AANYA

The fair always felt too loud for her thoughts.

Bright stalls, blaring music, people pushing past each other—chaos in motion. Aanya walked through it like someone wading through a dream, her cotton suit fluttering in the evening breeze, her fingers still faintly ink-stained from that morning’s notes.

She wasn’t here for fun; she was here because Harsh had dragged her out with the bribe of jalebis.

Now he was gone—vanished with friends, predictable—and she was left wandering, observing people out of habit.

The vendor on the left is overcharging, she noted.

The woman in the blue saree is negotiating out of pride, not need.

The boy near the balloon stand is pretending he isn’t scared of the loudspeaker.

She tilted her head, analyzing.

And that’s when she heard it.

A soft, trembling hiccup.

Aanya turned.

A small boy stood alone near the toy stalls, eyes swollen with panic, clutching a tiny broken whistle. His breath came out in uneven bursts.

Aanya’s heart tightened.

She knelt so she was eye-level with him.

“Saans lo. Dheere.” Her voice lowered, warm, steady. “Naam batao.”

The boy wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“R—Rohit.”

“Rohit,” she repeated gently. “Kahan dikhe the papa-mama?”

He shook his head and burst into louder sobs—tiny body trembling, terrified.

Aanya pulled him into her arms, letting him clutch her dupatta.

Poor thing must feel like the world just disappeared under his feet.

She rubbed his back softly.

“We’ll find them. Promise.”

She stood, holding the boy’s hand… but just as she turned—

A voice cut through the noise like steel slicing through silk.

“Yahan koi bachcha kho gaya hai?”

Aanya froze.

Not because of the words—because of the tone.

Raw. Irritated. Frustrated.

Carrying the kind of anger that wasn’t directed outward, but inward… at himself.

She turned toward the voice.

And saw him.

A tall man in a white kurta, sleeves rolled up, chest rising with agitation. His jaw clenched so tight she could practically hear the restraint. His gaze swept the crowd like a storm searching for land.

And then he spotted the boy.

Relief flickered across his face—so fast only someone like her would notice.

Interesting, she thought.

Very interesting.

---

VEER

He was going to kill Raghav.

Not literally. Just figuratively. Maybe aggressively.

He had told Raghav to watch the kid for two minutes.

Two minutes.

And the kid had vanished in less than thirty seconds.

Now Veer was inhaling dust and rage as he tore through the fairgrounds.

“Rohit!” he called again, panic rising in his throat.

And then he saw him.

Safe. In someone’s arms.

Veer exhaled sharply—relief flooding him with such force it almost weakened his knees.

But then his eyes lifted—

And got stuck.

A girl stood there, holding the boy’s hand.

A girl in a soft cotton suit, jasmine scent drifting in the air around her, spectacles reflecting the fair lights. Her posture was calm, protective. Her expression was unreadable… except for the slightest tilt of her head, as if she was studying him.

Studying me?

His ego bristled instantly.

Who does she think she is? Looking at me like she knows something?

He stepped forward.

Rohit ran to him instantly, burying his face in Veer’s kurta.

Veer’s anger softened—only around kids did it ever soften—but he didn’t want anyone noticing that.

Especially not her.

He forced his voice gentle for the boy.

“Arre hero, main yahin hoon. Dekh.”

The boy clung harder.

When Veer looked up again, the girl’s eyes were already on him.

Calm. Perceptive. Too perceptive.

He felt exposed under that gaze, and that made the anger rise again.

“Thanks,” he said curtly.

Too curtly.

Her eyebrows lifted a millimeter—barely visible, but enough to tell him she caught the tone.

Of course she did.

---

AANYA

She was used to observing people.

But she wasn’t used to feeling observed back.

The man—Veer, if she remembered correctly from something her father once said—was staring at her like he wasn’t sure whether to thank her or scold her.

She gave a small, patient smile.

“He was scared,” she said. “Thoda sa dhyaan chook jaaye toh—”

“I didn’t lose him,” Veer snapped automatically.

Aanya blinked.

Ah. Ego.

Strong ego. Irritated ego.

This would be interesting.

She pushed her spectacles up her nose, unbothered.

“Maine kab bola ki aapne kho diya?”

He stiffened.

She tilted her head again—her unconscious habit—observing the way his jaw clenched harder.

“You get angry quickly,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Veer inhaled sharply, like she’d poked a bruise.

Then came the line she predicted.

“Chhori, tu dimaag chalati bohot hai.”

But it didn’t sound mocking.

It sounded… unsettled.

“I told you,” she said softly, “Sochna mera kaam hai.”

His eyes darkened—an unreadable mix of irritation and… something else.

Something warm.

---

VEER

She was impossible.

Absolutely impossible.

How could a stranger walk into his mess of emotions and summarize him like she was reading a paragraph?

“You get angry quickly,” she’d said.

He wanted to deny it.

He also wanted to walk away.

Instead, he stood there, feeling like she’d peeled him open.

“What, you read everyone like this?” Veer muttered, defensive.

“Only the ones who’re easy to read,” she replied.

His ego flared—hard.

Easy? Me?

He ran a hand through his hair—damn it, nervous habit—and looked away in frustration.

“Main bhaag nahi raha…” he muttered, mostly to himself, “Bas sambhal raha hoon.”

He regretted the honesty the second it slipped out.

Her expression softened.

He hated how that felt.

---

AANYA

Then the dramatic shift came.

A woman’s desperate cry.

“Rohit! Mere bachche!”

The mother crashed into the scene, tears streaming, hysteria first and gratitude second.

Aanya immediately knelt beside her, guiding her breathing, helping her calm enough to speak.

Veer stayed protectively in front of the child, shielding him instinctively.

They worked together without speaking.

As if they’d done it before.

When the mother finally embraced her son, thanking both of them, Aanya stepped back quietly.

Veer didn’t.

He watched her.

Closely.

Too closely.

She felt the weight of his stare even before he spoke.

---

VEER

She was leaving.

Why did that bother him?

He didn’t even know her.

He didn’t even want to know her.

…Right?

“A—”

The sound escaped him before he could stop it.

She paused, turning slightly, jasmine brushing the air.

“Naam batati?” he asked, voice lower than he intended.

She pushed her spectacles again—nervous habit? adorable habit?—and answered:

“Aanya.”

He waited.

She added softly:

“Aanya Malik.”

He nodded, pretending it meant nothing.

Pretending he wasn’t memorizing it.

She walked away in the golden dusk, her figure fading into the crowd.

Veer didn’t realize he was staring until—

“Bhai… tu us chhori mein fas gaya. Seedhi baat.”

Raghav smirked beside him.

Veer glared.

Hard.

But he didn’t deny it.

Couldn’t deny it.

He just muttered under his breath,

“Bakwas band kar.”

And yet…

His eyes drifted back to where Aanya had disappeared.

---

AANYA

She didn’t look back.

But she was smiling.

Just a little.

The kind of smile that came when a puzzle was interesting.

When a person was layered enough to study.

When someone’s eyes held storms and softness at the same time.

He avoids eye contact when he feels too much.

She wrote that mental note down in her mind.

Anger outside. Warmth inside. Ego everywhere.

Aanya Malik didn’t believe in destiny.

But she believed in patterns.

And Veer Singh Rathore was definitely a pattern she wouldn’t forget.

***