🦚

If someone had told Rukmini a month ago that she'd be helping plan a full-fledged desi wedding complete with overenthusiastic relatives, ten WhatsApp groups, and more colour-coded checklists than she'd ever seen in her life — she would've laughed in disbelief.

And yet here she was.

Sitting on the floor in Subhadra's room, surrounded by lehengas, tangled bangles, and open boxes of sweets someone definitely shouldn't have opened yet (spoiler: it was Ram), while a speaker in the corner blasted wedding songs at full volume.

"Subhu, this is chaos!" Rukmini groaned, flopping onto a pile of embroidered dupattas. "I'm going to drown in sequins."

Subhadra, currently halfway through fixing her eyeliner with one hand and eating a kaju-katli with the other, didn't even flinch. "Chaos is tradition. If you aren't emotionally overwhelmed before the haldi, is it even a real wedding?"

Rukmini laughed, her shoulders shaking as she wiped glitter off her hands. The mansion had transformed overnight — fairy lights wound through the bannisters, marigolds dripped from every corner, and the scent of sandalwood and excitement hung thick in the air. Aunties were arriving in waves, each more dramatic than the last, and Balaram was somehow managing to avoid all of them.

There were sangeet rehearsals, mehendi mishaps, and cousins sneaking sweets from the kitchen.

And through it all, there was Krishna.

Smiling more. Laughing louder. Helping with decorations, coordinating with the caterers, and still somehow managing to pull Rukmini aside every now and then with a casual, "Need help with that?" that sent her stomach into tiny cartwheels.

There was a rhythm to the way they'd grown closer — as if the universe had turned the dial just a little more in their favour.

He made a joke, and she rolled her eyes with a grin.
She teased him in the middle of haldi prep, and he flicked turmeric at her.
Subhadra yelled, "Oh for the love of sanity, just kiss already!"

They had both shouted, "We're just friends!" at the same time.

That earned them a suspicious look from Ram and a flying pillow from Subhadra.

But the truth was harder to deny now. The looks. The accidental brushes of fingers. The long pauses in conversations when their eyes met. Rukmini could feel something building — like the soft hum of a song just before the chorus hits.

And yet, amidst all the sparkle, her lawyer brain kept trying to analyse it — this thing, this them. Was it real? Was it safe? Was she reading too much into the way his gaze lingered every time she walked by?

But every time she tried to think about anything serious, her heart would swoop back to the way he'd held her wrist while fixing her bangles last night. Or the way he'd said her name — softly, as if it was a secret — when she nearly tripped over the flower baskets this morning.

And when she caught her own reflection in the mirror just now, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, a quiet smile playing on her lips...

She almost didn't recognise herself.

This was not the Rukmini who used to build walls out of sarcasm and steel. This girl looked like she believed in dancing. In new beginnings. In happily ever afters.

She picked up a handful of rose petals from the tray and tossed them into the air, giggling when they floated down around her. Subhadra gave her a look.

"What?"

"You're smiling like a Disney princess who just fell in love with her arch-nemesis."

Rukmini tossed a pillow at her. "Shut up."

But she didn't stop smiling.

Not even when Ram walked by humming a sappy love song under his breath.

Not even when Krishna peeked into the room, raised a brow at the madness, and muttered, "This looks dangerous."

Especially not when he caught her eye, held her gaze for just a moment longer than necessary...

...and smiled.

.

.

.

Rukmini didn't consider herself someone who turned heads. At least, not consciously.

But tonight?

Tonight, as she stood before the mirror in her room, even she had to pause.

The saree was delicate — off-white, nearly pearl-like, threaded with soft gold and silver work that shimmered faintly every time she moved. The fabric clung just right, airy and graceful, the kind that walked the line between tradition and quiet sensuality. The blouse was sleeveless, subtle, elegant — not too loud, but enough to make her look like she had stepped out of a dream.

Her hair fell in soft waves, the ends brushing her bare back, and her cheeks were naturally flushed from all the chaos of wedding prep. A thin chain adorned her neck, a tiny pair of pearl drops swaying from her ears.

And when she walked into the venue?

The world tilted just a little.

