Oxygen To My Heart

One Shot: Accidental Romance

Part 1

The Evening Before

The house had settled into that particular quiet that only comes after dinner—when plates are stacked, the kitchen light clicks off, and the only sounds left are the ones you choose to notice.

The television flickered against the living room walls, casting shifting shadows across the furniture. On screen, a woman clutched her chest in betrayal while her husband's mother whispered venom into his ear. The background music swelled with the dramatic intensity of someone about to make a life-altering decision.

Naeema sat upright on the L-shaped sofa, her shawl wrapped neatly around her shoulders with the precision of someone who believed in being prepared—for weather, for guests, for emotional television plot twists. Her eyes were fixed on the screen with the seriousness of a judge presiding over a murder trial.

Beside her, stretched along the extended section of the couch like he owned it—which, technically, he did—Aaryan lay with his long legs claiming territory without apology. His phone rested in one hand, but he wasn't reading anything. He scrolled. Paused. Scrolled again.

He sighed.
Shifted his weight.
Twisted the phone between his fingers like he was trying to wring something from it.

Another sigh.

He turned his head slightly toward her, gauging the optimal moment to interrupt.

"Ammi?"

Without looking away from the screen, Naeema lifted her hand in a gesture that had stopped two children in their tracks for over two decades.

"Ruk jao. Waqfa ayega tab bolna. Abhi uski naand usse ghar se bahar nikalne wali hai." (Wait. There'll be a break, then talk. Right now her sister-in-law is about to throw her out of the house.)

Aaryan blinked at the television. A woman was indeed packing a suitcase with theatrical fury while another woman watched from the doorway, expression caught somewhere between triumph and concern.

He looked back at his mother.
Then at the screen again.

He almost smiled despite himself and settled back, forcing patience into his bones.

On screen, someone cried. Someone accused. Someone gasped dramatically enough to wake the neighbors.

Finally—

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The shift was instantaneous. Naeema turned to him, fully present, her attention now his completely.

"Haan, bolo." (Yes, tell me.)

Aaryan rested his head against the sofa back, gaze drifting toward the ceiling. His thumb traced the edge of his phone case—an unconscious movement, the kind that revealed more than words.

"Ammi… jab Maria meri zindagi mein nahi aayi thi… tab main poora din kya karta tha?" (Ammi… before Maria came into my life… what did I used to do all day?)

The question sounded casual. Wondering, almost. But Naeema had raised two children. She knew the difference between idle curiosity and something that had been sitting on someone's chest for a while.

She adjusted her glasses, buying a moment to think.

"Tum apni kitaben padhte the," she began slowly, the words arriving like photographs developing. "Further studies plan kar rahe the… aur phir…" She narrowed her eyes slightly, reaching further back. "Khane ke baad gym jaate the." (You used to read your books. You were planning further studies… and then… after dinner you'd go to the gym.)

She looked at him now—really looked.

"Aaj gym nahi gaye?" (You didn't go to the gym today?)

He gave a small nod, the kind that acknowledged a fact without celebrating it.

"Nikal to tha main." (I had actually left.)

"Haan, phir?" (Yes, and then?)

He exhaled through his nose, a sound caught between amusement and admission.

"Right gym ka rasta tha… aur left Maria ka." (The road to the gym was on the right… and Maria's house was on the left.)

There was a beat of silence.

Then Naeema's lips curved—slowly, warmly, the way mothers smile when they recognize their child in a moment of unexpected softness.

"Phir tum nikal gaye chand ki taraf?" (So you went off toward the moon?)

Aaryan let out a quiet breath of laughter, the sound warming the space between them.

"Aur nahi to kya." (What else.)

She shook her head, amused but not surprised—because this was her son, the one who had always been steady, measured, responsible. And here he was, choosing a girl's house over the gym without even realizing it had become a choice.

"Azlan kam tha jo ab tum bhi mujhe pagal kar rahe ho," she said lightly. "Jab mil aaye to ab kya masla hai?" (Wasn't Azlan enough that now you're also driving me crazy? Now that you've gotten her, what's the problem?)

His smile softened at the edges, losing its humor, gaining something heavier.

"Dil nahi bhara," he said simply. "I miss my baby." (My heart isn't satisfied. I miss my baby.)

There was no performance in it. No exaggeration for effect. Just fact, delivered with the same matter-of-fact tone he might use to note that it was Tuesday or that the weather had turned warm.

Naeema gave him a look—the one that mixed affection with affectionate reprimand, the one that said you're ridiculous and I love you anyway.

