The third meeting was arranged under the flimsiest disguise: "Just lunch, no pressure," her mother had said, like she was suggesting a quick stop at the sabzi mandi.
Naturally, that meant her mother ironed three kurtis, suggested she 'not wear kajal like a villain,' and asked—twice—if she had breath mints.
Radhika escaped before the family committee could issue a dress code.
The café was tucked between a stationery store and a boutique named Lemon Silk—the kind of place that only served food with microgreens and opinions.
Inside, it was calm and over-air-conditioned, the lighting just soft enough to make it feel like a movie scene you couldn't name.
She picked a corner table, deliberately facing the exit.
By the time she had skimmed the word 'artisanal' three times on the menu, Rishit walked in.
Same calm presence. No nerves. No fake confidence.
Just a small wave and a laptop bag that he respectfully placed on a chair like it deserved a seat of its own.
"You're punctual," she said, as he slid into the seat across from her.
"Engineer curse."
"If I'm late to a site visit, someone's bathroom floods."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Dramatic."
He shrugged.
"True story."
There was an ease between them now, subtle but real.
Not warm yet, but familiar. After all, they'd already shared a quiet moment on her balcony.
This was just the follow-up. Less formal. Less fabric.
"Okay," she said, opening the menu.
"Let's get one thing clear. This isn't a date."
"Agreed."
"No expectations. No interviews."
"No slow-motion glances over paneer tikka."
"Good," she said, fighting a smile.
They ordered idli fries for her, black coffee for him, and a shared lemon soda 'for the tension,' Rishit said with a straight face.
When the waiter left, there was a short silence.
Not awkward—just waiting for shape.
"So," Radhika said.
"We've already talked about rishtas and rebellion. Let's try something new."
"Like?"
"Normal people conversation."
Rishit nodded.
"Alright. Tell me something real."
She squinted.
"You first."
He thought for a second.
"I cried when they shut down the original Google Reader."
Radhika blinked.
"That's your trauma?"
"That, and I hate cling wrap. It never obeys."
She laughed openly this time.
"You know you're supposed to say something about your ex, or your fear of commitment, right?"
"Too soon. Those are for the fourth meeting."
"I thought this wasn't a date."
He sipped his coffee.
"Then you'll never find out."
And somehow, just like that, lunch stopped feeling like a formality.
It felt like the beginning of something negotiable.
They clinked glasses—coffee and lemon soda, a ridiculous pair if there ever was one.
Radhika leaned back, resting one arm over the chair like she finally remembered she had elbows.
"You know what else scares me?" she said.
"Lay it on me."
"Being misunderstood," she said.
"Like, deeply. Constantly. Not in a 'nobody gets me' teenage way. I mean... being with someone who nods at everything I say but doesn't hear any of it."
"That's not dramatic," he said.
"That's oddly specific. Again."
"I'm a designer. I notice where things don't line up."
He smiled.
"Noted."
She sipped her soda.
"Also, I'm a little picky. I like routines. I hate surprises. I can't stand a loud TV in the background. I alphabetize my bookshelf, but only the fiction section."
"That's very specific."
She gave him a mock-glare.
"You said that already."
"I just didn't expect... alphabetization elitism."
"I'm a chaos minimalist," she replied, grinning.
"I want everything neat—but I want to choose what kind of neat."
Rishit took this in with his usual quiet processing mode.
"I'm not romantic in the traditional sense," she added.
"I don't dream of couple T-shirts or joint Instagram reels. I dream of parallel independence. Like—we're together, but I still have a door that closes. You know?"
"I do," he said simply.
"I've never wanted to melt into someone. I just want to sit beside them while they remain themselves."
She blinked.
"That was... beautiful."
"I also hate cling wrap. Remember?"
"Right," she said.
"Emotionally layered, but deeply practical."
They both laughed, and this time, it wasn't cautious. It was real.
"Tell me one irrational thing you love."
"Thunderstorms," she said without hesitation.
"And roadside chai. I think I judge people by how they stir their tea."
He grinned.
"You're judging me right now, aren't you?"
"You haven't stirred yours once. Suspicious."
"Maybe I'm letting it brew."
She tilted her head.
"Maybe I'm starting to think this could work."
