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Third person’s pov!

Aryan came down, showered after his daily workout routine on the terrace. As he stepped into the living room, a sound from the kitchen made him pause mid-step.

Not again, he thought.

He frowned and walked toward the kitchen entrance, peeking in just enough to see Mahima at the stove, her back to him. Relief flickered through his chest. Good. Not Maa.

She moved with practiced ease, stirring something gently while her loose bun swung over her shoulder. Without making a sound, he moved toward the guest room, his steps slow. He wasn’t sure why he even stopped—but the urge to see her was too strong.

Peeking in, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

There she was—baby Mannat—sleeping on a thick cotton mat on the floor, flanked by two soft pillows. Her tiny legs were curled up, and one chubby arm was stretched above her head, fingers twitching in a dream. A soft whimper escaped her lips.

Aryan’s heart tightened.

He crouched beside her, watching in silence as her eyelids fluttered open. Her eyes—large, curious, and still hazy with sleep—met his, and she whimpered again. Her lower lip quivered, threatening to spiral into a full-on cry.

“Hey…” Aryan whispered, reaching out instinctively.

The moment he scooped her into his arms, she blinked, stunned, and then squealed—a soft, gurgly sound that made him chuckle.

“You just needed a little hug, huh?” He murmured, cradling her close.

Her tiny hand reached out and grabbed his nose, squeezing with surprising force. Aryan laughed, a genuine, boyish laugh that hadn’t surfaced in years.

“Okay, okay! Not the nose, lady,” he said playfully, pressing a gentle kiss to her fist after freeing himself.

She babbled in response, clearly amused by her newfound power.

Peeking into the kitchen again, he made sure Mahima was still occupied. A strange feeling tugged at him, almost like guilt—as though he were sneaking off with something that wasn’t his to hold. That memory of last night—the way Mahima had quickly taken the baby and rushed into the kitchen the moment she saw him—flashed in his mind.

With the baby nestled securely in his arms, he stepped out into the garden, the early sun casting a soft golden glow on the grass.

“There we go,” he whispered, swaying slowly as he walked. “Look at you… little sunshine girl.”

Mannat blinked at the flowers, wide-eyed, before nestling against his chest. Aryan began to hum—a soft, tuneless lullaby his mother used to sing when his brothers were babies. It wasn’t perfect, but his voice was gentle, deep, almost reverent.

“No crying, okay?” He crooned softly, pressing a warm kiss to the top of her head. “Uncle’s got you.”

The baby’s lashes began to lower again, soothed by the steady rhythm of his voice and the soft thump of his heart.

Aryan stood there for a long moment, holding her like she belonged there.

Like he belonged there.

And maybe, for the first time in a long while… he didn’t want to let go.

As Aryan turned to walk back into the house, the baby’s soft breath warming his chest, he paused.

There, by the doorway, stood his mother.

Mythily’s eyes were misted over, her hands clasped tightly at her front. She wasn’t smiling—but she wasn’t crying either. She was simply watching, her heart pouring through her gaze.

Aryan’s steps faltered for a fraction of a second, but then he gave her a tight, almost hesitant smile. One that didn’t quite reach his eyes. One that said, I am fine. Don’t ask.

Without a word, he walked past her, the baby still asleep in his arms. He gently laid her down on the mat, adjusting the pillows and blanket with a care that didn't match his usual brisk demeanor. His fingers lingered for a second on her soft cheek.

Then, without sparing another glance at his mother, he turned and climbed the stairs quickly—his shoulders stiff, his jaw set.

He couldn’t look at her.

Not when that look was in her eyes.

Not when the pain he was burying every day now had someone else bearing witness.

Mythily stood rooted to the spot, her throat tightening. She blinked rapidly, the image of her son with that baby imprinted on her soul.

That look on his face... That fragile softness. The hollow tenderness in his eyes. It was beautiful.

And heartbreaking.

She sank down to the floor slowly, her hand brushing the baby’s tiny foot.

He shouldn’t have had to carry all this alone.

Her mind traveled back to the day everything had shattered. They had been the ones to push him—his father, her, even Adithyan and Atharv had encouraged the match. Aryan had been reluctant, unsure, but he gave in. And when it all fell apart, it was he who bore the burden of silence and shame.

He didn’t even fight back...

Mythily’s throat burned with unshed guilt.

They had taken away his chance at love, at trust… all in the name of duty, of family expectations.

And now he walked through each day with his wounds neatly stitched under skin, pretending they no longer bled.

Her fingers curled into the mat.

It was all because of them.

And she didn’t know how to fix it.

Mahima moved quickly between the stove and the counter, flipping dosas with practiced hands and stacking them neatly into the casserole. The sambhar simmered away gently on the adjacent burner, filling the kitchen with its comforting aroma. Her eyes were on the food, but her ears remained sharply tuned—for one sound only.

Mannat.

Her baby was a master of cat naps. She would doze for ten or fifteen minutes, stir with a whimper demanding a cuddle or a lullaby, and then drift off again—only to repeat the cycle a short while later. Mahima had learned her rhythms like second nature.

But today, it was too quiet.

Too long.

A frown creased Mahima’s forehead as she flipped the last dosa and turned off the stove. She placed the lid over the casserole and turned the flame under the sambhar to low, then quickly wiped her hands and rushed toward the guest room.

She pushed the door open quietly—and paused.

There, lying on the mat between two small pillows, Mannat slept soundly, her little mouth curved into a dreamy smile. Her tiny fingers twitched now and then, as though she were playing in her dreams.

Relief bloomed in Mahima’s chest, soft and overwhelming. She stepped closer, crouching near her daughter and gently brushing a hand over her downy head.

“You are smiling in your sleep, little Miss naughty? Dreaming of milk or mayhem?” She whispered, her voice tender.

But as she turned to step back out, she froze.

Mythily Madam was sitting on the living room couch, just visible through the open doorway.

Her eyes were closed, her face pale and worn, her features pulled tight with something between grief and guilt. It looked like she had been sitting there for a while, lost in thoughts that clearly weighed heavy on her.

For a moment, Mahima considered asking if she was alright. But the moment passed.

No matter how kind Mythily Madam was. No matter how lovingly she cooed at Mannat, or how gently she spoke to her—Mahima reminded herself of the line that divided them.

She was the house help.

And kindness was not an invitation to cross boundaries.

Without a word, Mahima stepped back into the room, gently pulling the door close. Then she returned to the kitchen, where the sambhar continued to bubble.

But her mind lingered—not on the food, not even on her child.

On that pained face sitting quietly in the living room.

Something was broken in this house.

And Mahima couldn’t help but wonder what it was.

A/N

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