"To jab main keh rahi thi rukhsati bhi saath kar lo, le aao baby ghar, tab kyun nahi maani meri baat?" (Then why didn't you listen when I said do the rukhsati together, bring your baby home?)

He shifted upright slightly, instinctively straightening as if preparing to defend a position.

"Ammi, yeh baat main aapse keh sakta hoon. Maria ke saamne main aise bacha nahi ban sakta. I should be the responsible one. Practically possible nahi tha us waqt." (Ammi, I can say this to you. In front of Maria, I can't act like a child like this. I should be the responsible one. It wasn't practically possible at that time.)

And that was the truth of it.

With Maria, he measured himself. Thought three steps ahead. Chose steadiness over spontaneity because she deserved someone solid.

With his mother, he could afford softness.

Naeema huffed, but there was no real frustration in it—just the sound of a mother who understood more than she let on.

"Bas ab sabr karo. Mera drama start ho gaya hai." (Just be patient now. My drama has started.)

The theme music rose again, filling the room with its familiar urgency.

Aaryan didn't retreat this time. Instead, he leaned closer, lowering his voice like they were conspirators.

"Ammi… aisa nahi ho sakta Maria ek do din ruk jaaye yahan? Koi kahani bana dein?" (Ammi… can't Maria stay here for a day or two? Can't we make up some story?)

Now she turned to him slowly.

The look she gave him was deliberate. Measured. The kind of look that said I see exactly what you're doing.

"Main aise hi kaise keh doon? Sochne ka time do. Weekend tak wait karo." (How can I just say it like that? Give me time to think. Wait until the weekend.)

He exhaled—a sound of pure, unfiltered frustration.

"To tab tak main kya karun?" (Then what should I do till then?)

"Jao, namaz padho. Dua mango ke mujhe idea aa jaaye." (Go, pray. Ask God to give me an idea.)

He opened his mouth to argue.

Then stopped.

Because he knew this rhythm. He'd grown up with it—the way she could end a conversation simply by returning to her world, leaving his unfinished sentences hanging in the air like laundry waiting to be folded.

And she had agreed to think.

That was something.

He stood, slipped his phone into his pocket, and walked toward his room—each step carrying the weight of an evening that suddenly felt longer than it should.

He wasn't reckless.
He wasn't dramatic.
He just missed her in a way that made ordinary evenings feel like they required navigation.

Behind him, on the television, fictional heartbreak resumed. A woman cried. A man made choices he'd regret. Families fractured and reformed in the span of forty minutes.

Somewhere across the city, Maria was probably laughing at something Maham said, completely unaware that she had become the center of someone else's gravity.

The Dua Before

Inside his room, the air felt different. Still. Contained. Private.

The hallway light cast a thin line beneath his door—a reminder that the world continued outside, that his mother was still watching her drama, that somewhere traffic moved and people lived their ordinary lives.

The muffled sound of the television carried faintly through the wall, reduced to a murmur, indistinguishable now.

Aaryan finished his prayer and remained seated on the mat.

Palms raised.

He did not rush his duas. Not when they mattered. Not when they involved her.

His shoulders eased slightly, as if the words themselves had loosened something in his chest.

"Main usse bohot miss karta hoon." (I miss her a lot.)

The confession was simple. Unfiltered. The kind of thing he couldn't say to anyone except maybe Ammi—and even then, not like this. Not with this weight.

He asked for patience. For the ability to wait without becoming restless. For responsibility that matched the depth of his feelings. For the strength to protect what had been entrusted to him.

He asked to be worthy of her.

When he finally wiped his face and finished, he stayed seated for a few seconds longer than necessary—letting the quiet settle around him, letting the peace of prayer linger before the ordinary world rushed back in.

Then he reached for his phone.

Aaryan: What is my baby doing?

The reply came quickly—so quickly he smiled before even reading it.

Maria: Your baby is questioning her life choices.

His lips curved instantly, warmth spreading through his chest.

Aaryan: Oho. Allah khair kare. Wo kyun? (Oh dear. God forbid. Why?)

Maria: Miss Ayesha ne chemistry ke 3 chapters ke long questions likh ke aane ko kaha hai parso tak. Hum koi chote bache hein, Mera dil hi nahi chah raha college jane ka parso,test bhi lengi. (Miss Ayesha has told us to write long questions for 3 chemistry chapters. Are we little children? I don't feel like going to college tomorrow at all.)

He leaned back against the bedframe, stretching his long legs out in front of him. The ceiling fan circled slowly above, stirring the warm air.

