⚠️ Viewer Discretion Advised

This chapter contains sensitive themes that may be distressing to some readers. Be gentle with it and with yourself.

After breakfast, I ended up sitting with Tanya.

I was nervous at first. Small talk exhausts me on most days, and today, everything inside me felt like a tight knot I didn't know how to undo.

But I didn't expect it to feel so... okay. There was a warmth in her eyes that didn't try too hard to impress.

She's the kind of person who makes you feel like you've known her longer than you have.

Her room was warm, pastel walls, that soft kind of light that makes you feel safe without even realizing it.

Litle handmade touches, photoframes that weren't just for decoration. It looked like a space someone wanted to come back to.

She asked me simple things, never once letting silence settle in too long. She didn't pry, didn't make me feel like I had to perform politeness.

And still, somehow, I found myself relaxing.

Then came Misha.

Her fingers were small but her grip was determined, tugging on my kurta and proudly dragging me around to show me all the toys she owned.

Each toy had a name, a memory, a role in her world.

I smiled more in that hour than I had in the last few days. It was impossible not to.

There was so much love between them. It made something ache in me. Not the painful kind, just... wistful.

Tanya mentioned she works from home. She's a data analyst.

And there was something grounding in the way she spoke about her work. Like she didn't have to prove anything. Like she knew exactly who she was.

Eventually, I walked back to his room.

He wasn't there. And the first thing I felt was relief. Immediate, unfiltered, selfish relief.

But it didn't last. Because right after the relief came that quiet, hollow kind of empty. Something you can't explain to anyone.

The silence here isn't like the one in Tanya's room. It feels heavier, colder. Like something is still lingering in the air.

I stood there for a minute, alone in a room that smelled like him, but felt nothing like home.

The truth is... I didn't know what to do now.

I hadn't planned this part. What are you supposed to do after you've smiled your way through breakfast and lunch. Made small talk with strangers who are now your in laws.

I stared at the bed. The white sheets mocked me with how soft and inviting they looked.

And suddenly, all that fake productivity and forced socialising caught up with me.

God, I was so sleepy.

I hadn't really slept last night. Not because I was nervous or anything.

But because... I hadn't taken off my bra.

And I can't sleep in one. Back home, the bra came off the moment I entered my room. It was almost ritualistic. A signal to my body that you're safe now, you can breathe.

But here?

In this room I share with... him.

How do I sleep without it? When I'm constantly aware of how exposed I'd be?

My chest is loud. It speaks for me when I wish it wouldn't. And without a bra, they announce themselves, every shift, every movement.

Having big boobs isn't the glamorous gift the world makes it out to be. I'm not flaunting anything.

People think being on the bigger side is some kind of divine favor. And maybe it is, for some.

But it never felt like a blessing to me.

It's a burden I've had to drag through years.

I was eleven when my body began to betray me. When my chest grew faster than the world thought it should. Faster than I could understand.

While my cousins still played hopscotch and wore camisoles. I wasn't allowed that softness.

I skipped girlhood and landed straight into scrutiny, into the kind of attention that felt like a curse.

I began to hunch without realizing. Learned to fold my arms tight.

As if I could shield myself from the eyes that undressed me before I even knew what that meant.

It wasn't beautiful.

It wasn't desirable.

It was cruel.

And then came the stares that burned. The comments that made my skin crawl.

I started hating them. I hated how they made me feel. How I started wishing for smaller ones, flatter ones, invisible ones.

And it wasn't strangers who made me shrink. It was friends. People I trusted with my laughter.

Growing up, I didn't have friends. I was the quiet kid- the one teachers forgot to call on, the one who ate lunch alone but pretended she liked the silence.

I didn't talk much. Never brought anyone home. There was no one to bring.

So when I turned thirteen and finally found a few kids in the neighborhood who let me exist beside them, I held onto it.

Like maybe I was finally becoming the kind of girl people didn't overlook.

We were just kids. A small, messy group. And for once, I wasn't watching from the outside.

There was a boy in that group.

Younger than me- by age, not by malice.

He was ten, maybe eleven.

Too confident for someone who hadn't even stepped into his teens. Too quick to find softness and bruise it.

We were meant to call the others, that day. Just the two of us outside. Midday sun pressing down.

Everything too quiet, like the world was holding its breath, waiting to see what he'd ruin next.

Then he turned to me.

Grin crawling across his face,

the kind that made your stomach twist before the words even came.

And said- "You have the biggest boobs in our group."

It hit me like a slap and I froze.

The way girls freeze when shame knocks too early, too loud, and way before they're ready.

He didn't say it like a joke. Not that it would've hurt less. But he meant it. His eyes had that look.

