Guru, mujhe bhi jaana hai tumhare saath..." (Guru, I also want to come with you...) she said, her tone carrying more insistence than request. Her eyes were sharp, but there was a flicker of mischief in them that softened her words.

Guru almost said no. He wanted to. But the way she stood there in her pink tee and black pajama, a mix of comfort and casual confidence, made him hesitate. To him, she didn’t even realize how her stubbornness made her look... almost cute.

He gave in with a resigned sigh.

"Thik hai..." (Alright...)

She didn’t jump with childish excitement, but the small victorious smile on her lips gave her away. Without waiting for him, she strode toward the jeep. Guru followed, only to pause when he saw her sliding straight into the driver’s seat.

He stood there, a little amused, as she turned her face toward him and extended her hand.

"Chabi..."

(Keys...)

she demanded, eyes steady on him.

Guru glanced at the keys in his hand, then back at her, almost surprised at her audacity. She caught the look and raised a brow.

"Mujhe aati hai drive—" (I know how to drive—) she started, but before she could finish, he placed the keys into her palm.

That made her blink once, clearly not expecting such easy surrender. For a moment she just looked at him, her lips curving into a half-smile, before watching him quietly settle into the passenger seat beside her.

Guru settled into the passenger seat, phone in hand, dialing a number. Outwardly, he seemed occupied, but his eyes—every now and then—shifted toward the woman beside him. He couldn’t help it.

She turned the key, the engine roared to life, and she glanced at him with a mischievous smile—one that carried both confidence and challenge, like she was about to prove she could set the whole world on fire with just her driving skills.

Before he could say anything, she pressed the accelerator. The jeep jerked forward, and in the blink of an eye, they were moving. Guru’s voice continued steady over the call, but his attention was unmistakably split, lingering on the curve of her smile and the glint in her eyes as she gripped the wheel.

Guru kept guiding her through the turns, his voice steady, while she drove with a spark in her eyes. It felt like freedom—after months of nothing but sarees and handling suffocating routines, this was something new, something thrilling.

"Guru..."

"Haan..." (Yes...)

"Mujhe bike bhi chalani hai." (I want to ride a bike too.) Her tone was playful, almost demanding, as she enjoyed the rush of driving.

"Thik hai..." (Alright...) he replied without hesitation.

"But mujhe aati nahi hai... tum sikha densa."

(But I don’t know how... you’ll teach me.)

She added with mock seriousness, then sealed it with, "Kal thik hai?"

(Tomorrow, okay?)

"Thik hai..."

(Okay...)

he said again, his eyes flicking to her for a moment, unable to hide the faint smile tugging at his lips.

She wasn’t just enjoying the drive. She was enjoying the way people on the street turned to look at her, the girl confidently handling a jeep. Her gaze lingered on a few of them before she glanced at Guru, gifting him her most innocent smile—like a secret partner in crime.

For a heartbeat, Guru looked at her, then shifted his eyes forward—only to spot Raghu and a few men ahead, standing near a puddle of muddy water. He exhaled slowly, already sensing her next move.

He closed his eyes just as her jeep’s tires hit the puddle, sending a wave of muddy water splashing all over them. Their shouts filled the air—

"Aeee! Dikhayi nah—" (Hey! Can’t you see—)

But their voices cut off the instant they realized whose jeep it was. Guru’s.

The silence that followed was almost more satisfying than the splash itself.

The drive was filled with her laughter—unrestrained, alive, echoing louder than the jeep’s engine. She had splashed mud on Raghu and his men like a mischievous queen claiming victory, and the pure joy on her face was impossible to ignore.

Guru, who had tried so hard to keep a straight face, finally gave in. Watching her laugh so freely, with that sparkle in her eyes, he couldn’t stop the soft chuckle that escaped his lips.

It wasn’t loud, not even obvious—just a quiet laugh, almost hidden, but real. For a fleeting moment, the air between them shifted, lighter than it had been in weeks.

Her laughter carried on, and his soft laugh blended into it, like two different notes finding the same tune.

She pulled the jeep to a halt in front of a small shop, the tires crunching against the gravel as the engine settled into silence. Her eyes wandered over the modest building before shifting back to Guru.

"Yahi rehna... kahi jana nahi. Aur yahan kisi se baat nahi karna." (Stay here… don’t go anywhere. And don’t talk to anyone here.) His voice was firm, leaving no space for argument.

She gave a small nod.

"Ok," she replied simply, her fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel as she watched him step out.

He walked inside, but not before glancing back once more. She caught him looking and waved her hand , he disappeared through the door.

Five minutes later, Guru stepped out again. The sight that greeted him made his steps falter. She was still in the driver’s seat, but her head rested heavily against the steering wheel, one both arm  clutched tightly around her stomach.

A flicker of worry crossed his face as he hurried to her side.

"Kya hua?" (What happened?) his voice was sharp with concern.

