart accelerate.

**Ishita:** **“There. Perfect.”** She whispered, stepping back. **“Now you look like you belong here.”**

I straightened up, feeling the odd, light pressure of the cloth. I looked down at her, her expression soft, triumphant.

**Rudra:** **“I belong wherever you are, Ishita. If covering my head means I get to walk beside you, I will do it every day. Just make sure you hold my hand. I am officially in uncharted territory.”**

I offered my arm, waiting for her to anchor herself to me before stepping into the main *pandal*.

### **[Ishita Sharma’s Perspective]**

We headed inside, hand in hand. His height, even with the humble handkerchief covering his head, made him stand out amongst the devotees. The sound of the live *kirtan* was beautiful, washing over the vast hall, instantly calming the lingering tension from our date night.

We walked toward the heart of the Gurudwara, the **Guru Granth Sahib** (the holy scripture). I slowly released his hand, stepped forward, and knelt on the ground. I bowed my head until my forehead touched the marble floor—a deep, heartfelt sign of reverence.

I didn't expect him to do the same. This was a man who explicitly denied the existence of God.

As I closed my eyes and folded my hands, I began praying, not just for myself, but for **both of us**. I prayed for his peace, for his happiness, and for the softening of his cold heart.

When I finally finished my prayers and looked up, the first thing I did was look for him.

He hadn't bowed. Of course not. But he wasn't looking at the scripture or the crowd. **He was praying too, but while looking towards *me*.**

He stood there, towering, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, his intense blue eyes fixed on my face, watching my every movement with a concentration that surpassed any boardroom meeting. His prayer wasn't a ritual; it was an absorption of *my* devotion.

I slowly got up, my heart swelling with emotion.

I began the tradition of taking **three rounds** of the Guru Granth Sahib, walking slowly, my mind immersed in silent prayers for our future. I didn't hold his hand this time, but I didn't need to. I could feel his presence, a powerful, unwavering anchor, standing still far behind me, watching every step I took.

When I finished the rounds, I walked back toward him.

I stopped in front of him, reaching up to cup his cheek—the one I had kissed the other night. My gaze was warm, tender.

**Ishita:** **“Waheguru bless you, my child.”** I said, the words slipping out with a soft laugh, adopting the affectionate tone of my own grandmother.

He just stared down at me, his eyes full of a fierce, possessive tenderness, accepting the blessing from his anchor.

### **[ Rudra Singh Rathore perspective]–

The chanting was loud, the atmosphere heavy with belief. It was unfamiliar, overwhelming, yet completely contained by the small hand that had led me inside.

When she reached the **Guru Granth Sahib**, she released my hand. I watched her kneel, her head touching the cold marble floor. Her reverence was pure, beautiful, and utterly foreign to me.

I did not kneel. I would not pay homage to a power I didn't acknowledge.

But as she closed her eyes and folded her hands, I realized I was praying too. I wasn't speaking to the scripture; **I was praying to her**. I prayed that whatever peace she found here, she would keep. I prayed that she would never lose that vibrant light.

My eyes never left her. I watched the slight tremor in her shoulders, the peaceful set of her lips. She was my anchor, and the sight of her devotion was my only truth in this sacred space.

When she stood up, she began walking, taking the **three rounds**. I remained rooted to the spot. I watched her skirt sway, the sound of her *payal* jingling faintly with each step. She was completing a vow, drawing a sacred circle around her life, and I was the silent guardian, the immobile center of her world.

When she returned, she came straight to me.

She reached up and cupped my cheek, her touch soft and utterly disarming.

**Ishita:** **“Waheguru bless you, my child,”** she said, with that gentle, soft laugh.

The word *child*—it stripped away the CEO, the ruthless prince, the monster. It left only the man who needed care.

**Rudra:** (My voice was low, accepting the blessing completely.) **“Only if you are the one giving it, Ishita. Only if your God listens to you.”**

I reached up, my hand covering hers on my cheek, ensuring she couldn't pull away.

**Rudra:** **“Tell me, Ishita. What did you ask for?”** My voice was filled with a desperate, uncharacteristic curiosity. **“You prayed for a long time. Tell me what you prayed for us.”**

### **[Ishita Sharma’s Perspective]**

He held my hand tightly, his gaze fixed on mine, demanding the secrets of my prayer.

**Ishita:** (I squeezed his hand and smiled softly, pulling away my own hand to touch his cheek again.) **“*Agar bata diya toh prayer poori nahi hogi, Rudra.*”** (If I tell you, the prayer won't be fulfilled.)

I didn't need to tell him. He knew I had prayed for *him*.

I led us out of the main hall and toward the serene, holy lake (*sarovar*). We found a quiet spot on the steps and sat down together, side by side, his hand immediately enveloping mine again. The atmosphere, charged with the scent of water and faith, felt safe.

