The morning air was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to the skin and made every movement feel weighted. Mira stood in the backyard garden her father had once tended, the scent of hibiscus and earth curling in the stillness around her. The soil between her fingers felt strangely therapeutic as she dug up weeds, unsure whether she was cleaning the land or herself.
Noah appeared at the fence, holding a tray with two cups of tea. "Peace offering," he said.
She accepted it without a word, their fingers brushing briefly.
They sat under the mango tree, sipping in silence.
"You weren't always like this," she finally said.
He arched a brow. "Like what?"
"Closed off. Mysterious. Full of broken half-truths."
He exhaled. "Life has a way of chipping at you. Sometimes you don't notice until there's not much left."
Mira tilted her head. "What did it take from you?"
Noah stared into the trees for a moment too long. "A brother. A future I thought I wanted. A version of myself that never fit."
She wanted to ask more—but she also didn't want to pry open wounds she hadn't earned the right to touch yet. Instead, she said softly, "Maybe it's time we both decided what we want to become… instead of what we've lost."
---
Later that day, news traveled fast. An old rival of Mira's father was contesting the ownership of the farmland left to her. Claiming foul play. Greed. Even bribery.
Mira's fingers trembled as she held the official notice.
"What if they take everything?" she whispered.
"They won't," Noah said, standing beside her. "Not if you fight."
"And if I fail?"
"Then you still fought. That's what your father would have done."
---
That night, the town held a small festival in honor of a local saint. Lanterns lit up the streets. Music spilled from every corner. Children ran with glowing sticks, and old men danced like time had not worn them.
Mira almost stayed home.
But Noah found her in the hallway, wearing her father's faded university hoodie. He held out a hand. "Dance with me."
"I don't dance."
"You do now."
She allowed herself to be pulled into the night. Into the chaos. Into the unfamiliar rhythm of laughter and barefoot joy.
And when the music slowed, Noah pulled her close, his hands on her waist, her heart racing louder than the drums.
"I'm scared," she confessed against his chest.
"Of what?"
"That this might feel real."
He tilted her chin up, eyes dark and tender. "It already is."
Then he kissed her.
Not urgently. Not hungrily. But like a promise she hadn't realized she'd been waiting for.