Chapter 5: Awkward Domesticity

He’s very fierce, but his cooking is delicious.

Going downstairs to eat at mealtimes was my only interaction with him these days.

Although we didn’t talk much, I was especially happy.

I could see him every day.

When he cooked with his apron on, I’d rest my chin in my hands behind him, secretly raising my phone to take pictures of his back.

The kitchen smelled of tadka and garam masala, and sometimes, if he caught me staring, I’d quickly pretend to be busy with my phone. I always made sure my dupatta was in place, just in case he turned around suddenly.

I don’t have any photos with him—only some group shots from my brother’s birthday parties.

I’ve saved them all, along with the occasional candid over the years.

I tapped my phone lightly, the screen flashed, and the flash went off.

I froze, panicked, and turned my phone over as he looked back.

"What are you doing?"

He was holding a spatula, his handsome face looking annoyed.

I stammered, holding up my phone. "S-selfie."

I don’t know if he believed me. He frowned at me for a while, then turned back to cooking.

I let out a sigh of relief and quickly turned off the flash.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, I chanted in my head, wishing I could hide under the dining table like when I broke Ma’s favourite cup as a child.

I was still upset, feeling guilty and not daring to look up.

So I didn’t see him send a message to my brother:

"Is your sister complaining about me?"

The reply came instantly: "Ritu is very well-behaved, she wouldn’t complain."

He snorted in disagreement. "Not well-behaved at all."

She sweetly calls everyone ‘bhaiya’—except him.

My brother replied after a pause, a little helpless:

"Is it really like they say, do you dislike Ritu?"

"Everyone likes her, says she’s obedient. Only you think she’s not."

Just as the food was ready, he brought it to the table.

The girl in soft pink and white pyjamas obediently scooped rice under his gaze, then blinked up at him.

As if asking if she could start eating.

He let out a short laugh and said just one word:

"Eat."

The way he said it, with a huff, made me want to giggle, but I just nodded and started.

I smiled at him, picked up a masala chicken wing and praised him enthusiastically:

"Kabir, your chicken wings are amazing."

I deliberately lowered my voice, not sure why, but it felt a bit like acting cute.

A little awkward.

We’re not close enough for me to act cute to him.

He seemed to curl his lips, but his tone was still fierce: "Bas, kha lo chup-chaap. Tumhare bak-bak se mirchi bhi sharma jaaye."

Like a bristling cat.

I was surprised to find that Kabir really likes being praised.

It was almost comical—he pretended not to care, but his eyes softened, and the edge of his mouth twitched up. I made a mental note to praise him more often.