Aaryan: Ap na karen. Main unse excuse kar lunga. (Don't do it. I'll make an excuse to her.)

The response was immediate—three dots appearing, disappearing, appearing again as she typed furiously.

Maria: Sach?!?!?! I love you. (Really?!?!?! I love you.)

He shook his head lightly, the smile now permanent.

Aaryan: I love you more.

A pause.

Maria: Ap kya kar rahe the? (What were you doing?)

His eyes flicked to the folded prayer mat in the corner of his room. To the space where, minutes ago, he'd been asking God to keep her safe.

Aaryan: Main apni jaan ko miss kar raha tha. Aur dua mang raha tha ke jaldi se mil jaye mujhe. Apko kuch chahiye to bata dein. Sifarish kar deta hoon. (I was missing my life. And praying that I get to see her soon. If you need anything, tell me. I'll put in a recommendation.)

The answer came without hesitation—so fast it must have been waiting at the tip of her thumbs.

Maria: Mujhe kurkure khane hain. (I want to eat Kurkure.)

He let out a quiet laugh, the sound surprising him with its warmth.

Of course.

Of all the things she could ask for—jewelry, clothes, plans for grand gestures—she asked for kurkure.

Aaryan: Done. Dekhen thodi der mein milte hain. (Done. We'll meet in a little while.)

Maria: 🤨

He could picture her expression perfectly. The skeptical eyebrow. The slight tilt of her head. The way she'd purse her lips when she suspected him of something but couldn't quite figure out what.

But he was already opening a different app—the one that delivered things to doorsteps in under an hour. He selected a snack basket big enough to feed a small army. Added extra chips. Added more extra chips. Added a chocolate bouquet for no reason other than because he could, because she was his and he wanted to.

Entered her address from memory.

Confirmed payment.

Then he returned to his desk and opened his laptop, though his attention drifted to his phone every few minutes, waiting.

About forty minutes later, it buzzed.

A photo loaded on his screen.

Maria holding the snack basket like a trophy, the chocolate bouquet tucked under one arm, her eyes bright with triumph. She'd propped her phone somewhere to capture the shot—he could tell by the angle, the way she was slightly off-center but glowing anyway.

Maria: Next time khud bhi ana. Thoda sa apko bhi taste kar lungi. (Next time come yourself. I'll taste you a little too.)

He stared at the message longer than necessary.

Heat crept up his neck—slow, deliberate, unstoppable.

Thoda sa apko bhi taste kar lungi. (I'll taste you a little too.)

His brain, traitor that it was, supplied images he had no business entertaining at this hour. Her laughter. Her fingers tugging at his collar. The way she looked up at him when she was being deliberately, dangerously playful.

He inhaled sharply and shut the chat.

"Control," he muttered under his breath—a command, a reminder, a prayer all at once.

He returned to his work, forcing his attention to the screen.

But the smile lingered.

The house grew quieter around him. Lights turned off one by one as his mother finished her drama and prepared for sleep. The street outside settled into the hush of late night.

Somewhere across the city, Maria probably fell asleep surrounded by half-eaten snacks, her phone resting on the pillow beside her, a chocolate bar half-unwrapped on her nightstand.

Aaryan eventually lay down too, his phone resting near his pillow, the screen dark but the memory of her message still glowing behind his eyes.

Neither of them knew that tomorrow would interrupt this ordinary rhythm.

And ordinary, once interrupted, is never quite the same again.

The Accident

The morning arrived like any other—sunlight filtering through curtains, the distant sound of traffic, college chaos,the smell of tea brewing somewhere in the house.

By afternoon, everything had changed.

Aaryan thanked the man walking him to the gate, his crutches steadying him on the left side, the plastered foot heavy and stiff against the ground. Each step required calculation—weight distribution, balance, the careful negotiation of uneven pavement.

"Bas, jazakAllah, badi mehrbani," he said, shifting his weight to shake the man's hand properly. (That's it, jazakAllah, you've been very kind.)

"Koi baat nahi," the man replied warmly, his grip firm and reassuring. (It's nothing.)

Out of politeness—and because his hand was already extended—Aaryan rang the doorbell himself. "JazakAllah bhai, apko itni door ana pada. Koi baat nahi. Bas ab to andar chala jaunga mai khud," he added, stepping back so the man could return to his own work, his own life. (JazakAllah, brother, you had to come all this way. It's fine. Now I'll manage going inside myself.)