The sun had begun to set, casting the garden in a warm, golden glow. Fairy lights had started to blink alive across the archways. Laughter bubbled through the air like champagne. Guests milled around, dressed in their finest, and at the heart of it all — Balaram stood under a canopy of flowers, looking the happiest anyone had ever seen him.

But Krishna?

Krishna wasn't looking at his brother.

He was standing near the mandap, half in conversation with some uncle, when she stepped out. His words died mid-sentence. His posture straightened. For a second — just one — he forgot how to breathe.

There she was.

Not just beautiful — no, that word didn't quite do justice. She looked... ethereal. Like she didn't quite belong to this world. The way the light kissed her skin, the gentle sway of her walk, the laughter in her eyes as she greeted someone politely — it all hit him at once.

He had seen her in many avatars. Fiery. Calm. Sarcastic. Affectionate. Messy, half-asleep, dressed in pyjama's with her hair piled on her head.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

Rukmini caught his gaze and froze.

Because of course he was staring.

And not in the casual "you look nice" way. No, this was the full-Krishna soft gaze moment — the kind that unraveled every rational thought she had tied neatly in a bow just hours ago.

Her breath hitched. Her cheeks flamed.

Nope.

She turned on her heel so fast she nearly tripped on her saree and bolted toward the drinks table.

She grabbed a glass of mango juice, sipping aggressively, as if the cold would cool down the raging blush on her face. It didn't.

"Staring at juice like it's going to solve your problems?" came a snide little voice behind her.

Rukmini turned to see Subhadra — resplendent in a navy blue lehenga, arms crossed, an all-knowing smirk plastered across her face.

"I— what? No," Rukmini lied. Poorly.

"Oh please," Subhadra rolled her eyes, "If you blushed any harder, you'd be a walking red flag. Literally."

"I'm just enjoying the ambience," Rukmini said, sipping again.

"And by ambience, you mean Krishna's very obvious heart-eyes from across the garden?"

"I did not notice."

"You ran away."

"I was thirsty."

"And you've been holding the same glass for ten minutes."

Before Rukmini could gather a retort, another voice joined in, smooth and twice as irritating.

"Oh come on," Draupadi said, walking up with a teasing glint in her kohl-rimmed eyes. "Even the caterers are shipping you two."

"Not you too," Rukmini groaned, pressing the cool glass to her cheek. "Why do I even try to exist peacefully?"

Draupadi leaned closer, whispering theatrically, "Should we call the pundit again? The mandap's still warm."

Rukmini made a noise of despair and dramatically buried her face in her hands.

"This is harassment," she mumbled.

"Adorable harassment," Subhadra corrected.

Just then, someone called for the bridesmaids to join Balaram for the next ritual, and Rukmini seized the opportunity to escape, hissing at the girls, "You two are nightmares."

"Nightmares with matchmaking dreams," Draupadi quipped.

And even as Rukmini walked away — holding her head high, spine straight, like she wasn't absolutely melting inside — she felt it.

That gaze.

Still on her.

Still soft.

Still Krishna.

And despite everything — the teasing, the flustering, the sheer madness of it all — she smiled.

Because maybe... just maybe... she liked that he looked at her that way.

Even if it made mango juice taste like butterflies.

The ceremony had wrapped up with laughter and flower petals and music still hanging in the air like the scent of marigold and warm cardamom. Guests were slowly scattering, couples swaying in the distance, families gathering for dinner. The garden looked like something out of a dream — moonlight spilling over fairy lights, lanterns floating overhead, the sound of distant shehnai lacing through the breeze.

And Rukmini?

Rukmini was furious.

"This is a setup," she muttered under her breath.

Her heels clicked furiously along the stone path, the end of her shimmering saree flowing behind her like a trail of betrayal. "A very intentional, very calculated, deliberate conspiracy — I know Subhadra when she's up to something. And Draupadi was far too quiet earlier. That's always a sign. And Arjun?! Since when is he in on the nonsense?!"

She turned the corner of the villa, muttering to herself, "Traitors. All of them."

And then she saw him.

