Prologue
There are love stories in books that Kashvi Iyer has believed in more than the ones in real life.
Which is ironic, really — considering she owns an entire bookstore dedicated to love.
Katha sits in a quiet corner of Daryaganj, its wooden shelves sagging slightly with the weight of too many books and too many years. The bell above the door rings with the softest chime — the kind her grandfather said sounded like a sigh of joy. She grew up among its scent of yellowing paper and coffee, often hiding behind the poetry section to sneak in one more chapter before homework.
Now, the bookstore is hers.
She’s twenty-five, and every creak of the wooden floorboards feels like memory. The signboard is slightly chipped. The reading nook still has the same cushions her patti hand-stitched. And on most days, Kashvi finds herself tracing the inked names inside donated books, wondering who loved what, and why.
But for someone who lives surrounded by love stories, she doesn’t believe in them.
Not anymore.
Maybe it started the day her father walked out, leaving behind nothing but an unfinished mug of tea and a letter that said, It’s not your fault.
Maybe it started when her mother cried for a year and then eventually moved on — something Kashvi never quite forgave or understood.
Maybe it started when she realized love, in real life, never looked the way it did in books.
So now she doesn’t let anyone in too close. She doesn’t believe in love the way people say it should feel.
But she does believe in honesty. Laughter. Chemistry. And moments.
Which is why, when her best friend drags her to a cozy rooftop bar in Hauz Khas that Saturday night, Kashvi goes without argument. “One drink,” she says, slipping on her flats and a kurti.
She doesn’t expect anything — least of all, him.
The boy at the bar isn’t leaning in, flirting with strangers, or laughing too loudly. He’s sipping his drink with a crooked smile, one dimple cutting deep into his cheek, listening to the live band like they’re singing just for him.
He turns just as she does.
Their eyes meet.
He grins first. “Hi,” he says, as if they’ve known each other a hundred years.
And somehow — against everything she believes — she says hi back.
Kashvi didn’t believe in fate. But the boy with the dimple was making a compelling case.
She sipped her drink — a classic G&T, no frills — while pretending not to look at him again. He, on the other hand, wasn’t pretending at all. He leaned against the bar like it was an old friend, eyes fixed on her with that easy, crooked smile.
“Are you always this intense when drinking fizzy things?” he asked, sliding into the space next to her.
Kashvi arched an eyebrow. “Are you always this bold with strangers?”
“Only the ones who look like they’d murder me with a bookmark if I said the wrong thing.”
That made her laugh — a soft, surprised sound. “Fair warning, I own a bookstore. I have very strong opinions on bookmarks.”
“Let me guess. No dog-earing, ever?”
She gave a mock gasp. “You do want to be murdered.”
He extended a hand, palm open, warm. “I’m Daksh.”
“Kashvi,” she said, shaking it briefly. “What brings you here, Daksh? Looking for someone to debate the literary merits of dog-earing pages?”
“No,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I was hoping to find someone who’d make this night a little less ordinary.”
She blinked. “That line always work?”
“I don’t know. You’re the first I’ve tried it on.”
Smooth.
They fell into an easy rhythm — one drink turned into two, conversation spilling like light. They talked about books (“Murakami’s overrated.” “Blasphemy.”), about childhoods (“I wanted to be a magician.” “Of course you did.”), and about Delhi winters and college crushes and songs that felt like home.
Kashvi didn’t realize how close they were standing until a girl brushed past them, and Daksh instinctively placed a hand on her back — light, respectful, there.
She didn’t move away.
“You always this charming?” she asked, voice softer now, curiosity edging in.
“No,” he said. “Only when I’m trying to impress someone who doesn’t believe in love.”
She froze for a beat. “How do you know I don’t?”
“Just a hunch,” he said. “You laugh like you’re afraid to mean it.”
The honesty in his words knocked the breath out of her.
The night air kissed her cheeks as they stepped outside, the city quieter now, wrapped in sleepy streetlights and the occasional bark of a distant dog.
Daksh walked her to a bike parked under a flickering lamp. It was black, slightly scuffed, but well-loved. He unhooked the spare helmet from the handlebar and held it out to her.
“For you.”
Kashvi hesitated. “You carry an extra helmet?”
He shrugged, grinning. “You never know when you’ll meet a girl who debates bookmarks at bars.”
She took it with a half-smile and climbed on behind him, her hands unsure until he said, “It’s okay. Hold on.”
So she did — lightly at first, then tighter as the bike hummed to life and they zipped through the near-empty roads of Delhi. Her kurti fluttered in the wind, her hair brushing against his shoulder. There was something strangely magical about it — the cool breeze, the warmth of his back, the silence that didn’t demand to be filled.
They reached her narrow street in Shahpur Jat in fifteen minutes.
As he parked, she unhooked the helmet, handed it back, and looked at him for a beat longer than necessary.
“Do you… want to come up?” she asked, casually, like it didn’t mean anything.
“Only if you promise not to make me read poetry out loud.”
“No promises,” she said, unlocking the gate.
Her apartment— cozy, mismatched, filled with plants and crooked picture frames. Books were stacked on the floor, the table, even the kitchen counter.
Daksh took it all in like he was seeing color for the first time.
“You live inside a book,” he said.
“Comes with the job.”