The kind that makes you feel stripped, without a single hand touching you.

I remember staring at my shoes. My heart pounding. My body buzzing with humiliation I didn't even have words for yet.

But he didn't stop there.

As if the first wound wasn't enough.

"Don't you feel that way? Be honest. Everyone in our friend group agrees that yours are the biggest."

Everyone.

That word shattered the thirteen years old Diya. Because she realized she wasn't imagining the stares. It wasn't in her head.

They had noticed. And they had talked about her body. Laughed about it. Ranked it.

I didn't say anything. Didn't ask him to stop. Didn't cry. Just walked home with shame clinging to my skin like sweat, like something I could never wash off.

I wish it ended there.

But it didn't.

Ninth grade. Crowded school corridor. My hair tied back so it wouldn't stick to my neck. Notebook in hand. Staffroom in sight. Nothing extraordinary about the moment- until it shattered.

A hand.

It didn't graze or brush.

It pinched me.

Quickly and deliberately.

The pain was sharp, but what burned more was the audacity. The certainly in his fingers.

I didn't even see his face. But I turned. My hand found his face before my voice found its volume. I slapped him. Hard.

And I screamed at him. Not just for that moment- but for every moment I had swallowed whole.

Everyone turned to look.

And then they turned away.

But I never forgot.

When I sleep in a bra, it's like my body forgets it's safe. My ribs feel caged- stitched into place with elastic, while wires press against my skin like old blame I never asked to carry.

My back stays tense, guarding itself in the dark, even when there's no one left to watch.

It's not discomfort- not in the emotional sense. I'm not shy or insecure about my body anymore.

There's nothing to be insecure about. They are not even that big, really. That was never the problem.

Because it's not about size. It never has been. It's about how people project their discomfort onto bodies that were just trying to exist.

It's just... people were cruel to a little girl who didn't know how to protect herself.

But it's okay.

See, this is what happens when you don't have any work. When you let your thoughts wander too long and they start dragging you back into rooms you've already left.

I'm craving deadlines. Tasks. Meetings. Noise. Anything that keeps me from thinking.

I can't wait for tomorrow. At least in the office, I know who I am. Or who I'm supposed to be. There's a routine, a script.

Work doesn't ask me how I'm feeling. It doesn't care. And that's what makes it bearable.

But right now? The only thing that feels remotely safe is studying. So I gave in.

I unzipped my suitcase. Clothes on one side, books on the other.

I pulled out Indirect Tax Laws. There's no space for feelings between its pages. Just numbers, provisions, logic.

🪔

It's been two hours. The words haven't stayed. Not a single concept has landed. I've re-read the same line six times, and my eyes still skip over it like it's written in a language I've forgotten.

Maybe it's because of the new environment. The unfamiliar rhythm of this house. The way everything smells different. Sounds different.

Or maybe... it's just me. Maybe I've been pushing everything down for too long. Holding it in. Telling myself I'd unpack it all later.

Later never came.

I stare at the screen and pretend to focus on the lecture. But who am I fooling? My thoughts were wandering again.

I'm doing everything to not think about the fact that I'm married. But the reminders are everywhere.

This place doesn't belong to me. And no matter how long I sit here, how quietly I exist, it keeps reminding me of that.

There's no way to explain it without sounding ungrateful, but I've never liked it when people do things for me. It makes my skin itch.

Not because I don't appreciate it. But because I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to receive kindness without feeling like I'm stealing it.

Maybe I'm not making sense.

Maybe I'm just spiraling in circles because sitting still with my thoughts feels unbearable right now.

I just... I don't want to feel this.

This confusion. It feels like I'm floating in someone else's life while being painfully aware of how lost I am.

I was curled up on the couch, leaning into the armrest like it could anchor me. Laptop warm against my thighs, my notes open.

And then-

The door creaked open.

I froze.

Fingers stilled mid sentence.

It was him. Obviously.

I didn't look up.

But the shift in air was palpable, the soft thud of his footsteps nearing the couch.

I stared harder at my screen, pretended to be deeply engrossed in my notes. At least my hands had something to do. Scribbling nonsense in the margins felt easier than meeting his eyes.

With every step he took toward the couch, my heart started beating faster, like it had been caught doing something it shouldn't.

I kept my posture still, expression neutral. Fingers tight around the pen. As if staying still enough could make me invisible.

He didn't say anything.

Just walked over, picked up his charger from the side table, and turned to leave.

I let out a slow breath the moment the door clicked shut behind him. Relief washed over me, but only for a second.

Because the door opened again.

He said something, looking straight at me.

