Aditya greeted Anshikaâs parents with a polite smile, accepting their warm hugs.
The house was filled with warmth, laughter, and the scent of freshly baked cake. But thenâ
"Mom, Dad, do you know our princess made this cake all by herself? I just helped her a little."
Shivankâs voice rang out proudly as he patted Anshikaâs head, his eyes full of admiration.
Anshikaâs cheeks warmed instantly. She clasped her hands behind her back, glancing down shyly. "No, Mumma⦠Bi made it. I just helped a little. Maybe messed up, but I promise next time Iâll make it all by myself."
Her parents exchanged shocked glances before their expressions softened.
They pulled her into a tight hug. "Our baby is growing up!" her mother whispered, emotion thick in her voice. "Thank you so much, baccha. You didnât get hurt, right?"
Anshika shook her head with a small smile. "Iâm fine. Bi did everything."
Her father ruffled her hair in affection, pride gleaming in his eyes.
But the sweet moment didnât last long.
Shivank suddenly smudged frosting onto her nose.
Anshika gasped, eyes widening. "BI!"
In an instant, she scooped up a handful of cream and ran after him. "Youâre dead!" she shrieked, chasing him around the house.
Their laughter echoed through the room, their parents watching them with fond smiles.
But thenâ
Anshika wasnât paying attention.
She ran straight into someone.
A solid chest.
Her breath caught.
Her hands instinctively clutched onto the personâs shirt.
Slowly, she looked up.
And her entire body went still.
Aditya.
Her heart dropped.
She quickly averted her gaze, her breath shakyâbut then she saw it.
The black fabric of his shirt.
Smeared with white frosting.
The same frosting that had been on her cheeks.
Her eyes widened in horror.
Aditya didnât move.
Didnât speak.
His gaze was locked onto her, dark and unreadable.
She panicked.
Without thinking, she lifted her small hands and started wiping at the mess.
But instead of cleaning itâ
She spread it more.
Her fingers froze.
Her breath hitched.
And then she saw itâthe sticky cream on her hands, the ruined shirt, the disaster she had just made.
A sharp sting of panic shot through her.
Tears burned her eyes, making them glassy. She didnât dare look up at him. Didnât dare see his reaction.
Instead, she did the only thing she could.
She turned and ran.
Straight upstairs.
Straight into her room.
Straight behind the locked door.
She didnât come out again.
---
Aditya stood there, unmoving.
His jaw clenched.
His hands curled into fists.
His entire body was burning with something he couldnât explain.
The second her tiny hands had touched his chestâeven through the fabricâsomething inside him snapped.
It was nothing.
Nothing.
Yet it was everything.
His pulse pounded in his ears.
Not here. Not in front of them. Not with her parents in the room.
He needed to leave.
Now.
Forcing his voice to stay even, he made up some excuse about work and walked out of the house, his entire body tense.
---
The second he arrived home, he didnât bother with the garage.
His car sat abandoned outside as he stalked inside, ripping his shirt off on the way to his bedroom.
His mind was a storm of thoughts.
That momentâjust a few secondsâkept replaying in his head.
Her hands.
Her warmth.
Her.
Even if it had just been a simple, accidental touchâhe didnât care.
It was the first time she had touched him.
And he was losing his mind over it.
---
Later that night, he lay in bed, shirtless, his breathing slow and controlled.
His gaze flickered to the black fabric draped over his chair.
The same shirt she had touched.
A slow, dangerous smirk curled his lips.
He grabbed the shirt.
Folded it carefully.
And thenâ
He walked to his closet.
Pushed past layers of clothes.
And hid it deep inside, tucking it away where no one else would ever see it.
Because that shirtâ
That shirt was his now.
A reminder.
The first time she had touched him.
And he wasnât ever letting it go.