The rain tapped gently against the glass panes that evening, as if the sky was whispering a lullaby only they could hear.
Hiya sat curled near the window, Dev's sweater drowning her frame. Her hair clung to her damp cheeks — not from rain, but from the silent tears she refused to let fall in public.
College had become a minefield of glances.
"She trapped him."
"She's not even pretty."
"Mira deserved better."
Words coated in sugar but dipped in poison.
She hadn't told Dev. Not everything. Not the whispers behind her back or the stare Mira had given her earlier that day — a smile that wasn't a smile, eyes that knew too much.
But tonight, she couldn't hold it in.
When Dev entered the room, the rain behind him and dusk still clinging to his shoulder, he paused. The look on her face — hollow and faraway — made his heart drop.
He crossed to her quietly, crouched to her eye level. "Hiya?"
Her lips parted, but the words hurt. "Do you regret it?"
His breath stilled. "Regret what?"
"Choosing me."
Dev's silence wasn't hesitation. It was rage — at whoever dared make her feel less.
He stood, stepped back, and pulled off his rain-dampened coat. Then, wordlessly, he walked over to her and sat on the floor, resting his back against the window.
He didn't touch her.
He let the silence sit between them for a breath, two, three.
Then: "I don't care what they say."
She didn't reply.
"I know your silence. I know your smile. I know the way your hand shakes when you lie and the way you hum when you're nervous. You're mine, Hiya. With or without the world's approval."
Her eyes welled up, but she looked away.
Dev leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "But if you're hurting… and I didn't see it, then I failed."
She broke then — not with sobs, but with one choked breath. He pulled her into his lap, arms wrapping around her like a shield against everything cruel.
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered, forehead resting against hers. "Let them talk. Let them rot."
Her fingers clutched his shirt. "I hate that they look at me like I'm not enough for you."
Dev's voice dropped, rough and tender. "You are the only thing that makes me enough."
Their lips met — not in hunger this time, but in affirmation. Slow. Deep. A promise whispered through trembling mouths.
That night, they didn't make love. But they undressed the ache in each other.
He kissed every inch of her insecurity with reverence.
She touched every scar on his soul with trembling forgiveness.
And in the dark, where no rumors could reach, their bodies spoke a language even silence couldn't bury.