I truly hope you all will leave some inline comments (comments beside specific paragraphs or dialogues).

⭐I ask a question at the end of every chapter. If you want try to answer it.

★★★

Author Pov

It’s like almost one month he is teaching her.

"Let's start with Holonomic and Non-Holonomic Constraints," he said, placing a few books on the table with a soft thud. It used to be his room once-every corner held traces of his routines, his solitude. But now... it belonged more to her.

The room-once undeniably his-feels different now. More lived-in. Warmer, somehow. And it isn't just because of the extra pillow or the faint scent of her shampoo. This space no longer breathes just him. It breathes them.

He adjusts his glasses, sits upright in the study chair, and opens the first chapter. His body is ready to dive into the formulas and theory, but something in his mind hesitates.

She's still on the bed, limbs tucked under a soft throw, eyes not even pretending to follow the study rhythm. Her gaze is far away, perhaps stuck between resistance and exhaustion.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she speaks. "Can we not... sit on the bed?"

A small rebellion against the formality between them.

He doesn't answer right away. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the rustling of a page he's not even reading. Her request hovers in the air-simple, innocent, but heavy with something unspoken.

She wants closeness. Not romantically, not yet-

He shifts slightly, not looking at her. He isn't used to sharing space like this, not in a way that matters. But she's here. In his life. In his room. In his quiet. And he can't deny the truth anymore-she's beginning to fill places he thought would stay empty forever.

He glances over his shoulder. “Why? Why did you bring in a whole damn study table then?” His voice comes out sharper than he wants.

She shifts on the bed, placing a hand on her lower back. “My back is hurting… a little bit,” she says, almost in a whisper.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “So… what now? You want to lie down and study? That’s a terrible habit, Divya.”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes stay on her lap as she picks at the edge of her purple T-shirt. The silence grows heavy between them, full of words they never speak.

He watches her for a second. Maybe he’s being too strict. Maybe the day has already worn them both down.

He sighs but stays in the chair. His voice softens a little as he gestures to the seat next to him.

“Come here. Sit properly. You won’t learn anything lying in bed ”

And for a second, something in his chest feels warmer—he tells himself it’s just care. Just care.

She slowly gets up, her legs swinging off the edge of the bed. Her movements are sluggish but obedient, like someone trying not to stir more trouble. Her eyes avoid his, as if bracing for another cold remark. Clutching her notebook to her chest like a shield, she walks toward the chair beside him.

He doesn’t speak. Not yet.

Instead, he clears his throat and flips the textbook open to the page he had marked earlier. The stiffness in his shoulders doesn’t ease, but he ignores it. Emotions aren’t helpful now.

He taps the page firmly with the back of his pen.
“Alright. First things first—what is a constraint in mechanics, Divya?”

He sits straight, arms slightly crossed, his gaze locked on her. Sharp. Focused.

She hesitates, glancing at the page.
“Umm… something that limits motion?”

He gives a small nod—approval, with  warmth.
“Correct.”
He shifts the book so she can see better, then points at a neatly drawn diagram.

“Now look here—this,” he taps again, slower this time, “is a Holonomic constraint. It can be written as an equation that links coordinates. A clear formula. Nothing vague.”

“Okay…” she murmurs, nodding.

He narrows his eyes.
“Don’t just nod. Say it. Repeat it.”

His voice is firm—disciplined, with no space for laziness. But inside, he's watching closely, listening not just to her answer, but to the way she speaks. Trying to read what she's not saying.

She straightens a bit, her notebook resting open now.
“Holonomic constraint… is when you can express the condition using coordinates.”

He gives a small grunt of approval.
“Good.”

A pause. His tone lowers, becoming more serious.
“Now here comes the tricky part—Non-Holonomic constraints.”

He points to the next diagram, giving her a second to catch up.
“You can’t reduce them to an equation of coordinates. They’re often inequalities… or depend on velocity.”

He shifts slightly, pointing the illustration.
“Like this one—rolling without slipping. See it?”

