The familiar buzz of the Jayanagar juice centre was already alive when Poornima arrived. The clatter of glasses, the chatter of college kids, the scent of fresh fruit — it was almost comforting.

And there he was.

Veeresh Rathore. Sitting at their usual corner table, his dark suit a sharp contrast to the plastic chairs and noisy street outside. For the world, he was Lucifer. For her, he was still Veeru.

She walked up with that easy smile of hers, sliding her dupatta into place. “Two juices,” she told the vendor before sitting down opposite him.

His eyes flicked over her saree, lingering longer than necessary. The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Again with the saree, Poons? You’re making the entire street stare.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s just a saree, Veeresh.”

“Hmm,” he drawled, the tease in his voice edged with something darker. “One day I’ll have to burn them all.”

Before she could answer, the waiter placed their drinks on the table — kiwi milkshake for him, mosambi for her. He leaned back, straw between his lips, and said casually, “I’m going to marry.”

Poornima blinked, then laughed softly. “Finally. The great Lucifer settles down.”

He didn’t smile. His gaze stayed fixed on her, sharp and unreadable.

“And you, Poornima? What about you?”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “They’re searching. My parents want me to see a few matches.”

His jaw tightened, but he masked it with a slow sip of his milkshake. His hand, however, landed on her shoulder — firm, deliberate, and far too familiar.

“And the project?” he asked, voice low, almost casual.

Poornima, oblivious to the storm beneath his calm exterior, began explaining deadlines, reports, and government reviews. He nodded, listening, his thumb brushing against her shoulder just once.

But in his mind, there was only one thought.

I will marry you, Poornima.

No one else.

And as she sipped her mosambi juice, smiling at something as simple as project deadlines, Veeresh knew — she was the only weakness Lucifer would ever allow.