Krishna. Already sitting on the low stone bench under the old neem tree behind the wedding venue — the only quiet pocket in the whole space. Dressed in an ivory sherwani with delicate gold detailing, the ends of his sleeves slightly rolled, the collar unbuttoned just enough to make her thoughts short-circuit. His face was calm, legs stretched in front of him, wrist resting on his knee as if he had all the time in the world. Moonlight turned his skin to silver.

And he smiled the second he saw her.

That soft, inward smile. The kind that wasn't meant to be seen but always left a mark.

Rukmini stopped mid-step, mouth half-open, as the wind tangled with her hair and tossed it across her cheek.

She blinked once. Twice.

Then narrowed her eyes.

"I knew this was Subhadra's doing," she said sharply, walking up to him. "Or yours. Was this a plan? You all really just tossed me into some romantic subplot without even consulting me?!"

Krishna tilted his head. "Would you have agreed if we asked?"

"Of course not!"

"Then there's your answer," he said simply, and Rukmini scowled because — as always — he had a point.

She crossed her arms and stood there for a beat, clearly still on the verge of delivering a long lecture. But then... something shifted.

She glanced down at him again. The way he looked so peaceful. As if her scolding was music. As if being here — just the two of them, beneath a sky full of stars and history — was enough to make him content.

And suddenly, the sharp edge of her irritation dulled.

She sighed and sat beside him, tucking her saree gracefully around her legs.

"You drive me insane," she muttered.

"I know," he said, glancing sideways, "It's one of my many charms."

She let out a soft snort and looked away, trying not to smile. But Krishna noticed. Of course he did.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, letting the breeze speak for them.

Then Krishna broke it. "You looked beautiful today."

Rukmini's heart stuttered, but she didn't reply. She couldn't. She only looked straight ahead at the flickering garden lights in the distance, unsure what to do with the sudden heat in her cheeks.

"I meant it," he added softly.

This time, she turned toward him. And maybe it was something in the way he said it — quiet, unadorned, real — that made her finally let her guard drop.

"Thank you," she whispered.

And that was all it took for the air to shift again.

From there, the conversation bloomed easily.

They talked about everything and nothing — about the weird dance steps Ram had tried, about how the caterer messed up the sweet order, about the time Krishna accidentally sent an email with just a meme to the entire office. Rukmini laughed, really laughed, her nose scrunching up, her eyes sparkling. And he watched her like someone who knew he didn't deserve this moment but would memorise it anyway.

Time slipped by without them noticing.

Until Krishna suddenly looked away, his jaw tightening — just slightly.

There was a pause.

Then he said, "Rukmini."

She looked up at him instantly.

"If someday... I go missing," he said, still not looking at her, "Not by choice, but... if I vanish from this world, if I disappear without a word... would you come find me?"

The question struck her like thunder on a clear night.

The laughter died in her throat.

Her fingers clenched the edge of her saree. "Why... why would you ask something like that?"

Krishna finally turned to her. And there it was — something dark and hidden in his eyes. Not fear, not quite. But a shadow. Something he was carrying quietly, behind all that calm.

"Just answer me," he said, softer this time.

And Rukmini, even through her sudden panic, didn't hesitate.

"I would burn the world down if I had to," she said, voice steady. "But I would find you."

Their eyes locked.

And in that moment, something passed between them that neither could name. A promise, perhaps. A silent vow.

The wind rustled through the trees above them. Somewhere in the distance, the drums picked up again for the next wedding ritual.

But here — beneath the stars, beneath a sky heavy with unsaid things — two hearts sat in a quiet kind of ache.

One was already falling.

The other? Already gone.

And both of them, unknowingly, had just stepped into the calm before the storm.

The air between them was thick now. Not heavy with awkwardness, but with meaning. With something that neither of them wanted to name just yet.

Rukmini stared at Krishna for a few seconds longer after his strange, lingering words — "If I go missing... would you come find me?" — echoing in her mind, bouncing around like wind in a locked room.

She blinked. Once. Then twice.

Then she asked, softly but firmly, "Why would you say something like that, Krishna? What does that mean?"

He didn't look away this time. His eyes held hers, but there was a flicker — just a flicker — of something behind them.

A hesitation.

He offered a small smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I was just... being dramatic. You know me. I like metaphors."

"You're lying," she said quietly.