She shook her head, refusing to answer at first, staying curled in that position. Only after a long minute did she push herself upright, her face pale but composed. She looked at him directly and asked, almost too calmly, "Tumhara kaam ho gaya?" (Did you finish your work?)

He gave a brief nod.

With a quiet sigh, she shifted over to the passenger seat, surrendering the wheel without a word. Her body turned slightly  her hands still tightly wrapped against her stomach.

The ride turned heavy with silence. She didn’t utter a single word, just stared out of the window, her hand pressed tighter and tighter around her waist. Guru’s grip on the wheel tightened unconsciously—he wasn’t used to this, not knowing what to do.

Just minutes ago, she had been laughing, her voice lighting up the air, and now… this. The sudden shift unsettled him. Do periods really suck this much?.

he thought, glancing at her pale face with a helpless sigh.

The moment the jeep rolled to a stop in front of the house, she didn’t wait. She pushed the door open and rushed inside, moving with that urgency only pain can bring. Guru followed close behind, his steps quick, worry sharpening his usually composed face.

She made it to her room and collapsed onto the bed, lying flat on her stomach. She dragged a pillow beneath her, pressing it against her stomach as if it could somehow ease the cramps tearing through her.

Guru stood at the door, his gaze fixed on her curled figure. She lay on her stomach, arms hugging the pillow tightly beneath her, her tee slightly folded up from the way she shifted, revealing a sliver of her waist.

. After a moment, she shifted restlessly, pushing the pillow away from under her stomach and sliding it beneath her face instead.

Her arm curled back around her waist.

For a moment, he hesitated—unsure, awkward, fighting with his own thoughts. Then he moved closer, the floorboards faintly creaking under his steps. The bed dipped gently as he placed one knee on it, careful not to startle her.

His rough hand hovered for a second before pressing lightly against the side of her waist. The contact was tentative, nervous—he wasn’t sure if it would soothe her pain or make it worse.

Her body gave a faint twitch at the sudden warmth, but she didn’t move away. His eyes lingered on her , watching for any sign of discomfort, his heart oddly restless at being this close yet unsure if he was doing the right thing.

She didn’t turn, nor did she say a word—how could she, when her face was flushed, and the pain had her tongue tied? Guru’s rough, calloused hand pressed firmly against the side of her waist, kneading and applying pressure with careful precision to ease the cramps. The sensation was both relieving and strange, a mix of comfort and awkwardness neither of them could put into words.

Suddenly, he hesitated and pulled his hand back, thinking he might have gone too far, that the closeness might be uncomfortable. But before he could fully move away, her fingers shot out and caught his wrist.

The firm grip stopped him in his tracks. She still didn’t speak, her face pressed into the pillow, but her hand held his with quiet insistence—as if silently asking him not to leave.

Guru’s chest tightened. Her body was tense, writhing slightly from the cramps, yet the grip told him she wanted his help. Slowly, he let his hand return, pressing firmly against her side again, kneading carefully, adjusting his pressure to give relief without crossing any line.

She exhaled softly into the pillow, the tension in her body easing just enough, though her cheeks stayed flushed, betraying the embarrassment and relief all at once.

Slowly, she surrendered to the relief,  She didn’t intend to make a sound, but a soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips.

Guru’s rough, tough hand continued pressing firmly against her side and waist, kneading with steady pressure. The relief from the cramps was immediate, and for a fleeting moment, the comfort it brought made her wish—just for a heartbeat—that his hand could stay there, soothing her, all through the pain of her period.

Her body relaxed slightly into his touch, though her face remained buried in the pillow, cheeks flushed with both embarrassment and comfort. She felt the odd mix of warmth and safety in his presence, the kind of closeness that words could never capture.

As he pressed his hand against her side, his fingers brushed against something unusual—a faint, uneven texture beneath the fabric of her tee. He paused for a heartbeat, and then, almost instinctively, his fingers traced the line of a scar hidden just above her waist.

The memory of that day hit him sharply—the day she almost didn’t survive. She hadn’t died because he had saved her. And yet now, seeing her so close to pain, so exposed in her vulnerability, a strange, heavy weight settled over him.

His thumb moved slowly over the scar, gentle, careful, almost reverent. The touch was light, deliberate, and it was enough to make her body shiver involuntarily. She trembled—not just from the lingering cramps, but from the intensity of the contact, her body caught in the strange blur of pain, relief, and something more that she couldn’t name.

She lay there, silent and still, her mind and body unable to decide which sensation to respond to first: the sharp ache of cramps or the unexpected comfort—and electric warmth—of his touch.

His fingers froze when the sharp trill of his phone cut through the quiet room. Realizing what he’d been doing, he quickly withdrew his hand, moving away from the bed as if suddenly aware of the closeness.

He pulled out his phone, scanning the screen, and his eyes widened—whatever it was, it was urgent. Without saying a word, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving her in the stillness.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her face deeper into the pillow, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her cheeks were still hot, her body trembling from both pain and lingering shivers.

She had survived. Yes, she had—though for a moment, it had felt like she might not.