The signboard of Pans and Masala glowed in warm neon orange, gently flickering against the quiet lane. Tucked between a pharmacy and a shuttered gift shop, the restaurant looked unassuming from the outside-but the moment they stepped in, it felt like a different world.

Soft instrumental jazz floated through the air, mingling with the scent of herbs and roasted garlic. Lights hung low-golden, warm-casting a glow that made even the steel water jugs on the tables look elegant. It was a weekday evening, and only a handful of corporate folks were scattered around-hunched over laptops or sipping from glasses, their voices hushed.

Deepak held the door open for Priya as she stepped in. She wore a pale green saree with a simple border. No flashy jewellery, just a small bindi and her usual bangles. Yet under the dim lights, she looked like one of those quiet heroines from old movies-graceful without trying.

He wanted to tell her she looked beautiful. Really, he did. But the way she carried herself-still reserved, still guarded-made him hold back. He didn't want to say the one wrong word that might make her pull away.

The waiter led them to a table near the window, where fairy lights hung lazily across the glass. A ceiling fan spun slowly overhead. The menu, printed on thick parchment-like paper, had a mix of Indian and Continental dishes with names far fancier than either of them were used to.

Priya looked around, then at Deepak.
"When you said Pans and Masala, I thought it was one of those tiny shack places, with plastic chairs and loud kitchen noise," she said, adjusting her pallu.

He smiled. "Yeah, the name does sound like that. Even I thought it was a dosa kadai when Harini suggested it."

She chuckled-just a little.

The waiter arrived with water and passed their menus. Deepak watched her from the corner of his eye as she flipped through the pages. Her fingers brushed against the tablecloth now and then, tapping unconsciously to some rhythm in her head-maybe the Kathak steps from earlier.

He caught himself staring. And quickly looked away.

They ordered without much fuss.

"I'll have the Fusilli Alfredo and mushroom pizza," she said, folding the menu slowly.

Deepak, after a moment, chose Melanzane alla Parmigiana-a baked aubergine dish he'd once tried during an office dinner-and Spaghetti Arrabbiata, the red-sauce one he could never pronounce right but always liked for its spice.

When the waiter left, silence returned. But this time, it wasn't awkward. Just... new. Like two people learning the tempo of a duet after years of solo acts.

He sipped his water, trying not to look at her too long.

"You like pasta?" he asked.

She nodded, her eyes flicking up briefly. "Used to eat it a lot during college. Hostel ka saviour. Pizza was luxurious, though."

Deepak smiled. "Pizza was my heartbroken food. Every time my office bonus got delayed, I'd eat a large cheese burst."

She smiled too-and the ice cracked just a little more.

When the food arrived, it felt like a celebration-steaming plates, soft aromas, the gentle clink of cutlery. Her pizza had a thin crust, dotted with mushrooms, olives, and molten cheese. The Fusilli Alfredo was creamy and white, flecked with parsley and bell peppers.

His aubergine dish looked rustic and rich-layers of tomato sauce, soft brinjal, and baked cheese in a hot clay bowl. The Arrabbiata spaghetti glistened and garnished with chili flakes and basil.

She took a bite of her pasta and nodded in approval.
"It's nice. Simple, not heavy."

Deepak was mid-way through his aubergine when he noticed her glancing sideways at his spaghetti. A quiet, curious look-like a kid eyeing a friend's lunchbox.

He smiled without thinking.
"You want to try this?" he asked, holding out his plate.

Priya blinked, unsure.

"It's spicy, but good," he added, nudging it gently toward her.

Her cheeks coloured slightly-just like when he caught her dancing. But she took the plate, twirled a small portion of spaghetti onto her fork, and ate.

"Thanks," she murmured.

She took one bite. Then another.
"Spicy," she said, eyes watering just a little.

"Told you!" he laughed.

She handed the plate back and, without hesitation, slid her pizza tray toward him.
"You try this also. Fair deal."

He chuckled and took a slice.

Just like that, the meal became something else.

They weren't strangers anymore. They were just two people, sharing food, passing plates, commenting on spice levels, laughing softly at melted cheese that didn't cooperate.

For a while, time forgot them.

No wedding garlands. No awkward silences. No tension-laced nights. Just a quiet restaurant, warm lights, and spoons meeting plates.

They lingered over dinner, not rushing, not planning.

As they waited for the bill, Deepak leaned back, full and content.
"That was nice," he said.

Priya looked out the window, then back at him.
"Yes... it was."

Her voice was soft. Honest.

He didn't know what would happen tomorrow. But tonight, something had broken-maybe a wall, maybe just a single brick.

It was enough.

Outside, the street was quieter. A few autos cruised past, their horns faint in the background.

Inside Pans and Masala, the waiter returned with the bill and a quiet smile.

Deepak paid.

He felt lighter.
She felt seen.

They stepped into the night-and for the first time-walked side by side.
*****

As they stepped out of the cozy warmth of the restaurant into the soft buzz of Chennai's night, the road shimmered faintly under the yellow glow of street lamps. The air was mild-neither warm nor cool-and for a fleeting moment, it felt like the world had slowed down just for them.