She frowns, eyes focused. Her voice is softer again.
“So… it can’t be written in coordinate form?”

“Exactly.”

His tone shifts—less like a teacher, more like someone thinking out loud.
“You can explain the behavior… but you can’t trap it inside a neat formula.”

There’s a pause. A breath. Something unsaid curling at the edges of his words.

“Kind of like… emotions.”

She blinks, looking up at him, confused. Not sure if he’s still talking about physics—or if something else is slipping between the lines.

And maybe, for the first time tonight, so is he.

He looks away, jaw tightening. That came out more personal than he meant it to.

"In theory, you understand the rule. But in reality… it’s more complex," he says, voice steady but cool. "So don’t try to simplify it like you simplify excuses."

His eyes lock on hers again—sharp, unwavering.

"Write that down."

She doesn’t hesitate. Her pencil scratches across the page quickly, shoulders drawn tight with focus. She's taking him seriously now.

He leans in again, pointing to the open textbook.
"Now write two examples of each. Holonomic and Non-Holonomic. But from your own understanding—not the textbook. Show me you actually get it."

No softness now. No distractions. Just the lesson.

She shifts closer, squinting slightly at the diagram in front of her. Her brow furrows, lips parting just a little as she thinks.

"Wait… can holonomic constraints involve time too?" she asks, voice uncertain but curious.

He glances sideways at her. She’s engaging—not just memorizing, but processing. A flicker of quiet satisfaction passes through him, barely visible.

He nods, slow and measured.
"Yes. They can."

He picks up his pen and quickly sketches a bead sliding along a wire that moves with time. The diagram is simple, but clean.

"If the constraint includes time directly—like this bead on a moving wire—it’s still holonomic. Because," he taps the equation beneath, "you can still write it as an equation. Not an inequality."

His finger underlines the formula on the page.
"If it fits the form f(q, t) = 0, it stays holonomic. Even with time involved."

She blinks, then lowers her gaze. Her pencil hovers for a second, then begins to move, copying the diagram with careful lines.

"So… it’s not just about coordinates. It’s about the form of the condition," she says, her voice more certain now.

He nods again—quicker this time. There's a hint of approval tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."

Then he pushes back his chair slightly, eyes still on the notebook.

"Wait… this question.. ummmm...I’m coming back to it," he says.

He heads downstairs and opens the fridge, pulling out two chilled bowls of cucumber curd salad he’d prepared earlier. The cool air brushes against his face—a small comfort after all the heat of tension and lecture.

Back upstairs, he nudges the door open with his elbow. She’s still at the desk, hunched over her notebook, pencil moving with steady focus. Good. That pulls a quiet smile from him.

He clears his throat gently.
“Ugh...” Just enough to get her attention.

She looks up, startled. He steps in and places a bowl in front of her.

“Eat it.”

She stares at the bowl, then at him.
“What is this?” she asks, clearly surprised.

He takes his seat again, lifting his own bowl.
“Cucumber salad with curd. You must be hungry,” he adds. “I know I am.”

She picks up the spoon slowly, still eyeing the dish like it might explode.

“Don’t tell me you won’t eat it now… it’s a type of spicy raita. It’s tasty. Try it.”

She hesitates a second more, then finally takes a cautious bite.

He watches from the corner of his eye, pretending to read.

Somewhere inside, he feels... proud. Just watching her eat.

“Is it good?” he asks, casually flipping a page in the book.

She nods, still chewing, still using the spoon like it’s a new invention.

She nods slowly, humming in approval.
“Uhmm... good.”

For a moment, everything feels quiet. Peaceful. Almost normal.

They both finish, bowls now empty and placed on the side table. He glances at her—and that’s when he notices it.

A glimmer. A single trail of water running down her cheek.

His brows draw together.
“was it spicy?” he asks, leaning in slightly, confused.
He didn’t make it that spicy… did he?

She nods too quickly. Her lips are pressed tight, eyes a little red.

“You’re the Indian here,” he teases gently, raising an eyebrow. “And I’m the one not crying after two spoons of raita?”