But I had my headphones on. I blinked at the screen, pretending not to hear, buying myself two more seconds. And then I looked up slowly, pulled off one side of the headphones.

"Sorry?" My voice came out softer than I intended. I wasn't sure I deserved to speak in this room.

He repeated himself. His voice was low and measured. "Do you need anything?"

I shook my head. Just once.

He didn't leave immediately. His eyes lingered on my face. In a way that didn't feel invasive.

Then he slowly closed the door and left.

I sat there, completely still, and waited for two full minutes before I remembered how to breathe again.

I'd been holed up in my study all morning.

Routine. Familiarity. Control.

That's what this space offered me. And that's all I've ever asked from it.

I wasn't here because of work. No.

I'd cleared most of it before the wedding.

But there was still enough to keep me occupied. Enough to stay busy.

Now that it's over.

Now that I've done what I promised.

I can step away. From all of it.

From he pressure.

From the word husband and everything it brought with it.

From this hollow performance we're calling a marriage.

I can finally return to who I was before.

To the version of myself that didn't carry this heaviness around.

It felt a little strange, not being in my room. But I needed the distance. Or maybe I was trying to give her some privacy.

Same thing, I guess.

My fingers were still resting on the keyboard when i felt this... pull.

Subtle at first. Then persistent.

Something was tugging at me, not violently, but just enough to make me restless.

I tried to ignore it but even after fifteen minutes, it didn't go away.

So I listened.

And did what my mind was telling me to.

The moment I stepped into the room,

I knew.

It was too quiet.

She was on the couch. Laptop open, notebook out, pen scribbling across the page.

But her posture gave her away- her shoulders were stiff.

She didn't even glance up.

Not even once.

I moved quietly across the room, footsteps careful, calculated.

My hand reached for the charger on the table beside her.

Still nothing.

Just the soft scratching of pen against paper.

Fake.

Focused, but fake.

I walked out.

The charger dangled uselessly from my fingers. My phone was charged. Ninety percent, to be exact.

But standing there, staring at her and leaving without doing something? Impossible.

I needed a reason to be there.

To see her. To... check.

I shut the door behind me, but the air outside the room didn't feel any lighter.

That tug in my chest? Still there.

Like I'd missed something. Or left something behind.

I paused.

Waited.

Then opened the door again. Didn't step in. Didn't say a word. Just stood there, trying to figure out what was wrong.

She still hadn't moved.

Headphones on, eyes locked to the screen, but now I could see it- the tension in her hands, fingers curled too tightly around the pen.

Her entire body was drawn tight, coiled like a spring. Like she was waiting for something to go wrong.

I said it low, almost unsure if I wanted her to hear me. "Do you need anything?"

No reaction.

Either whatever she was watching was too loud, or she was doing what I'd mastered-

pretending not to hear the things we don't want to answer.

She pulled off her headphones slowly, lifting her eyes to mine.

Her expression was blank, but her eyes... guarded. Wary. Like every look from me was something she had to prepare for.

"Sorry?" she asked, soft, distant.

"Do you need anything?" I repeated, quieter this time.

She shook her head.

I should've left right then. Should've walked out the second she looked away.

But my eyes didn't listen. They stayed. Hung on her a beat too long, like they didn't trust the answer her mouth gave.

I finally turned. Stepped out.

Whatever she was doing, it wasn't studying. And I hated that I noticed.

I returned to my study. Shut the door with more force than necessary.

I sat down at my desk, opened my laptop, and pulled up a spreadsheet that didn't need attention. I stared at it anyway.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

I typed a few things. Backspaced them. Retyped. Backspaced again.

I wasn't working.

I was pretending.

Just like her.

But her silence today wasn't the usual kind.

It was small. Shrinking. As if she was trying to take up less space, breathe quieter, be invisible.

And now, no matter how many numbers I stared at, my mind kept dragging me back to the couch, to the girl who wouldn't meet my eyes, wouldn't breathe in my presence.

God.

I dragged a hand down my face, frustration prickling under my skin.

That's when my phone rang.

Vivaan. Of course.

I picked up.

"Bhai, mom's calling you and bhabhi downstairs."

"Why?" I asked flatly. If this was another idiotic ritual, I was not going.

"For the very entertaining ring finding ritual," he replied, his voice full of mock excitement.

I pressed my fingers to my forehead.

"I'm not-"

"Come down in five minutes, everyone's waiting," came mom's voice.

Then the line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a second.

Then sighed.

Of course. She's my mother, after all.

With all the enthusiasm of a man walking to his own execution, I got up. And headed back toward the room. Her room. Our room. Whatever.

When I opened the door, I just... paused.

She was still on the couch.

