The drive from Heathrow to Oxford was nearly ninety minutes of a very specific kind of silence. To an outsider, it might have seemed cold, but to Arya and Laksh, it was like a complicated piece of code they were both trying to de-cipher.

Arya stared out the window at the rolling English countryside, the vibrant green of the hills a far cry from the dusty golds of the Rajasthan plains. Every time she stole a glance at Laksh, she felt a pinch of disbelief. The way his long fingers tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel—likely calculating some physics equation—and the sharp, effortless way he handled the car... it didn't match the image of the boy who used to help her steal pickles from the Haveli kitchen.