Krishna raised a brow. "No, I'm not."

"You are," she replied again, more softly this time, her voice almost trembling, "But it's okay. I don't think I want to hear the truth right now."

Her throat felt tight. She didn't even know why.

Maybe it was the way his voice changed for a second. Or how he said it like he was already halfway gone. Or maybe it was just the fear creeping in again — the one that told her she was standing on the edge of something deep, and she wasn't sure whether she was ready to fall.

She looked away, shaking her head, her fingers fumbling with the end of her pallu. "I think I should go. I shouldn't have—"

But Krishna reached out before she could take another step.

His fingers curled gently around her wrist. Not forceful. Not possessive. Just asking.

"Don't go," he said, and the words weren't pleading — they were a quiet ache. "Not yet."

Rukmini stilled.

He stood up slowly, his hand still around hers, and pulled her a little closer. Not too much. Just enough that she could feel the warmth of him. The calm in him.

"You don't have to say anything," he murmured, "But just... stay for a moment. With me."

And she did.

She let herself breathe again.

His presence had a way of pulling all the chaos inside her into stillness. She hated it. She loved it.

A few heartbeats passed.

Then Krishna stepped back a little, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"I, uh..." He cleared his throat. "I actually wanted to give you something."

Rukmini blinked. "What?"

Krishna suddenly looked... nervous.

Krishna. The man who smirked in board meetings and stared down rivals like he was born to rule empires — now fumbling with his words like a boy who didn't know where to place his hands.

Rukmini tilted her head and grinned, "Are you actually shy right now?"

He looked mildly offended. "I am not."

"You are," she said, laughing softly, her heart finally relaxing a little. "You totally are."

"Close your eyes," he said, ignoring her.

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Is it a prank?"

"Do you think I'd prank you during a wedding?"

"Absolutely."

Krishna sighed dramatically. "Rukmini. Just close your eyes. Please."

She rolled her eyes but obeyed, lips twitching. "Fine. But if I open my eyes to find a spider or a chappal, I will throw you in the wedding cake."

There was a pause.

Silence.

Then his voice, low and gentle: "You can open them now."

Rukmini's eyes fluttered open.

And there it was.

Dangling from his fingers — a necklace. Delicate, intricate, a soft gold with a single sapphire in the centre, surrounded by the tiniest carved details. Her heart stopped.

It was the same necklace.

The one she'd paused in front of that night — that random, chaotic night at the late-night street market. The one she admired for a little too long, before laughing it off, saying it was too expensive, too unnecessary, too something.

She remembered pointing it out. She remembered the way Krishna had stood beside her, silent.

She never saw him buy it.

But now, here it was.

"For me?" she asked, breathless. "Is this... from that night?"

Krishna's smile was softer this time, almost sheepish. "You looked at it for twenty minutes. I figured if I didn't get it, it would haunt me for life."

Rukmini was stunned.

He noticed. He remembered. He went back and got it.

"I just... I didn't think you noticed," she murmured.

"I notice everything about you," he replied simply.

Her breath caught.

She looked away, heart in her throat. "I don't think I should take it."

His brows drew together slightly. "Why not?"

"It feels like... too much. Too intimate."

"It is intimate," he said, stepping closer, "but it's yours. It always was. You're the only one it makes sense with."

She didn't speak. Couldn't.

Krishna stepped behind her without waiting for permission, gently moving her curls aside. His fingers grazed her skin as he clasped the necklace around her neck — soft, slow, reverent.

She felt her whole body still, goosebumps dancing across her arms. His touch wasn't rushed, and it wasn't hesitant either. It was... right.

And for one long moment, she didn't dare breathe.

He lingered behind her, close enough that she could feel his presence warm against her back.

Then, as if the universe knew they weren't ready to say it all yet, he stepped back.

His voice was lighter now, "Don't worry. I'll charge you later."

She laughed through the haze in her chest, turning slightly. "You're insufferable."

"But charming," he added smoothly.

She rolled her eyes — but her fingers went to the necklace, gently touching the pendant.

And as she stood there, stunned, overwhelmed, quietly in awe... Krishna just watched her.

His silence was a soft confession.

And even if neither of them said it aloud, they both knew.

🦚