Tanu looked at him—this soft, absurd, stubborn man. “Fine. But no poetry.”

Everyone turned. It was Manu, standing at the temple gate, slightly disheveled, holding a single red rose and a piece of paper.

“I’m not asking you to marry me,” he said, handing her one. “I’m just asking you to let me be your friend.”

Tanu felt her carefully built walls crack. But she was Tanu—she didn’t do easy. So she ran.

“I have a legal notice,” he said calmly.