—VEDANT'S POV—
There was a quiet tension in the room that didn't quite fit our usual rhythm.
Sohini sat on the edge of the chair, legs crossed, her notebook open but untouched. She hadn't met my eyes since she entered.
I knew why.
Last night's—towel incident lingered in the air between us like perfume. Or guilt.
She was flushed then. Breathless. That towel barely clung to her hips, and for a second, just a second, I'd forgotten who she was. Just a flicker of heat—immediately swallowed by shame. I wasn't that man.
Not with her.
She was too young. Too sweet. Too— off-limits.
I cleared my throat. "Sohini, you alright?"
She nodded a little too quickly, eyes locked on a trigonometry problem. Her fingers gripped the pen too tight.
I moved closer, sat on the stool beside her, and placed a hand gently on her head—something I'd done before, something brotherly, almost reflexive.
She finally looked up at me.
"You don't have to be embarrassed," I said softly. "I didn't think anything— weird. It wasn't like that. I've never had any ill thoughts about you."
Her brow furrowed, lips parting slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—I've always seen you like a little sister," I said, trying to be as clear as possible. "I'm a brother to you, Sohini. That's all."
She blinked. Then sighed. "I don't want you to be my brother."
I stilled.
"—Then?"
I didn't want to go there, not really. After what happened with Maya—getting blindsided like that, thinking someone just wanted comfort and friendship only to find out they were projecting something else—I didn't trust my instincts anymore.
"I already have a brother," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "And he annoys me to death. I don't want another one."
I chuckled, just a little, relieved. "Fair."
"But we can be friends," she said, glancing at me again. Her voice dipped lower. "I don't really have any. Not even one."
That hit harder than I expected.
I let her talk. She told me things she hadn't before. About how her parents didn't let her go anywhere. No sleepovers. No parties. No phones past bedtime. How they'd sold her romance novels because they thought they were "distracting nonsense."
How sometimes, when it got too quiet at night, she'd pretend she was someone else. A girl in Paris. A girl in Mumbai. A girl with secrets. A girl who mattered. She was dreamy. Innocent.
"You have me now," I said. "I'd be honored to be your friend."
Her smile was small. But real.
From that day on, she bloomed. Slowly. Like a hesitant flower finding sunlight after days of rain.
She told me everything. Her crushes, her favorite scenes from trashy novels, her hatred for trigonometry, her dreams of marrying a morally grey mafia boss or a tortured CEO with childhood trauma.
She was all heart. All feeling.
Once, during a break, she crossed her arms and glared at me. "You don't think it's possible, do you?"
"What?"
"That a rich, rude CEO could fall in love with me."
I bit back a laugh. "Of course he could. You'd drive him crazy."
She grinned. I leaned forward and gently pulled at her cheeks.
"Ah—ouch! Vedant sir! Stop!"
"Back to work," I said, softening the authority with a smirk.
She pouted but obeyed. Scribbled fast. Focused. She was getting better. Sharper. More confident.
An hour passed, and she looked up, beaming. "Done!"
I reviewed her answers. Only one small error.
"Good job," I said. "I'm impressed."
Her smile stretched wider, teeth and all. That kind of happiness—the kind that comes from being seen, from being proud of yourself—God, it was rare. It did something to me. Not lust. Just something warm. Protective.
"You deserve a reward," I said. "Let me take you out for ice cream."
Her eyes lit up. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"But—my parents—"
"It'll be quick. Just down the road."
She hesitated. Then burst into a smile and rushing out. "Let's go!"
I stood by the door, watching her bounce out of the house like a wind-up toy with too much energy and not enough direction.
"Cute," I whispered to myself.
She wasn't like anyone I knew. She didn't want to take anything from me. Didn't want explanations or apologies. She just wanted to be seen. Heard. Given a little space to breathe.
After the divorce, after a year of absolute depression—I didn't know how much I needed a friend either.
And maybe that's what we were. A man trying to heal, and a girl trying to grow. Messy, complicated, but real.
And I'd protect that. I'd protect her. Even from the world. Even from myself.