She wipes her face with the collar of her T-shirt, still nodding. Between hiccups and stubborn chewing the remaining food in her mouth.

And for some reason, it makes him want to laugh. Not mockingly—but fondly. It’s messy and real. And it tugs at something inside him.

He reaches over, grabs one of the water bottles, and sets it in front of her.
“Ahh… drink some water,” he says, voice low but lighter now.

She doesn’t speak, just gulps it down, blinking away the burn in her eyes.

He watches her quietly for a second. A part of him—quiet, buried deep—feels something stir.

He’s always loved cooking. Ever since he was young. But after losing everyone… that joy disappeared too. The enthusiasm faded, just like everything else.

Cooking three-course meals every day? It became a hassle. A reminder.
Most nights, he’d sit alone. The food would go cold. Tears would rise instead.

Eventually, he stopped. Street food replaced home-cooked meals. Taste didn’t matter. Health didn’t matter. Shape didn’t matter.

And now, sitting here beside her, watching her eat what he made—it’s the first time in years he doesn’t feel that weight. Doesn’t feel like he’s eating alone.

He remembers when she got sick and ended up in the hospital. He’d lectured her about skipping meals, about not taking care of herself.

But deep down, he was in the same mess too.

Two broken people, carrying quiet storms.

Maybe... that’s a start. Who knows?

He always makes sure they eat together. No matter how busy the day is, or how quiet the evening feels—he brings the food, sits beside her, and waits.

Divya has started to love it too.

There’s something gentle in it—the presence of someone beside you while eating. That quiet, warm love that doesn’t need words. Just being there, sharing a meal.

It’s something she never had growing up. Meals were just food. Just routine. No laughter, no togetherness. No one asking, “Did you eat?”

But now she does feel it. She feels it every time he says, “Eat this. You’ll feel better.”
Every time he watches her chew with that hidden smile in his eyes.

And slowly, something shifts in her heart.

She thinks of him—as family. As a mentor. A friend.

And sometimes, on quiet days like this, when they sit shoulder to shoulder, eating cucumber salad and stealing glances, she thinks—

Maybe... having a husband like him isn’t such a bad thing after all.

Maybe it could even be… beautiful.

But then, fear creeps in. Quietly. Like a shadow behind the warmth.

Because she knows—this marriage is just a contract.

It’s not real. Not built on promises or dreams. Just paperwork. Terms. An agreement between two families. One where her father helps him, and in return… she stays here, in his house, in his world.

She doesn’t even know how old he really is. He’s older, for sure. Mature, calm, sharp with his words. And with a life that looks… full. Solid. Untouchable.

He has a strong social circle. People respect him. People admire him. And women—they look at him like he’s already theirs.

What if he already loves someone else? What if there’s someone waiting in the background? Someone better, prettier, more suitable?

She wonders if he ever wanted this marriage… or if he’s just enduring it.

Maybe he finds her childish. Or boring. Or too stubborn.

Unmanageable—that’s the word that echoes in her head.
Will a man like him ever accept a girl like her? A girl still figuring herself out?

She hugs her notebook closer to her chest, hiding behind equations and study notes—because it’s easier than asking those questions aloud.

Because if she speaks… if she opens up… what if everything breaks?

So for now, she stays quiet.

She eats beside him.

She studies beside him.

And she lets her feelings sit—soft, scared, and unspoken.

“My back is hurting,” she says, cracking it gently as she presses both hands against her lower back.

He glances at her with a slight frown, then leans back in his chair.
“You need to eat healthy, stay healthy. Then you can handle work, study, everything. This is just the beginning—there’s a lot more coming, isn’t there?”

His tone isn’t harsh. It’s firm, but there’s care hidden under the weight of his words.

She nods slowly, biting the inside of her cheek.

He continues, closing the book with a soft thud.
“Tomorrow is Sunday, so I’m giving you rest. No study sessions. But finish your assignment. Don’t push it to the last minute.”

She nods again, more certain this time.

A pause settles between them. Not awkward—just quiet. Like a moment shared in understanding.

