The fairy lights twinkled like mischievous little stars above Prakash’s cramped apartment in the heart of the city. They cast a warm, golden glow over the mismatched furniture, the scuffed coffee table, and the makeshift bar corner he’d set up in a frantic hour. Bottles of cheap liquor—whiskey that burned more than it soothed, vodka that tasted like regret, and a suspiciously neon-green liqueur he didn’t remember buying—lined the counter. A playlist of questionable taste blared from his ancient Bluetooth speaker, some unholy mix of 90s Bollywood and early 2000s pop that was already making him cringe.
Prakash adjusted a string of lights that kept drooping over the couch, muttering to himself, “Why the hell did I agree to this? I’m getting married in three months, and I’m hosting a bloody rave.”
From the kitchen, a sharp, commanding voice cut through his grumbling. “Because I told you to, you absolute pushover! Now stop whining and pass me the ice, or I’ll drink this beer warm and blame you for ruining my night!”
Nagu strode into the living room, all fierce energy and unapologetic swagger, a half-empty beer bottle already in her hand. Her dark hair was a wild cascade over one shoulder, and her ripped jeans and tight black tank top screamed trouble in the best way possible. She was a force of nature, a hurricane in human form, and Prakash had never been able to say no to her. Not in the ten years they’d been best friends, and certainly not tonight, when she’d declared his apartment the venue for a “pre-wedding debauchery bash” to, in her words, “save him from becoming a boring-ass husband.”
Prakash rolled his eyes, tossing her a bag of ice from the freezer. “You’re drinking before the party even starts, Nagu. Classy. What’s next, shots in the bathroom sink?”
She caught the bag with a smirk, popping it open and dumping cubes into a plastic cup with zero finesse. “Don’t tempt me, darling. I’ve done worse. And don’t change the subject. You’re the one who’s about to trade wild nights for folding laundry with—what’s her name again? Priya? Preeti? Something with a P?”
“Pooja,” Prakash corrected, narrowing his eyes as he rearranged the bottles for the third time. “And she’s not boring. She’s... stable. Responsible. Unlike some people I know who can’t keep a relationship longer than a Netflix subscription.”
Nagu barked out a laugh, pointing her beer bottle at him like a sword. “Oh, low blow, Prak! My love life might be a flaming dumpster fire, but at least I’m out there living. You’re about to sign up for a lifetime of ‘Yes, dear’ and matching pajamas. Don’t turn into a dull husband on me, you idiot. I’ll disown you.”
He snorted, leaning against the counter with a grin. “Disown me? You’d be lost without me to clean up your messes. Remember that guy—what was his name? Rohan? The one who ghosted you after you threw his phone into the lake?”
Her eyes flashed with mock outrage, but her lips twitched. “First of all, he deserved it. Second, I don’t need you to clean up anything. I’m a goddamn queen, and queens handle their own chaos. Now, are we dancing or what? This playlist is trash, but it’s got a beat, and I’m not wasting my buzz standing here arguing with you.”
Before Prakash could protest, Nagu grabbed his wrist and yanked him toward the center of the room, her grip firm and unyielding. She cranked the volume on the speaker, some over-the-top Bollywood number blasting through the apartment, and started moving—hips swaying, arms flailing with exaggerated drama, completely unselfconscious. Prakash couldn’t help but laugh, letting her pull him into the rhythm despite his initial resistance.
“You’re ridiculous,” he shouted over the music, spinning her under his arm with a clumsiness that made her cackle.
“And you love it!” she shot back, stepping closer, her body brushing against his just a little too long as they stumbled through the steps. Her scent—something sharp like citrus mixed with the faint bitterness of beer—hit him, and for a split second, his breath caught. Her dark eyes locked on his, glinting with mischief, and he felt the heat of her proximity like a live wire. But then she laughed, breaking the moment, and pushed him away with a playful shove. “Don’t trip over your own feet, groom-to-be. I’m not carrying you to the couch if you sprain something.”
The night rolled on, the cheap liquor flowing as freely as their banter. They abandoned the dancing for a while, sprawling across the couch with drinks in hand, the fairy lights casting soft shadows over their flushed faces. Nagu had kicked off her boots, her legs stretched out over Prakash’s lap like she owned the place, and he didn’t bother to protest. The playlist had mellowed into something slower, sadder, and the air between them shifted, the teasing edge giving way to something heavier.
She took a long swig of her whiskey, wincing at the burn, then stared at the bottle like it held all the answers. “You know,” she started, her voice quieter now, rougher, “I saw Vikram last week. At some shitty bar downtown. He was with some new girl, all over her like I never existed. Like two years meant nothing.”
Prakash’s chest tightened. Vikram. The ex who’d shattered her, the one she never talked about unless she was drunk or broken or both. He set his own drink down, turning to face her fully. “Nagu, he’s an asshole. Always was. You’re better off without him.”
She let out a bitter laugh, her fingers tightening around the bottle. “Yeah, I know. Doesn’t stop it from stinging, though. I mean, I’m not some damsel pining for him or whatever, but... fuck, Prak. Why do I always pick the ones who leave? Am I that hard to stick around for?”
Her words hit him like a punch, and he reached out instinctively, covering her hand with his. “Hey. Stop that. You’re not hard to stick around for. You’re... you’re Nagu. You’re a goddamn force. Anyone who can’t handle that doesn’t deserve you. End of story.”
She looked at him then, her tough exterior cracking just enough for him to see the raw vulnerability beneath. Her lips quirked into a small, sad smile. “You’re too good to me, you know that? Always have been. Pooja better know what she’s got, or I’ll steal you for myself.”
He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood, but her words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. “Steal me? You’d get bored in a week. I’m not nearly chaotic enough for you.”
Nagu didn’t laugh. Instead, she shifted closer, her head dropping onto his shoulder, the warmth of her seeping through his shirt. They sat there in silence for a long moment, the music a distant hum, the weight of her confession and the booze making the room feel smaller, tighter. Her breath was warm against his neck as she murmured, almost too softly to hear, “I wish I’d found someone like you, Prak. Someone who stays.”
His heart thudded, loud and unsteady, and he didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to navigate the sudden thickness in the air, the unspoken thing that had always lingered between them but never been named. So he just sat there, her head on his shoulder, the fairy lights flickering above them, and let the moment stretch into something dangerous, something possible.
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