I took a deep breath, knowing this was a topic he usually shut down immediately.

**Ishita:** **“Rudra…”** I began, my voice quiet, respectful. **“Why don’t you believe in God, hmm? What made you stop?”**

His fingers immediately tightened around mine, the pressure almost painful, confirming the raw nerve I had hit. He looked away from me, his gaze fixed on the calm water, his expression turning distant, cold, and shadowed.

He finally spoke, his voice low and heavy. **Rudra:** **“Because I lost someone.”**

My heart hitched. *Someone.* As he said that, I immediately thought of perhaps his first love, the reason he was so closed off to the concept of romance.

**Ishita:** **“Who?”** I asked, the word catching in my throat, afraid of the answer.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, and then began, his voice flat, emotionless—the way he talks about painful things, as if reciting a report.

**Rudra:** **“I was just five years old. We went to Kedarnath. The whole family was there—my parents, *Dadi*, *Chacha*, *Chachi*, my younger brother Jay and sister Ahana, my younger cousin brothers Akshat and Vardaan. And also… my elder sibling, my Didi, Tara.”**

His voice broke slightly on the name, quickly regaining control. **Rudra:** **“We were so happy. It was a perfect trip. But then, due to heavy snow falling, people started running. It was chaos.”**

His grip on my hand was now crushing, transferring the memory's pain directly to me. **Rudra:** **“Tara *Didi* got detached from us. Papa ran to catch her, but she was just eight years old—small, couldn’t run fast enough in the crowd. She stumbled, and she… she fell from the mountain.”**

I flinched, a sharp intake of breath at the brutal finality of the words.

Rudra immediately came close, leaning his tall, heavy frame over, resting his head on my shoulder—a moment of unexpected vulnerability that shattered my composure.

**Rudra:** **“Since that day, Ishita… I stopped believing in God and I stopped believing in love. Because if God was real, He wouldn’t have let an eight-year-old child vanish like that. And we didn’t even get her body back.”**

### **[Rudra Singh Rathore – ]**

She smiled and deflected the question about the prayer. **Ishita:** **“*Agar bata diya toh prayer poori nahi hogi, Rudra.*”**

I let it go. She was mine; the answer would come eventually. She led us to the *sarovar*, the quiet water a contrast to the chanting inside.

She asked the question, the one I had successfully deflected for twenty years: **Ishita:** **“Why don’t you believe in God, hmm? What made you stop?”**

The sudden rush of cold, five-year-old terror was immediate. My fingers squeezed her hand—an involuntary transfer of pain. I didn’t want to talk about it, but her soft presence demanded the truth.

**Rudra:** **“Because I lost someone.”**

She asked who, and I knew she was thinking about a lover. She was wrong. The loss was deeper, foundational.

I started speaking, the memory a well-rehearsed, yet agonizing, script. **Rudra:** **“I was just five years old. We went to Kedarnath. The whole family was there—my parents, *Dadi*... my elder sibling, my Didi, Tara.”**

I recited the names, the names of the family that was whole then.

**Rudra:** **“We were so happy. But then, due to heavy snow falling, people started running. Tara *Didi* got detached from us. She stumbled, and she… she fell from the mountain.”**

The memory of the sheer, panicked chaos and the final, empty silence was a physical weight. My gaze was distant, fixed on the water, but I felt her flinch beside me.

I broke my own code. I moved closer, needing her warmth, her anchor, against the cold memory. I put my head on her shoulder, the soft cushion of her presence a desperate relief.

**Rudra:** **“Since that day, Ishita… I stopped believing in God and I stopped believing in love. Because if God was real, He wouldn’t have let an eight-year-old child vanish like that. And we didn’t even get her body back.”**

I tightened my arm around her, holding her close, not to protect her, but to keep myself from being completely pulled under by the darkness. **Rudra:** **“The one time I asked God for protection, He took my sister and showed me there is no benevolent power. There is only survival. And since then, I trust only the power I can control.”**

### **[Ishita Sharma’s Perspective]**

Hearing his story—the trauma, the chaos, the loss of his sister, Tara—I felt a wave of guilt wash over me. I had dragged the man who had seen his faith betrayed to a place of worship.

**Ishita:** (I whispered, my hand reaching up to stroke the back of his head where the damp hair met his neck.) **“Oh, Rudra… I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you here. Let’s go. I’m sorry.”**

I started to get up, but his grip on my shoulder was instant and firm, pulling me back down to sit beside him.

**Rudra:** **“No. Listen to me first.”** His voice was deep, commanding, yet laced with a fragile urgency. **“I want to tell you something.”**

I nodded, settling back against his strength, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

He didn't look away from the water, but his words were aimed straight at my soul.