An auto rickshaw waited near the entrance. Deepak had booked it just before paying the bill, quietly and without fuss.

Priya followed him silently and slid into the back seat, her saree flowing around her like a soft curtain. The auto sputtered to life, its familiar rumble blending with the quiet rhythm of the city winding down.

After a few minutes of silence, Deepak spoke-his voice low, calm, just above the hum of the engine.

"I know you might be wondering why we didn't take my car or bike..."

Priya didn't reply, but her eyes shifted slightly toward him, curious.

He continued, "It's not that I don't have them. I do. Both. But I thought... maybe it would make you uncomfortable."

Still, she said nothing, but her fingers curled around the edge of her pallu a little tighter.

He gave a small, sheepish smile.
"If we had come on the bike, you'd have had to hold on to me, right? Hug from behind and all that. I thought it might feel too much. And in the car, we'd sit side by side... my hand might touch yours-by accident, or while shifting gears."

She blinked slowly. Still facing forward. Still quiet.

"That's why I booked an auto. More space. No pressure."

Her lips parted slightly. She didn't know what to say.

No one had ever said something like that to her. No one had thought through her comfort in such quiet, detailed ways. It disarmed her. And somehow... it hurt.

The rest of the ride passed in silence, but the silence had changed. It wasn't empty anymore. It was full-of unspoken gratitude, of something beginning to soften.

The auto screeched gently to a halt outside their apartment.

Above them, the sky stretched like a dark canvas, dotted with stars faint behind the city's haze. The jasmine-sweetened air of Chennai lingered faintly, blending with the distant sounds of street vendors closing up shop.

Priya stepped out slowly, adjusting her saree. Her silver anklets barely made a sound as she walked beside him. The dinner had gone... too smooth, almost suspiciously so. And now, her thoughts were chaotic and restless.

Why hadn't he pressed her? Why was he so kind? So... normal?

Inside, the house was dim and peaceful-a stark contrast to the storm now building in her chest. She waited near the entrance awkwardly as Deepak switched on a soft light near the sofa.

"You... liked the food, no?" he asked gently, not facing her as he placed the keys on the table. "Hope the atmosphere was okay. I thought maybe you'd prefer something quiet."

His voice was calm. Too calm. It twisted something inside her.

She gave a slow nod. "Yeah... it was good."

"Okay... good night, Priya," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, almost shy.

And then, just like that, he disappeared into his room and shut the door.

No lingering looks.
No awkward hovering.
No expectation.
Just space.

She stood there, stunned. Her heart beat fast-out of confusion, guilt, and something even deeper she didn't dare name.

She slowly walked into her own room and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her hands. Trembling. Damp from the air or her own nervous sweat, she couldn't tell.

She thought about how she had laughed at dinner. How she'd taken food from his plate. Shared hers. Let go, even if only a little.

It clashed violently with the way she'd been treating him.

Giving him the cold shoulder. Speaking barely a word. Not even offering him a cup of coffee-this man who woke at 5 a.m., made his own breakfast, packed his own lunch, and still left a small portion for her, like a silent protector.

Her throat tightened.

She couldn't sit still anymore. The room was too quiet. Too loud. Too much.

She rushed to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a quiet thud. The harsh fluorescent tube flickered, casting a bluish hue on the white tiles.

Still dressed in her saree, she stepped into the shower and turned the tap.

Cold water hit her scalp, sliding down her face, soaking her blouse, petticoat, bangles. But it didn't jolt her.

She welcomed it.

The tears came fast, blending with the water. Loud, messy, aching sobs that echoed against the bathroom walls.

Why was he like this?

Why wasn't he like the others? The ones who demanded. Controlled. Expected.

Why was he giving her space?

He had every right to be angry. She had given him nothing. No warmth. No words. He was still sleeping on the floor. Still maintaining distance. Still trying.

And she?
She had been cold. Unkind. Distant.

She slid down the tiled wall, hugging her knees to her chest. Her saree clung to her like a second skin. Her bindi had washed away. Her bangles lay near the soap tray where she had flung them.

Her heart ached.

More than guilt, it was a strange knot of fear and longing-of knowing she was pushing away someone who, without ever saying it, was offering her something she hadn't known how to ask for.

Peace.

Her mother's voice echoed:
"Give him a chance, Priya. He might change you."

She didn't want a home.
Or maybe she did.
But not like this. Not with this much noise in her own head.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours.

The sobs softened to hiccups. Her eyes burned, swollen and heavy. She leaned her head against the cold wall, fingers still clinging to the wet folds of her saree.

Sleep didn't come like comfort. It came like a collapse. Her body gave in.

There, in the bathroom, under a dying drizzle and the weight of her own anguish, Priya fell asleep.

Still dressed in the saree.
Face streaked with tears.
Heart aching under the weight of her own walls.

She didn't know what tomorrow would bring.

But tonight, one thing was clear:

She couldn't keep treating Deepak like this.

Not when he was the only one who hadn't asked her to be anything other than herself.
*****