But her laptop was shut, her books stacked neatly beside her, pen capped with precision.

Now, she just sat there. Headphones on. Eyes closed. Head tilted slightly against the backrest. Legs folded beneath her, like the storm had passed and left her in its wake.

Her face, usually so composed, was soft now. At peace. No crease between her brows. No tension in her jaw.

I wondered for a second if she'd fallen asleep.

She looked so still. So light. Like for once, whatever weight she carried- whatever ghosts followed her into every room- had let her go. Just for a moment.

My gaze drifted toward the bed. Untouched. Neat.

God, why wouldn't she take it?

I remembered last night- how she'd said, firmly, "It's your bed. I'll take the couch."

I'd wanted to argue. God, I did.

Wanted to say I'd take the damn couch, that I didn't need her martyrdom to make things easier.

But I didn't.

She'd already put walls up with her words. I wasn't about to push. Wasn't going to force comfort on someone who didn't know how to receive it yet.

So I let her be.

Now, seeing her like this- head resting against the hard edge of furniture not meant for sleep- something twisted inside me.

She was tired.

Of course she was tired.

Anyone would be.

But it was more than that. It was the kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones. The kind you carry even in sleep.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I didn't move. Didn't check.

Whatever it was, it could wait.

I wasn't waking her up. Not for some ring game. Not for anyone. Not when she looked like this, finally breathing, finally quiet.

My eyes lingered longer than they should've.

I knew I should look away.

But I didn't.

And that's when I saw it.

A tiny mole, just below her left eye.

Right on the curve of her cheekbone.

So small you'd miss it in passing. But in this light, in this closeness, it stood out.

Made her look...

I didn't finish that thought.

Because right then-

Knock.

The door jerked open and Vivaan practically stumbled in.

"Bhai jaldi chalo na-"

["Bhai, come fast-"]

I cut him off instantly, clamping a hand over his mouth.

A pause.

"She's sleeping," I whispered, barely audible.

His eyes widened, brows rising. I slowly lowered my hand.

And the second I did-

"Who's sleeping?" he whispered back, mimicking my tone with unnecessary precision.

I turned to gesture at her but... she was no longer on the couch. She was standing, watching us with a sleepy frown and complete confusion.

"Bhabhi, were you sleeping?" Vivaan asked.

She shook her head.

He turned to me "You were going to use her as an excuse, weren't you?"

Before I could even open my mouth, he turned to her again.

"Bhabhi, see? He was going to throw you under the bus to save himself."

"I was not."

He ignored me completely.

"Bhabhi, please drag him downstairs. Everyone's waiting," And then he vanished down the hallway.

I turned to her.

"I wasn't sleeping," she said, meeting my gaze. Her voice was low. Raspy. Thick with drowsiness.

God.

She's such a bad liar.

And she looked... adorable.

Ridiculously so.

"Yeah?" I asked, stepping toward her, unable to help it. "What were you doing with your eyes closed then?"

She didn't move away.

"Meditating," she mumbled, looking off to the side.

I huffed a quiet laugh. "Meditating. Of course."

I stepped closer. "So here's the thing..."

She blinked up at me, lashes fluttering like she was fighting to stay awake.

"If you just kept meditating, we could've escaped what's waiting for us downstairs."

That got her attention.

She looked at me then, brows pulling together just a little. "What's waiting downstairs?"

"Another ritual."

🪔

We sat cross legged on the floor, directly across from each other- like kids who'd been caught whispering in class and made to sit in punishment.

The bowl gleamed in between us... shimmering with milky water and exaggerated importance.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the surface of the bowl, lashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks. The edge of her kurta brushing the floor.

She looked... composed. But her fingers were fidgeting ever so slightly in her lap, betraying her.

I wasn't any better.

Judging by the audience, you'd think this ritual decided the fate of a kingdom.

"The one who wins," my mother declared, in a tone that felt far too grand for the occasion, "will have the upper hand in this marriage."

Of course she had to raise the stakes. As if the whole circus wasn't enough, now they were betting on dominance. In front of the entire family.

There were chuckles, teasing. The kind of laughter that makes your ears burn when you're in the center of it. She didn't react. Neither did I.

"Bhabhi, please win. Save us from Bhai's dictatorship." Vivaan added.

As if it was just physically impossible for him to take a breath without chanting the word bhabhi.

That's when Maa dropped the ring in.

It made a soft clink, barely audible over the collective gasp.

And without needing to be told, our hands went in too.

The water was cold. Not just regular cold- spitefully cold. Like it had beef with me. Like it knew I didn't want to be here and had taken that personally.

I didn't even care about winning. Not initially. I Couldn't care less who called the shots.