But the man wasn't ready to leave just yet. He stepped forward, insistent in the way helpful people often are.

"Nahi ji, nahi, pareshani kaisi? Bhai hain." (No, sir, no, what trouble? We're brothers.)

Then he knocked firmly on the door—three sharp raps that carried through the afternoon quiet.

Inside, Naeema's voice carried almost immediately, approaching footsteps accompanied by the familiar rustle of her house clothes.

"Aa gayi, aa gayi! Kon?" (Coming, coming! Who is it?)

When she opened the door and saw Aaryan on crutches, his foot wrapped in white plaster, her expression shifted instantly—from curiosity to confusion to full-blown maternal alarm in the span of a heartbeat.

"Haye Allah, ye kya ho gaya?" (Oh God, what happened?)

Aaryan leaned on his crutches, keeping his tone light—almost teasing, the way he always did when he sensed her worry rising.

"Kuch bhi nahi hua, Ammi. Aa jaiye." He turned to the man, shaking his hand again. "Okay bhai, jazakAllah." A quick, one-armed hug. "Allah Hafiz." (Nothing happened, Ammi. Come inside. Okay brother, jazakAllah. Allah Hafiz.)

The man finally nodded, satisfied that his duty was done, and walked toward his car. Naeema closed the gate behind him—slowly, her eyes still fixed on her son—and turned back, questions already forming behind her lips.

Aaryan groaned—part performance, part genuine exhaustion—and lowered himself onto the sofa, stretching his injured leg out with careful precision. Naeema hurried to place a cushion under his plaster before he could even ask.

"Hua kya? Kuch to batao, aise kese itni lag gayi?" (What happened? Tell me something, how did this happen?)

He waved a hand, attempting casualness, attempting to minimize.

"Itni nahi lagi, bhai. Thodi si lagi… nurse ne marham-patti zyada kar di hai isliye aisa lag raha. Aise hi, chota sa accident hua, bas. Bike guzar gai paon pe se." (It's not that bad, honestly. Just a little… the nurse put on extra bandaging so it looks like that. Just a small accident, that's all. A bike went over my foot.)

Naeema's eyes misted—the sudden, involuntary response of a mother who had spent three decades bracing for moments like this.

She stepped away quickly, presumably to fetch water, but Aaryan recognized the movement for what it really was: buying time, composing herself, refusing to let him see her cry.

"Ammi, aap beth jain, aaram se. Kya ho gaya, itni nahi lagi hai. Ab to theek hi ho jayega na, bas," he called after her, his voice softer now. (Ammi, you sit down, take it easy. What happened, it's not that bad. It'll be fine now, just…)

A few moments later, she returned with a glass of water, fussing over him like he was seven years old again.

"Painkiller liya tumne?" (Did you take painkillers?)

He drank, handed back the glass. "Haan, hospital mein to di thi. Par likh ke di hain ye medicines or." (Yes, they gave them at the hospital. But they've prescribed these medicines too.)

Naeema walked to the landline and began dialing, muttering under her breath.

"Main Mahir ko keh ke mangwa leti hoon." (I'll tell Mahir and have him get them.)

Aaryan tsked, frustrated and a little amused despite himself.

"Ammi, nahi. Wo log bhi pareshan ho jayenge sun ke. Khwah makha… itni to lagi bhi nahi hai." (Ammi, no. They'll get worried when they hear. Unnecessarily… it's not even that bad.)

Naeema scolded him without looking up from the dial, wagging a finger in his general direction.

"Tum chup kar jao bas. Bell ja rahi hai." (You just be quiet. The call is going through.)

Aaryan exhaled, letting the argument go.

The sound of the house settled around him—the soft ticking of the clock on the wall, the distant hum of traffic filtering through the windows, the occasional rustle of the fan above. The sofa pressed against his back, familiar and worn. His leg rested on the cushion, plaster heavy but manageable.

He flexed his toes cautiously inside the cast. They moved. Everything worked. It was just a fracture—clean, simple, a few weeks in plaster and then back to normal.

Chaos After

The commotion from the entrance reached Aaryan before the guests did—Adeel uncle's concerned voice, Faiqa aunty's anxious questions layered over Naeema's calm attempts to explain. By the time the Adeel family stepped into the living area, their worry had multiplied tenfold.

"Haye Allah!" Faiqa aunty's hand flew to her chest. (Oh God!)

"Ye kya hogaya?" (What happened?)

"Kese hogaya?" (How did it happen?)

The chorus of distress filled the room as they rushed toward the couch where Aaryan sat, one foot propped up, bandaged but stable.