She didn't mean to say it aloud.
It just... came out.
But he didn't jump.
Or react too much.
He just sipped his unstirred coffee and said, "That sounds like progress."
The plates had been cleared.
Their drinks were mostly forgotten.
What remained on the table was space—the rare kind that didn't need filling.
Radhika leaned forward, elbows on the edge.
"Okay. Serious question."
"I'm braced."
"What's your stance on ceiling fans versus air conditioning?"
Rishit blinked.
"That escalated quickly."
"I need to know," she said.
"I can't marry someone who keeps the room at arctic death levels."
"I believe in ceiling fans, window ventilation, and medium-speed airflow."
She nodded.
"Respectable. Moderate. Acceptable."
"What about you?".
"How do you... live, I guess? Are you one of those people who needs scented candles and jazz music to fall asleep?"
She smirked.
"No candles. I do like silence. And I eat dinner in bed more often than I should."
"Reckless."
"Rebellious."
"I approve."
She tilted her head.
"What are you like in an argument?"
"Mostly silent. Then structured. I make mental bullet points and say them in order."
She burst out laughing.
"You argue in PowerPoint."
"I've been told."
She paused.
"I'm more... chaotic. I don't shout, but I spiral. I say weird metaphors and cry in corners."
He didn't flinch.
"That sounds manageable."
She blinked.
"That's it? You're not scared off?"
"I have emotional shock absorbers."
She laughed again, short and bright.
"I never thought I'd enjoy this conversation."
"Because it's practical?"
"Because it's not pretending."
He looked at her for a moment. Not staring. Not sizing her up. Just... looking.
"You feel like a real person."
"And that's rare?"
"It is in this context."
She nodded slowly.
He hesitated for a second, then asked.
"What would a good home look like to you?"
She looked up. That one caught her off guard.
"Bookshelves," she said after a moment.
"And floor cushions. Music during breakfast. No forced conversations. And two people who don't treat compromise like a sacrifice."
Rishit sat with that for a second.
"I'd add one thing," he said.
"Yeah?"
"A door that locks from the inside. So that even in togetherness, there's a space to be alone."
She stared at him.
And just for a moment—just a flicker—she imagined waking up next to this man, with that door in the same house.
And for the first time, it didn't feel like a loss of self.
It felt like... maybe the beginning of a shared one.
The bill came.
Neither of them reached for it immediately, like breaking the spell too soon might ruin the point of the whole day.
"I'll get this one."
Rishit said, sliding his card over.
"Fine, but next time I'm paying. And I'll tip in exact change just to make you twitch."
"Looking forward to it."
They stepped outside into the early evening heat, the kind that made shadows longer and decisions feel a little heavier.
"Can I drop you?"
"I'm good, it's a nice walk. And I need time to debrief with my inner committee."
Rishit nodded.
"Tell them I was punctual, honest, and emotionally hygienic."
She grinned.
"They like you already. But they're suspicious of the no-stir coffee."
"I'll work on that."
They stood there, neither quite sure how to wrap up a maybe that felt more like a quietly growing yes.
Rishit took a small breath.
"I'm not in a rush. I'm not expecting fairy tales. But I like talking to you. And I think we could build something honest."
Radhika looked up at him. Not blinking. Not guarded.
"And if I said yes?"
"I'd say thank you, and then wait for the real version of that yes—when you're ready."
She stared at him.
Then said it.
Not softly. Not dramatically.
Just clearly.
"I'm ready."
He didn't grin. Or whoop. Or look shocked.
He just nodded once.
"Okay."
"Want to go tell our families or leave them in suspense?"
Radhika considered.
"Let's make them sweat. They've earned it."
They laughed. Then turned, walked a few steps in the same direction before parting with nothing more than a small wave.
No kiss.
No drama.
Just the quiet beginning of something real.
***
They didn't tell their parents right away.
Instead, there were a few more quiet meetings—one over an overpriced kulfi, one in a bookstore aisle, one during a power cut when they sat on a park bench and timed how long it took for the mosquitoes to find them.
There were no grand declarations. No dramatic realizations.
Just steady, growing certainty.
One day, without fanfare, they sat their families down.
And Radhika said, with a calm she barely recognized in her voice.
"We're ready."