Prakriti Khurana

Marriage had always felt like a distant word to Prakriti—something serious, almost heavy.
But sitting in her living room, watching her parents laugh with Rudraksh Rathore’s family, it felt unexpectedly light.

Her mother leaned closer to her and whispered, “He has good manners.”

Prakriti smiled, eyes instinctively finding Rudraksh across the room.

“He has good values,” her father added, nodding approvingly.

Across the table, Rudraksh’s mother was already discussing dates with her own.

“We don’t want to rush them,” Mrs. Rathore said gently, “but we also don’t want unnecessary delays.”

Prakriti felt her cheeks warm when Rudraksh glanced at her, a quiet smile playing on his lips—as if he were silently asking, Are you alright?

She was.

When someone mentioned wedding colors, her cousin laughed, “So, black sarees are out now?”

Rudraksh cleared his throat. “I think Prakriti looks good in any color.”

The room went momentarily silent—then erupted into knowing smiles.

Her aunt teased, “Someone is already very protective.”

Prakriti lowered her gaze, smiling despite herself.

Later, when they stood in the kitchen pretending to help with tea, she whispered, “You handled them well.”

“I was nervous,” he admitted.

She looked at him, surprised. “You?”

“I wanted them to like me,” he said simply.

That honesty made her heart swell.

This wasn’t just about them anymore.
This was about belonging.