**Rudra:** **“I never, ever believed in God and I never believed in love since then. My whole life has been about logic, revenge, and control. But when I see you… I think I was wrong.”**

He finally turned his head, his **ocean blue eyes** locking onto mine. The raw emotion in them was shocking.

**Rudra:** **“You prove me wrong, Ishita Sharma. I love you. I really love you so much. I can’t imagine my life without you.”**

My breath hitched. The world’s coldest man had just shattered his own armor.

**Rudra:** **“I mean, I am still that heartless, ruthless, emotionless man,”** he continued, his voice brutally honest. **“But I can’t near you because I can’t hurt you. I can’t able to lose you. I got scared when you don’t message me and call me.”**

He released my hand and cupped my cheek, his thumb gently stroking my skin.

**Rudra:** **“I fell in love with you every hour, every minute, every second, since that first meet at the *Shiv Mandir*.”** He leaned in, his gaze intense. **“And I still don’t believe in God and will never. Because I believe in *you*. You are my Goddess.”**

He paused, the confession hanging heavy in the air. **Rudra:** **“I am not forcing you anything, Isha.”**

My nickname. Hearing it from his lips, here, now—it was the sweetest sound in the world.

**Rudra:** **“You can take time, as much as you want. You can say no or yes, whatever you want. I won’t complain, I promise. But give me a chance. I can wait for you.”**

The sheer devotion in his voice overwhelmed me.

**Ishita:** **“How much?”** I whispered, tears pricking my eyes.

**Rudra:** **“Forever.”**

**Ishita:** **“Why?”**

**Rudra:** (His smile was slow, heartbreakingly sincere.) **“Because you worth every damn second, *Jaan*.”**

A tear finally spilled onto my cheek. I smiled through the sudden, overwhelming joy.

**Ishita:** **“Then I will come as soon as possible,”** I said, my voice thick with emotion, **“because I know I have a home who is waiting for me.”**

He didn't say another word. He just lowered his head and pressed a gentle, sealing kiss on my forehead. Then, he joined our foreheads together, his breath mixing with mine, holding me in a silent, powerful embrace.

**Ishita:** **“I never thought you would confess like this, Rudra,”** I whispered against his skin. **“By a holy lake, right after telling me your darkest pain.”**

### **[Rudra Singh Rathore – ]**

She wanted to leave, her guilt apparent in her soft touch. **Ishita:** **“Oh, Rudra… I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you here. Let’s go. I’m sorry.”**

I couldn't let her leave. Not now. I had opened the wound; I had to show her the cure. I pulled her back gently. **Rudra:** **“No. Listen to me first. I want to tell you something.”**

I couldn't look her in the eye initially. The weight of the words was too heavy. I recited the failure of my past: **Rudra:** **“I never, ever believed in God and I never believed in love since then… But when I see you… I think I was wrong.”**

Then, I turned and gave her everything. My truth.

**Rudra:** **“You prove me wrong, Ishita Sharma. I love you. I really love you so much. I can’t imagine my life without you.”**

I laid out my darkness, too. **Rudra:** **“I am still that heartless, ruthless, emotionless man, but I can’t near you because I can’t hurt you. I can’t able to lose you.”** I confessed my weakness. **“I got scared when you don’t message me and call me.”**

I needed her to know the timeline: **Rudra:** **“I fell in love with you every hour, every minute, every second, since that first meet at the *Shiv Mandir*.”**

Then, the final, absolute truth—the rejection of my past faith for my new reality. **Rudra:** **“And I still don’t believe in God and will never. Because I believe in *you*. You are my Goddess.”**

I used her nickname, *Isha*. It was a sacred term for me, reserved only for this moment.

**Rudra:** **“I am not forcing you anything, Isha. You can take time, as much as you want. You can say no or yes, whatever you want. I won’t complain, I promise. But give me a chance. I can wait for you.”**

She asked the questions I needed her to ask.

**Ishita:** **“How much?”**

**Rudra:** **“Forever.”**

**Ishita:** **“Why?”**

**Rudra:** **“Because you worth every damn second, *Jaan*.”**

Her tears were my absolution. Her smile was my reward.

**Ishita:** **“Then I will come as soon as possible, because I know I have a home who is waiting for me.”**

I did not speak. Words were insufficient. I lowered my head, placing the kiss on her **forehead**—a silent promise of protection, a vow of commitment before the deity I didn't believe in, but she did.

I rested my forehead against hers, pulling her close, the cool fabric of the *rumala* separating our skin.

**Ishita:** **“I never thought you would confess like this, Rudra. By a holy lake, right after telling me your darkest pain.”**

**Rudra:** **“Only you could make me confess the two things I swore I never would—my weakness, and my love. And only here, in your sacred space, could I be this honest. Thank you for showing me my home, Isha.”**