He walked to her — hurried, without meaning to — and stood still.

“Where did you learn that song?”

She didn’t look up. Her fingers kept sketching.

“Which one?”

“The one you were humming.”

She paused. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed.

“I don’t know. It’s just been in my head for years.”

Years.

He stared at her, every muscle tensed. She didn’t meet his gaze. Didn’t give him more. Just rose to her feet, brushing chalk off her hands.

“There’s a leak in the storage. The art supplies are getting ruined,” she said plainly.

Back to work.

Walls up.

But the melody still echoed in him.

He watched her walk away, and in that moment, he hated how intrigued he felt.

Later in evening, the storm arrived like a ghost with claws.

Rain slammed the rooftops. Lights flickered. Children whimpered in their sleep.

Sahastra walked the halls, checking on them — something he always did personally during storms. His mother used to do the same.

Then he turned the corridor and froze.

Urvi was there. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, two girls curled in her lap like kittens. Her dupatta was draped over them. Her eyes were closed.

She was humming again.

The same song.

But this time, it felt soft and protective.

Sahastra stood in the dark, hidden behind a shadowed pillar.

He didn’t understand what this girl was.

Cold yet comforting. Distant yet motherly. Silent yet… screaming.

And for the first time in years, he felt the pull of something outside of control.

Not political. Not strategic.

Just... human.

Urvi, back in her room that night, lay staring at the ceiling.

She replayed his voice in her head.

“Where did you learn that song?”

She hadn’t meant to hum it. Not out loud. Not in front of him.

She had practiced control. Precision. Distance.

She wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

But that question had cracked her.

Not because he caught her off guard — but because of the way he’d asked.

Like it mattered.

And in that moment, something inside her had flinched.

Not attraction. Not yet.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

She was supposed to fake everything. But that tiny moment… hadn’t been fake.

And she hated that she didn’t know what it meant.

Not yet.

__________________________

It started as an ordinary afternoon.

The kind where the children of Mukti’s House of Hope ran through the halls chasing paper planes, where giggles echoed from the art room, and the scent of sandalwood incense and chalk floated gently in the air.

Urvi was in the corner of the library, pretending to read a case study on adolescent trauma while secretly watching Sahastra from the reflection in the glass pane.

She’d been at the office for three weeks now — officially as a psychology intern. Unofficially, she was watching him. Tracking him. Every gesture, every schedule, every unexplained smile, she noted silently in a small brown notebook she kept folded in her bag.

She never lingered too long in the same room with him. Never gave him the satisfaction of a smile. But she was always just around the corner.

She had a purpose.

And it was working.

Until that day — when everything stopped.

The laughter was cut short by a scream.

A piercing, high-pitched shriek from one of the upstairs rooms.

Urvi dropped her notebook instantly and ran.

She found Rohit, one of the youngest children, barely six, lying limp on the floor, his eyes rolled back, his small hands twitching uncontrollably. The older kids stood frozen, crying. One of them had tried to shake him awake.

Urvi knelt by his side. Her breath caught.

He was seizing.

“Move! Move aside!” she shouted, her voice steady despite the panic building in her chest.

Just a man. Sitting beside her. Covered in concern. Barely keeping it together.

And for the first time, she didn’t think of Angraj, or Sakshi, or the goal.

For the first time — she felt something real.

She didn’t recognise it yet. She wouldn’t let herself.

But it was there.

She stood abruptly. “I need to check on the kids.”

He stood too. “I’ll come with you.”

Their shoulders brushed as they walked back in — an unspoken thread between them.

Not love.

But the beginning of closeness neither of them had planned.

For weeks now, Urvi had watched Sahastra like a well-placed shadow — always close enough to observe, always far enough to seem indifferent.

She had learned his patterns.

He never brought lunch.

Often skipped meals.

He carried a flask of black coffee that sat cold most afternoons. His days were divided between the party office, meetings, public appearances… but no matter how busy — he never skipped visiting the orphanage. Not once.

But lately, something felt off.

He was still coming, but his steps were slower. His expressions, tighter. His usually bright complexion had turned pale, and even his silence carried fatigue.

And yesterday — he looked like he could collapse.

She hadn’t planned to speak. But when she saw him sitting on the steps near the courtyard, a little hunched, one hand pressing his temple — something inside her broke.

“Aap theek hain?” she asked, walking up to him.

["Are you okay?"]

He looked up, a bit surprised. She rarely spoke first.

“Hmm?” he blinked, then waved a hand.

"Yeah, yeah… nothing serious."

But she wasn’t convinced. Not this time.

“Aapne kuch khaya?” she asked.

["Did you eat anything?"]

He hesitated, then gave a tired smile. “Nahi. Bhool gaya. Schedule tight tha.”

["No. I forgot. The schedule was tight."]

She pursed her lips, sighed, and sat beside him. "Then you're eating from my lunch today. No arguments."

He raised an eyebrow. “Tum mujhe khana dogi?”

["You’ll share food with me?"]

“Yes,and?” she muttered with attitude, unwrapping the foil from her tiffin.

The smell of baingan ka bharta and soft rotis hit him like memory. He didn’t resist.

And he ate.

He hated how it made him feel.

Wrong.

He wasn't supposed to feel anything.

He was supposed to marry Mugdha — the daughter of a powerful industrialist. It was an open arrangement. Mugdha herself had made it clear: “You live your life, I’ll live mine.”

But something in him knew that Sparshika isn't someone who'll love or even look at a married or committed man.

Sparshika was different.

Not just from Mugdha. From everyone.

She wasn’t chasing his wealth, or political power, or legacy. She didn’t even care much for his name. She avoided the limelight he naturally carried.

In truth — she reminded him of his mother.

He looked around her tiny house again. The dim light. The barren shelves. The quiet desperation that had never shown on her face.

Something shifted inside him.

The decision he came with — to end her internship— collapsed silently under the weight of what he had just witnessed.

“Main kaise soch sakta hoon usse nikaalne ka…?” he muttered to himself.

["How could I even think of letting her go...?"]

He sighed, running a hand down his face.

“Woh sirf ek intern nahi hai... woh... woh Sparshika hai.”

["She’s not just an intern… she’s… she’s Sparshika."]

And in that moment, he decided — he would not let her go.

Not now.

Not when she needed care.

Not when he had just begun to truly see her.