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“Buy some flowers.”

She paused mid-step and turned. “I don’t want your flowers.”

He let out a slow breath and smirked. “The flowers are not for you. They are for Mr. Raichand.”

She looked stunned. “You want me to give flowers to him?”

“No. I’ll take them myself.”

“Why?” She stared at him for a beat.

“It’s just a neighbourly gesture,” he said too quickly. “I don’t want Serene Meadows to think I’m still holding a grudge over a mango tree while the old man is stuck in bed with a fractured ankle.”

“But just a few minutes ago, you said you don’t care about what people think.”

He gave a tight-lipped smile. “Well, even I have my PR days.”

But the truth was something else entirely. It curled low in his stomach like… like something he refused to name.

The flowers were for Keshav Raichand.

But his visit wasn’t for that old man or for the Serene Meadows’ resident gossips.

It was about her. He was going because he needed to see Nandini.Desperately.

Because ever since that goddamn kiss, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. Not for a single second. Not while brushing his teeth. Not when he attended office meetings from home. Not even when he tried to sleep.

She was his neighbour. His opponent in a silent suburban war over tree roots and property feuds, supporting her grandfather like a warrior.

She wasn’t supposed to mean anything more.

But she did. Somehow, somewhere between that stupid cake stand argument and the night he kissed her, thinking it was someone else, she had slipped under his skin.

And now, every minute of her silence and disappearance was clawing at him. He needed to see her. Alone. Away from her grandfather’s disapproving glare and his own stupid pride getting in the way.

**************

The good thing about the two villas was that they didn’t need to use the main entrances to cross over. A narrow stone pathway curved between them, lined with soft moss and tufts of grass, leading straight to the old mango tree.

Shaurya approached the sliding French door of the Raichand Villa, a bouquet of fresh lilies in hand. He hesitated for a moment, adjusting his shirt collar before knocking gently.

Inside, Lakshmi, the ever-watchful housekeeper, looked up from where she was peeling peas in a silver bowl. The moment she saw him, she nearly dropped the bowl.

She blinked. “You? You here?”

“Good evening, Lakshmi. I just came to check on Mr. Raichand,” Shaurya replied, offering a polite smile.

Lakshmi narrowed her eyes. “Oh. He’s resting in his room.”

“I won’t stay long,” he added quickly, already glancing around the room, searching for someone.Nandini. But she wasn’t there.

Lakshmi couldn’t reject his request of seeing Grandpa.

“Okay. Follow me.”

As they walked through the living room, Shaurya couldn’t help but notice the numerous family photographs everywhere. Adorning the walls, on the side tables, on shelves like tiny altars to a family that had once been whole. There were photos of a young Keshav with his late wife, Nandini as a child, and that of a tall, stern-looking man bearing a striking resemblance to Keshav—likely Nandini’s father.

Shaurya walked past them, bouquet still clutched in one hand, trying not to stare too long at a smiling Nandini in her school uniform, her face lit with mischief and innocence.