But Aaryan's eyes didn't follow them. They went straight to Maria.

She stood frozen near the doorway, already tearing up, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she tried—and failed—to hold herself together.

He wanted to go to her. He couldn't.

Instead, he bent forward slightly, extending his hand toward Adeel uncle who had reached him first.

"Assalamu Alaikum," Aaryan murmured.

Adeel uncle clasped his hand briefly, then pressed him back down. "Bass bass, bethe raho. Zor na do paon pe." (That's enough, that's enough, stay sitting. Don't put pressure on your foot.)

Naeema held out a prescription to Mahir, who had followed his parents inside. "Mahir, beta, ye zara medicines le ao jaldi se." (Mahir, son, get these medicines quickly.)

Mahir nodded, already pulling out his wallet. "Ji ji, aunty." (Yes yes, aunty.)

Adeel uncle reached into his own pocket, pulling out notes. At the same time, Aaryan fumbled for his wallet in his kameez pocket, overwhelmed and moving too slow.

"Ek min, Mahir, ye lo—" (One minute, Mahir, take this—)

"Bass hogaya na," Mahir cut him off, pocketing the prescription and waving away the money. Adeel uncle did the same, dismissing Aaryan's attempts with a firm hand. (It's done now.)

"Bass, rehne do." (Enough, let it be.)

Aaryan sat back, dazed. The room had split into two frantic missions: Faiqa aunty and Naeema huddled together, discussing and consoling in urgent whispers, while Mahir and Adeel uncle competed to handle the medicine run without taking a single rupee from him.

No one noticed Maria.

She stood in the corner, silent tears streaming down her face, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to hold in the sobs threatening to break free.

Aaryan's chest tightened.

Mahir left. Adeel uncle turned back, concern sharp in his voice.

"Kya hogaya, ladke? Ye kese hogaya?" (What happened, son? How did this happen?)

Aaryan shifted, uncomfortable—not from the injury, but from Maria's tears burning a hole in his periphery.

"Bethein, bethein, uncle, aunty," he managed, gesturing to the empty seats. (Sit down, sit down, uncle, aunty.)

Faiqa aunty waved a hand, settling onto the edge of a chair. "Han han, hum theek hain, beta. Tum na hilo." (Yes yes, we're fine, son. Don't you move.)

Aaryan nodded, but his eyes kept slipping past them, searching for Maria.

Adeel uncle pressed, "Batao, kya hua?" (Tell us, what happened?)

Aaryan forced himself to focus. "Bass, uncle… road cross kar raha tha, bike aa gai." (It's just, uncle… I was crossing the road, a bike came.)

Faiqa aunty clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "Ye bike wale to aise hi chalate hain. Na baaen dekhte hein, na daaen. Tum ne kuch kaha nai bike walay ko?" (These bike riders drive like this. They don't look left, they don't look right. Didn't you say anything to the bike rider?)

Aaryan shook his head. "Nahi nahi, kehna kya tha aunty? Bass bacha tha koi. Aas paas wale to foran marne chadh daure uspe. Wo pehle se ro raha tha." He paused, exhaling. "Ambulance ke peeche ja raha tha bechara—school mein hoga shayad. Mujhe uspe tars aa gaya. Bohat maafiyan maang raha tha." (No no, what was there to say, aunty? He was just a kid. The people around immediately jumped on him to beat him up. He was already crying. The poor thing was following the ambulance—probably in school. I felt bad for him. He was apologizing so much.)

Adeel uncle's brow furrowed. "Oho, to phir hospital kaise gaye? Wahin se koi le gaya hoga? Gadi wahin khadi thi? Mahir ko bhej kar mangwa lete." (Oh, so how did you get to the hospital? Someone from there must have taken you? Was your car parked there? We could have sent Mahir to bring you.)

Aaryan shook his head again, but this time he couldn't stop himself. He sat up straighter, eyes finally landing on Maria openly.

"Nahi, dost ko message kar diya tha. Usne pick kar li hogi." (No, I messaged a friend. He must have picked me up.)

And without thinking, he stretched his hand toward her—a silent summons. Come here.

Everyone moved at once.

"Tum zor na do paon mein, Aaryan!" (Don't put pressure on your foot, Aaryan!)

"Bethe raho!" (Stay sitting!)

But Maria was already walking over, her steps hesitant, her face streaked with tears. She sank onto the edge of the sofa beside him, close but not close enough, her eyes fixed on his bandaged foot with desperate worry.