Maybe this is how care sounds when words wear discipline as disguise.

she reaches for a pen, her hand brushes a book on the desk. It tumbles to the floor with a soft thud.

He glances down, eyebrows lifting slightly. A card slips out from between the pages—small, white, and folded neatly.

“Oops,” she murmurs, bending quickly to pick it up. She places the book back on the desk.

His gaze lingers on the floor. “There’s something else. A slip fell out,” he says, pointing.

She blinks. “Hmm? Oh…” She leans down again, fingers brushing the edge of the card. Her thumb strokes the top of it absently, not opening it yet.

“What book is it?” he asks, not hiding his curiosity.

Still not meeting his eyes, she mumbles, “Poetry book.”

He reaches forward, picks up the book, flips through the pages casually. His lips twitch into a faint smirk.

“Love poetry book…” he corrects, tone teasing. “Getting lots of time to read, hmm?”

Her shoulders stiffen slightly, but she doesn’t answer. Instead, she opens the card slowly, eyes scanning the handwritten words. Her brows pinch together.

“What is this?” he asks again, more curious now.

“Dunno... something written here. It’s not English.”

She tilts the card toward the light.

“Desdeaa quiiii te concki...” she mutters, struggling with the pronunciation. “What the hell—what language is this?”

He chuckles softly and extends a hand, palm open. “Give me.”

She places the card in his hand gently, her fingers brushing his for just a moment longer than necessary.

He reads.

Desde que te conocí, supe que quería pasar cada momento contigo. ¿Quieres ser mi novia?

His eyes still, his fingers gripping the edges of the card slightly.

The air shifts around him.

Something clenches in his chest—a strange mix of surprise and something else. Something sharp. It doesn’t quite sting, but it rests heavy in his gut.

“Someone recommended you this book?” he asks, voice even, too even.

She nods, chewing her bottom lip. “Yeah… the owner’s grandson.”

He looks at the words again. The soft, deliberate handwriting. Romantic. Intimate.

"Since I met you, I knew I wanted to spend every moment with you. Will you be my girlfriend?"

The sentence echoes in his head.

His expression doesn’t change much, but inside—inside, it tugs at something fragile.
He doesn’t want to admit he’s feeling anything at all. But there it is.

Why does it unsettle him?

She’s allowed to read love poetry. She’s allowed to talk to people. It’s not like they’re really husband and wife.

Still… something about that sentence—about her receiving it—pricks at him like a thorn just beneath the skin.

He folds the card and places it silently on the table.

Then, finally, he meets her eyes.

“Do you know what it means?” she asks softly, eyes wide, innocent—genuinely curious. She tilts her head just a little, like a child asking about the sky.

He looks at her.

He knows exactly what it means. Every word.
It’s Spanish.
His language.
His mother’s language.

Desde que te conocí, supe que quería pasar cada momento contigo. ¿Quieres ser mi novia?

Since I met you, I knew I wanted to spend every moment with you. Will you be my girlfriend?

The words are too sweet. Too clear. Too direct.

And somehow, they cut deeper than he expects.

He hesitates for a moment too long. His eyes stay on her face, but his mind is somewhere else. Caught between truth and something else—something softer, more selfish.

He tells himself it shouldn’t matter.
They’re in a contract marriage.
She’s much younger.
She’ll leave one day.

But that small corner of his heart—the one he keeps sealed tight—whispers:

If she knows what it says… will she smile? Will she think of someone else? Will she say yes in her heart to a boy who hands her love poems in hidden notes?

He doesn't want to see that. Not yet.

So he blinks once. Then says, calmly,
“No.”

A lie.

It tastes strange in his mouth.

She doesn’t question him, just nods and puts the card aside, as if it’s nothing.

But he keeps staring at it.
At the neat handwriting.
At the words he didn’t say.

Inside, he's quiet. But the quiet isn't peace.

It’s noise in disguise.

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Jealousy jealousy 🌟🎶

Sai onara 🙇🏻‍♀️

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