Maya barely had time to smooth her face into nothingness before her brother and Rohan strolled in, laughter trailing behind them like summer wind. Arjun tossed his backpack onto the stair rail, shoes already half-off, and spotted her immediately.
“Hey, you’re home early.”
She managed a weak smile, clutching the mail to her chest. “Just finished at the library. Mom wanted the mail.”
Rohan moved past Arjun, pausing by the couch to run a hand through his still-damp hair. He looked so at home here—here in the house that was her refuge, here among her family. What would he do if he knew what she felt, what she nearly blurted every time their eyes met?
Arjun plucked the package from her hands. “Thanks, Maya.” He didn’t seem to notice her shaking fingers.
Maya’s pulse thundered, the note a hot brand against her thigh. She couldn’t let them see her like this. Not with that secret folded in her pocket, burning holes in her resolve.
Rohan glanced at her, then at Arjun. “You coming up? Or are we eating first?”
Arjun grinned. “We’ve got time. Mom’s ordering. Make yourselves at home.” He bounded up the stairs, package in hand.
That left Maya and Rohan alone in the entryway. For half a breath, neither spoke. She tried to fix her features into something neutral. Rohan’s gaze flicked to her, then away, as if he sensed fragile tension crackling in the silence.
He moved a step nearer. "Everything okay?" His voice was low, a note of concern threaded through it.
She forced a nod. "Just tired."
He didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered, thoughtful and searching. “You sure?”
She had to do something. She could slip away, claim homework or a headache. Or she could stay, act normal, pretend her very skin wasn’t prickling with nerves from the letter she’d just opened.
But Rohan didn’t look away. The distance between them seemed to shrink, the air charged and uncertain. Maya’s hand drifted to her pocket, thumb brushing the folded edge of the note. Her secret. Her watcher. Her impossible longing.
Upstairs, Arjun called out, the words muffled by the ceiling. Maya’s breath caught, torn between the comfort of routine and the magnetism holding her feet in place.
Rohan stepped closer, lowering his voice. "If something’s wrong, you can tell me."
For a wild moment, Maya almost did. She almost told him everything — her fear, her hope, her secret wish that he was the one who wrote the note. But the words stuck, trembling, unsaid.
A car pulled up outside. Headlights flashed through the window and swept across the wall, and Maya flinched, heart pounding.
Rohan noticed. His brow furrowed, gentle but sharp. “Seriously, Maya. Are you in trouble?”
She opened her mouth, but before she could answer, the doorbell rang—urgent, insistent, slicing the tension wide open. Rohan’s gaze darted to the door. Maya’s knees went weak. Whoever was outside might know her secret, might have written the note, might be watching, right now.
She froze, caught between Rohan’s concern and the shadow at the door, the secret burning in her pocket, her heart hammering too loud to ignore.