"Aap naheen hilen," she whispered, voice cracking. "Aapko dard hoga." (Don't move. It will hurt.)

He saw it then—the fear in her eyes, the way she was bracing herself for him to suddenly be more injured, more broken.

He couldn't bear it.

Aaryan reached for her, pulling her gently into his chest, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"Pehle to nahi ho raha tha," he murmured against her hair. "Par ap aise ro rahi hein na… ab dard ho raha hai mujhe." (It wasn't hurting before. But you're crying like this… now it hurts me.)

Maria sobbed, shaking her head against his chest. "Nahi, main nahi ro rahi." (No, I'm not crying.)

A warm chuckle rippled through the room.

Faiqa aunty shook her head, scolding with unmistakable fondness. "Tobah, Maria! Aisa mooh bana ke ro rahi ho!" (Goodness, Maria! You're making such a face while crying!)

Aaryan smiled, his hand rubbing slow circles on her shoulder. "Main theek hoon, Maria. Aap na royen. Thodi si lagi hai. Doctor ne kaha hai ek week mein plaster utar jayega, bas hair line fracture hai zyada nai." (I'm fine, Maria. Don't cry. It's just a little injury. The doctor said the plaster will come off in a week, it's just a hairline fracture, nothing more.)

Before anyone could respond, the door opened and Mahir returned, plastic bag of medicines in hand. Naeema immediately took charge, examining the packets while Mahir hovered nearby, ready for further orders.

Adeel uncle cleared his throat, glancing between Mahir and Aaryan. "Acha, Bhabhi, main kya keh raha tha… Mahir jo hai, wo yahin ruk jaye. Ye bahar ke kaam bhi kar lega, aur Aaryan ka bhi dhyan rakh lega." (Okay, Bhabhi, I was saying… let Mahir stay here. He can handle outside work and also take care of Aaryan.)

Naeema looked up, polite refusal already forming. "Nahi, Bhai Saheb, kyun takleef deni bechare bachhe ko?" (No, Bhai Saheb, why trouble the poor boy?)

Before she could finish, Mahir crossed the room and wrapped an arm around her in a sideways hug, grinning. "Lo gi, isme takleef ki kya baat, aunty? Main bhi to apka hi beta hoon." (See, what trouble is there in this, aunty? I'm your son too.)

Adeel uncle sank onto the sofa beside Aaryan, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Lo, Aaryan. Hum aik nurse deke ja rahe bas thodi si mardana hai. Aur batao, aur kya chahiye?" (There, Aaryan. We're leaving you a nurse, just a little masculine. Tell us, what else do you need?)

The room chuckled at his joke.

Aaryan smiled, but his eyes went to Maria. Then back to Adeel uncle. He swallowed.

"Maria chahiye…" He paused, correcting himself carefully. "Matlab, agar Maria bhi ruk jaati…" (I want Maria… I mean, if Maria could also stay…)

Naeema jumped on the opportunity before anyone could overthink it. "Haan ji, Bhai Saheb! Acha rahega. Hamara bhi dil lag jayega." (Yes, Bhai Saheb! That would be good. It would make our hearts happy too.)

Adeel uncle's eyes sparkled with mischief. He tilted his head, teasing. "Kis ka dil lag jayega, hein, Aaryan?" (Whose heart would be happy, hmm, Aaryan?)

Aaryan looked down, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Sab ka hi lag jayega. Mera… thoda zyada lag jayega." (Everyone's would. Mine… a little more.)

The laughter that followed was warm, easy—a release of tension that had been building since they walked in. The conversation shifted naturally after that, flowing into the accident, the state of the roads, the general chaos of the city. Someone called for tea. Complaints were aired. Solutions were debated.

And through it all, Aaryan made sure Maria stayed close, her shoulder brushing his, her presence a balm he hadn't known he needed.

His hand itched to hold hers.

But Adeel uncle and Faiqa aunty were still here, so he waited—content for now to simply have her near.

Maria, for her part, kept stealing glances at him. Checking. Rechecking. Making sure he wasn't suddenly hiding some greater injury, some deeper pain.

She caught him looking once and quickly looked away, blushing.

He smiled.

Soon, he told himself. Soon I'll hold her hand. Soon I'll tell her it's okay.

For now, this was enough.

BONUS CHAPTER NAVIGATION
← Previous Chapter : Farewell And Proposal Next Chapter → Accidental Romance Part 2

An accident, a fractured foot, and a house full of meddling parents—sometimes it takes a crisis to create the perfect excuse for staying close.

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