He walked to the nearest stack and pulled one out. “Ah. The Persuasion phase.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t mock Austen.”
“I’m not. I’m just saying… if this is your comfort book, you’ve been through heartbreak.”
She didn’t answer. Just curled her fingers around a mug of water and said, “You’re unusually observant for someone who wears mismatched socks.”
He looked down. “They’re thematic.”
“Oh?”
“Stars on one, moons on the other. Balance.”
She snorted.
They sank into the couch, still talking — about how she used to write letters to authors as a kid, how he once named a street dog after a Shakespearean character, how neither of them liked Romeo and Juliet but both secretly cried during The Notebook.
Then, somewhere between a pause and a glance, the air shifted.
Daksh turned slightly to face her, his expression suddenly serious.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question was so unexpected — so deliberate — that it hung there between them like an unopened book.
Kashvi blinked, lips parted. Her heart thudded a little too loudly.
“You ask first?”
“I always ask,” he said gently. “You can say no.”
She looked at him — this boy who teased her, saw through her, made her feel safe in the span of one evening — and then she whispered, “Yes.”
So he kissed her.
Slow. Curious. Like they were tasting time itself.
He kissed her like she was a secret he didn’t want to ruin by rushing.
His hands cupped her face like she might disappear if he wasn’t careful.
Kashvi kissed back like she was trying to forget every rule she’d ever made.
Clothes fell.
Between kisses and laughter.
She tugged his sweater off with a huff.
He gently undid the buttons of her kurta like he was opening a gift.
“Is this okay?” he whispered against her neck.
She nodded, then said, “Don’t ask. Just stay.”
And when he deepened the kiss, one hand cradling the side of her neck, she didn’t stop him.
She didn’t want to.
Her fingers slid under his sweater, tracing the warmth of his skin.
He let out a breathless laugh. “Cold hands.”
She smirked. “Then warm me up.”
He did.
They moved like they’d always known each other — how to touch, how to pause, how to melt.
On her bed, in the soft hum of fairy lights, he kissed every part of her like it was sacred.
His touch never hurried — always checking, always asking without words.
“You’re so…” he whispered, brushing his lips down her collarbone, “so damn beautiful, Kash.”
Her fingers tightened in his curls.
When he touched her, he didn’t just explore her body — he listened to it.
Every sigh. Every stuttered breath. Every whispered yes.
“You okay?” he murmured, his forehead pressed against hers.
“Better than okay,” she whispered back. “Just… don’t stop talking.”
So he didn’t.
He whispered soft nothings — about how she smelled like jasmine and monsoon, how she felt like poetry under his hands.
He kissed the inside of her wrist. The curve of her waist. The soft hollow of her throat.
And when she trembled beneath him, he kissed her cheek and whispered, “I’ve got you.”
And he did.
After — when their bodies calmed, slick with sweat and wrapped in the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with blankets — they lay in silence, limbs tangled, her face buried against his chest.
His fingers traced lazy circles on her back. Her breath evened out.
“You always keep fairy lights on?” he asked, his voice sleepy and amused.
“Too lazy to get up,” she mumbled. “They make things look… softer.”
“They do.” He kissed the top of her head. “You look softer.”
Kashvi felt it then — that slow, terrifying flutter in her chest.
The ache of something real.
She sat up gently, pulling the sheet with her. “I’ll be back,” she said, avoiding his eyes.
He watched her disappear into the bathroom, the fairy lights glowing around her silhouette.
She clutched the sheet tighter around her chest, like it could keep out everything she was suddenly afraid of feeling.
And Daksh Kulkarni?
He laid back on her pillow, one arm under his head, staring at the ceiling with a smile that was almost… sad.
He didn’t say it out loud, but he already knew.
He was falling.
She smelled like books and soap and something he couldn’t name but already missed.
He knew better than to expect anything.
Kashvi was made of armor. Of sharp edges and secrets. He could see it in her posture — in the way she made herself just a little bit unreachable, even when she was pressed against him.
But God, she undid him.
The way she had moaned his name. The way her fingers dug into his shoulders. The way she trembled under him and then disappeared into the bathroom like she needed distance from whatever just happened.
He didn’t ask questions.
Not because he didn’t have any — but because he didn’t want to scare her away.
So he pulled her close when she let him, ran his fingers through her hair when she laid her head on his chest, and whispered, “You want breakfast?”
“It’s 3AM.”
“So?” he said. “Ever had Maggi made with too much butter and love?”
She laughed — the real kind. Sleepy and surprised.
“Okay,” she said. “You win.”
The kitchen was tiny. He stood shirtless at the stove, stirring noodles like it was a Michelin-starred dish.
“Did you just add cheese?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
And damn it, she smiled again. She hated how easy it was around him. How he wasn’t asking for anything but still giving everything.
They sat on the floor, two mismatched bowls between them.
“You’re not gonna stay the night every time, right?” she said casually, eyes on her noodles.
He didn’t flinch. “Only when invited.”
“And this isn’t—”
“A relationship? I know.”
He looked at her then, those warm eyes softening.
“But that doesn’t mean I can’t care about you.”
Kashvi felt her throat tighten. She nodded, shoving more Maggi in her mouth to stop herself from saying something stupid.
Like please don’t go.
