Chapter 3: The Night That Changed Everything

I woke up in Kabir’s bed, my whole body aching.

The bedsheet under me was soft, but my skin prickled, and the familiar whir of his air conditioner sent chills down my spine. Staring up at the ceiling, it took a while for my mind to catch up.

The chaotic memories of last night came flooding back.

Flashes of neon lights, the sticky warmth of summer, the clink of glasses, laughter that turned blurry at the edges—everything was a jumble. I vaguely remembered someone whispering to me: "Sweetheart, don’t cry."

And some other, truly embarrassing things.

I covered my ears, trying to block out the voices echoing in my mind.

My cheeks burned, and I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping the embarrassment would somehow evaporate into the air like the incense from last night’s puja in the hallway. But I couldn’t.

Even worse, the person beside me noticed I was moving and instinctively tightened his arms around me.

I was pulled closer into his chest.

His voice was thick with sleep: "Sweetheart, you’re awake?"

His breath was warm against my neck, smelling faintly of last night’s whisky. My skin still smelled faintly of his cologne—sharp, familiar, and completely out of place on me. I held my breath, not daring to look up.

What if he realised who I was?

Kabir has a girlfriend.

He said so himself.

Last weekend, when we went home for dinner, Mum and Dad were talking about the Sharma family’s grandson’s mundan ceremony. The topic, as always, drifted to marriage.

I remembered the laughter and the clatter of cutlery, with our cook, Sushila aunty, popping in and out carrying trays. Naturally, they started with the eldest.

Mum was concerned: "Kabir is already twenty-five. Is there a girl you like?"

Her voice was a mix of hope and anxiety, eyes darting to Dad as if asking for support. We’d just finished eating and were lounging in the living room.

I was sprawled on the sofa playing a mobile game, Dad was hugging Mum—old married couple, not the least bit shy in front of us.

Kabir answered, "Yes."

I had just cleared a level in my game, and during the cutscene, I looked at Kabir, full of curiosity.

My brother is handsome, has a good temper, and comes from a great family.

He’s had girls chasing after him since we were children.

He never liked any of them.

The Malhotra family didn’t need to arrange marriages, and those rich girls with their own motives all failed.

So, who did he fall for?

I blinked at him: "Bhaiya, who is it? Do I know her?"

He glanced at me, but didn’t answer.

His silence was louder than any words. I didn’t give up and kept pestering him: "Who? Who? Who’s your girlfriend? How did you keep it a secret for so long?"

Kabir suddenly got irritated. He sneered, "Who my girlfriend is has nothing to do with you."

I touched my nose awkwardly.

Arrey yaar, Mum and Dad pressure him to get married and he takes it out on me.

I’m the scapegoat.

Siblings really do grow apart as they get older.

He won’t even tell me if he has a girlfriend.

But let’s not worry about who the girlfriend is right now.

The real problem is, Kabir’s hands are anything but well-behaved.

Buried in his arms, I didn’t dare move a muscle.

From this angle, he couldn’t see my face.

His voice was lazy with sleep: "Baby, it’s still early."

What does he mean, ‘it’s still early’?

I froze.

He must think I’m his girlfriend.

Are he and his girlfriend this clingy every day?

If I look up, I’m finished.

He hasn’t realised it yet.

Maybe because I didn’t say anything, he assumed I agreed.

Just as he was about to prop himself up and look at me—

I had no choice but to quickly roll over and bury my head in the pillow.

My heart was thumping so hard I thought the whole bed would shake. "Hmm?" he made a confused sound, then let out a low chuckle. "You like it this way?"

He leaned closer.

"Baby, call me bhaiya."

My heart nearly stopped—did he know? Or was this some twisted joke of fate? Hai Ram! Don’t say that!

What is wrong with you couples, seriously.

The way he said it, half-teasing, half-serious, would have made any regular couple blush, but for me it was like someone had poured a bucket of cold water over my head. I wanted to melt into the mattress.

I stared at the ceiling, the slow whirl of the fan the only witness to my shame.