The Mehta studio smelled of wet clay and sandalwood that evening. A faint drizzle painted the windows, blurring the orange sky into gold and gray. Aarohi’s hands moved rhythmically, shaping the edge of a sculpture. She didn’t notice how her heart had learned to hum a new rhythm lately — one that matched his voice.

It had been three weeks since that fateful deal. Three weeks since Arnav Rathore had walked into her life with a storm in his eyes and rules in his tone. Three weeks since she’d started noticing his silence more than his words.

“You forgot the meeting again.”
His voice cut through the quiet.

Aarohi turned, startled. He stood by the door — crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, raindrops glistening on his hair. Somehow, he looked less like a businessman and more like a man trying to find himself in a place that didn’t demand perfection.

“You’re early,” she said, brushing her hair back.

“You’re late,” he countered, walking in.

He came closer, inspecting the sculpture — an unfinished goddess, strong yet gentle.

“She looks like someone who hides her fire behind a smile,” he murmured.

“Then she looks like every woman who’s been told to stay quiet,” Aarohi replied softly.

He looked at her, really looked this time. The rain whispered outside; somewhere, the world slowed down.

Meanwhile, at the Rathore mansion, Dadi watched the rain from her veranda, worry knitting her brows.

“He’s changing, Vikram,” she told Arnav’s uncle.

“Love or distraction, Maaji?” Vikram’s tone was sharp.
“You know how much is at stake. The investors are already questioning his decisions. We need him to marry Rhea — it’s part of the merger.”

Dadi’s sigh was long and tired.

“And what about his happiness? You can’t build an empire on a broken heart again.”

Vikram didn’t reply, but his eyes darkened. He had seen what heartbreak had done to Arnav once — and he wasn’t ready to watch it happen again.

Later that night, in the studio, the lights flickered. Aarohi reached to steady the power line — only to slip on a wet patch. Before she could fall, strong arms caught her.

“Careful,” Arnav said, his voice low, the scent of rain clinging to him.

For a heartbeat, they stayed like that — her palms flat against his chest, his breath near her temple. The thunder outside roared, but it was nothing compared to the noise inside her chest.

“You can let go now,” she whispered.

“I could,” he said, eyes steady on hers, “but I won’t.”

Aarohi’s pulse tripped. He didn’t smile; he never did. But something flickered in his gaze — warmth, maybe longing, maybe both.

She stepped back, composing herself.

“You can’t just say things like that.”

“Then stop giving me reasons to,” he replied.

The next morning brought chaos. The newspapers screamed:
“Rathore Industries to announce engagement with Rhea Kapoor.”

Aarohi stared at the headline, her chest tightening. She told herself it was business. He belonged to another world — a world of contracts, deals, and family expectations. Still, the words hurt more than she expected.

She was cleaning the clay off her hands when her phone buzzed.
Arnav: “Be ready at 7. We have a presentation.”

She typed back,
Aarohi: “I read the news. You don’t owe me explanations.”

He didn’t reply — but that evening, when he arrived to pick her up, she saw it. The exhaustion behind his eyes. The weight he carried quietly.

During the presentation, Aarohi spoke passionately about art’s ability to restore not just objects but emotions. Arnav watched her — proud, but distant, as if holding himself back.

After the meeting, in the empty hallway, he finally said,

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“Then what is it?” Aarohi asked, trying to sound calm.

“A business deal,” he admitted, “forced on me by a name I can’t refuse.”

“And what about what you want, Arnav?”

He hesitated. His voice came out rough, almost broken.

“What I want doesn’t matter in my world.”

The rain started again — because somehow, every time they spoke truth, the sky seemed to cry with them.

Aarohi stepped closer, her voice trembling but brave.

“Then maybe your world needs to change.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then he whispered —

“Maybe you’re the change I never saw coming.”

And before she could say anything, he walked away — leaving her standing in the corridor, her heart both heavy and alive for the first time.

That night, Aarohi went to the terrace, looking up at the moon.

“You’re listening again, aren’t you?” she whispered.
“Tell him to stop being the storm and start being the calm he hides.”

Down the street, in his car, Arnav watched the same moon, his hand unconsciously reaching for his phone — but he didn’t text. Not yet.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t begin with words.
It begins with silence that finally starts to make sense.

The rain stopped at dawn. And for the first time, both hearts — one of fire, one of frost — had started to speak the same language.