"THAT'S A VERY fine looking chit, Sir." he could hear the cab driver comment excitedly.

Virat nodded "Yes. She's beautiful and smart and a doctor."

"There you are, Kohli." Misha smiled at him, and he still felt a little dazed. To think they were together now after the several years of drought . . . it humbled him. She had balked at the idea of roaming through the city to see for an apartment because for that she had to miss a bloody surgery who's name he had forgotten. I live in the most modest accommodations, it doesn't really matter to me if it's a cottage or a castle. You know me.

She opened the door to the cab, and plopped inside. "You're in the car . . . with a driver." 

"If you thought I would be traversing through the city in that bloody Mumbai traffic—" Misha started to laugh.

"We don't wanna argue on the whole Mumbai versus Delhi thing again." 

"Madam, you are a Dehlite. Through and through." 

"I became a Mumbaikar the moment I stepped into this city. You haven't experienced it, and I doubt you ever will with your status. The midnight walks at Marine Drives, the landscape of Kharghar, and the beaches . . . sometimes."

"And it's safer," the driver piped in. Misha's hand froze in his lap at the intrusion. It was stated as a fact.

"No place is safer as long as the monsters lurk. The quantity doesn't matter." she told him, and the rest of the drive was silent, the mood somewhat ruined.

When they reached the apartment, Virat hugged from behind. "How do you feel?"

"F-fine." Virat heard her moan, and turned her around so that he could face her. 

"What do you feel about a dinner date?" His palm grazed his cheek softly.

"But there would be no privacy, Virat."

"Oh, yes. Because I'm The Virat Kohli. But that doesn't sell me short, darling. How about a dinner date on the bed?" And he felt, dash it, horny when he thought of other things. But he couldn't rush things.

He saw Misha grin then, "Why just a dinner when the bed could be made for better purpose?"

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MISHA STARED AT her reflection in the mirror, she wanted to look perfect. 

Virat was cooking for them, and had suggested in-house dinner date, and that he would do everything. It will be perfect, his words were spoken with such conviction and slight provocation. A promise that things would escalate tonight. She had rummaged through her entire wardrobe to settle on the most perfect dress: something provocative, sultry yet not overwhelming. At the end, she had settled on a navy blue body-con dress which hugged her curves perfectly. It looked nice without being overdone.

Be calm, be calm, be calm, Misha chanted in her head as she brushed the creases from her long, unbound hair.

Still calmness was the last thing she felt. She felt nervous and jittery and desperate to get her hands on Virat for heaven's sake. She had not dated a single man in her adulthood, and well, he had been with women. He said so during their reunion.

She skittered towards the hall, when she almost collided with Virat, earning a shriek. "Fucking hell, you scared me," he breathed. "I was just coming for you." He looked right and left down the corridor. "Come," he breathed and scooped her from the corridor into his room where the dinner was set.

"Sorry," Misha laughed, allowing herself to be scooped. She felt over dressed for a dinner date in a bedroom, but happily so.

"This is why I didn't want to go outdoors for a date," he grumbled,locking the door. "I would expire with lust and jealousy if I had to watch you glide like this without holding you or kissing you." 

"Glide, Virat? I wasn't gliding. I don't glide."

"You were bloody floating. And your hair is glorious. You are . . . iridescent. You glow in that dark outfit and open hair and your . . . face. I've been enduring distance and tightly bound hair and dowdy dresses since forever it feels now, and finally you're dressed like a goddess."

She laughed, looking down at herself. "You are . . . agitated."

"I am agitated," he agreed. "Excellent turn of phrase. Really an improvement from titillated, I suppose. And I need a drink before the dinner." He went to a drinks trolley crowded with bottles. "One for you? Can't hurt."

He poured two glasses of amber liquid and held one out. She took a tentative sip, the liquor was warm and fiery. She considered him. He wore a white shirt with black trousers. It should have looked too formal but he looked very handsome and at ease. 

"Misha," he began, downing his drink, "I've given a lot of thought to the way we should proceed. I want to embark on this in the most measured,cautious way. We should set out some boundaries, some intervals, so that we are careful to manage things slowly." 

She understood his caution, the last time they had been onset, she had made him feel like crap. But the issue had to be addressed head on. "And what if slowness only heightens my anxiety?" 

"It's so very easy to leap ahead, trust me, but it can be more difficult to slow down." 

"I'm not afraid of you," she said, and it was true, she wasn't afraid of him. She was afraid of spoiling this moment by discussing the life from it.She was afraid of having a cursory, diluted version of what should be an act of love and mutual affection because she'd panicked before.But the panic had been before, when she'd not enjoyed the incredibly freeing experience of telling him what happened on the night and about her pregnancy. That was before he told her, and showed her that he loved her. More than she ever deserved, she thought darkly to herself. 

There was nothing cursory or diluted in the way she felt about Virat. What she realized was their love had only grown stronger with the walls crumbing, and the truth had, in every sense, freed her.

He glanced at her, allowing his eyes to linger on the clingy silk of her dress, the loose fall of her hair over her shoulder. "There is pleasure in going slowly too," he said. "We have a lifetime of pleasure at every pace. Forever."

Her heart turned so soft, she was scared it might stop functioning at all. 

"I'm not opposed to slowness," she ventured, wishing to sound agreeable. She wasn't fighting his technique, she was simply impatient with discussing it. 

"For example," he began, "we might—" 

Misha cut him off by launching herself at him.She'd not planned it—well, perhaps she'd planned a small part of it. It was one way, she thought, to redirect a thoughtful, long-winded prelude.She understood his desire to "pause" for her own good; but was there a less romantic phrase than "pause"? She couldn't bear to embark on lovemaking with the threat of pausing.And so she had not.She had grown weary of talking and was so very much in love with him. 

"Mish," Virat breathed, fighting for words between kisses. "This is not . . . part of . . . my plan. I'm so afraid of frightening you," he said. 

He sounded so vulnerable, Misha stopped and looked into his eyes. "My only known fear at this moment is, 'a plan,' " she said and she jumped up, catching him around the haunches with her legs and wrapping her arms around his neck. He was given no choice but to gather her up,groaning as he pressed her to him. 

"And now what am I meant to do?" he rasped. 

She pulled back from the kiss and asked him cheekily, "But you don't know? Should I call someone to remind you?" 

He laughed, a low hoarse sound, and it thrilled her. He staggered across the room, kissing her as he went. When they reached the bed, he tossed her.She landed in the center, gave a little yelp, and reached for him. "You'll tell me," he warned, kneeling toward her, "if you need to pause?"

"Please don't ask that again." 

"You will give me the time I require if I need to pause." Virat placated.

She sat up. "Why would you need to pause?" 

"I don't," he said, and he shrugged off his shirt, revealing his bare, tanned, muscled chest. Misha sucked in a breath. He laughed. "But this will not be rushed, I swear to you, Misha."