All I wanted was for this bizarre, over decorated circus to end so I could go back to pretending this wasn't my life.

Our hands brushed beneath the surface. Her fingers- slim, warm even in the chilled water- glided past mine.

She didn't flinch.

Neither did I.

We just moved our hands slowly, lazily, like two overworked interns stuck in a team building exercise we both hated.

"Arre dono effort toh karo!" Chachi's voice sliced through the murmurs.

["Put some efforts guys!"]

A few people laughed.

We didn't.

She blinked at the bowl once, then sighed- barely noticeable, but I caught it.

The smallest shift in her shoulders. Then her hand moved again, a bit more purposeful.

That's when I felt it.

The sudden tautness in her fingers.

A flicker of certainty.

She'd found it.

And that's when it hit me.

The stupidest thought:

If she wins this, she'll never let me do anything for her. Never take the passenger seat. Never take the bed. Never ask for help. Never reach out first.

She'd live her life three inches out of reach, politely distant, and I'd never get to... whatever this weird thing between us is.

And that's why-

She shouldn't win.

So I slipped my hand around the other side of the bowl and caught the ring between two fingers before she could get a proper grip. And then I pulled it a little.

She paused. Then tightened her grip and tugged back.

We locked eyes across the bowl like two criminals who knew exactly what the other was doing but didn't want to admit it.

Her face was calm and unreadable.

But her eyes?

They screamed let go of the ring.

I didn't say a word. But my fingers pressed tighter, and my answer was just as loud- You first.

"Did you guys find it?" Chachi's voice broke the tension.

We didn't answer.

We just... stayed like that.

Our hands collided. Soft skin against skin under the cold water, petals floating above like clueless spectators.

I thought we'd be stuck there till midnight- hands underwater, neither of us backing down.

But then...

The sleeve of her kurta, which had been neatly pushed up to her elbow, started slipping.

Slow. Unrushed. A soft fabric surrender.

It slid down inch by inch, threatening to dip into the water. And before I even processed it- my hand moved on its own.

I caught the fabric just before it touched the surface. Pinched it gently between two fingers, holding it in place.

Her eyes snapped up to mine.

For a second, we just... stayed there. Me holding her sleeve like a fool, her staring at me like she couldn't process it.

And in that moment of pause- her grip on the ring loosened.

She didn't mean to.

But she did.

And I? I absolutely meant what I did next.

Still holding her sleeve in one hand, I used the other to swiftly snatch the ring underwater.

Her eyes widened- slow and reluctant, like realization crept up on her before she had a chance to prepare for it.

I didn't say anything.

My face stayed still, unreadable.

Not out of pride.

But because if I said even one thing- if I let even a fraction of the satisfaction show- it would've made it worse.

For her.

And for me.

So I held the ring like it meant nothing.

And then-

the crowd burst.

Claps, cheers, and laughter.

"Bhabhi... how?" Vivaan's voice cut through the chaos. He looked genuinely confused. "I thought you had it."

Diya didn't answer. She just kept staring at me like I'd just committed a federal crime.

I guess, I did.

Atharv tried to save the mood.

"It's okay, bhabhi, I won the ritual too. Still haven't won a single argument since."

Tanya shot him a glare.

The laughter returned- louder this time. But in the middle of all of it, I noticed something strange.

Everyone was going to her.

You'd think I stole her inheritance.

I looked at the ring and for a second, it felt like it belonged in her hand, not mine.

And then-

"E-dant!"

A shrill, gleeful voice sliced through the noise.

There she was. Misha. Perched on Dadu's lap, her tiny hands waving.

She had no idea what the game was, or why it mattered. All she knew? Her E-dant had done something cool.

And in that swirling mess of opinions, alliances, and chaos she was the only one who cheered just for me.

And that was enough.

🪔

T

he moment we reached our room and the door clicked shut behind us, she turned— so fast, it nearly startled me.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, facing me, her arms folded tightly across her chest like she was physically restraining herself from throwing something at me— or maybe throwing me.

Her brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, and her entire posture screamed one thing: furious.

But her mouth—

That tiny, unintentional pout—

She looked mad enough to kill me, and still managed to look heartbreakingly adorable doing it.

I knew this was coming.

We’d been downstairs for four hours. From evening tea through dinner, surrounded by laughter, teasing, that ridiculous ritual...

And in those four hours, I caught her looking at me more times than I could count.

Each time, I saw it.

The silent fury.

That pointed, simmering glare that said everything she hadn’t— yet.

I didn’t need a lecture to know she hadn’t forgiven me. Not even close.

Now, as she stood there, the weight of her stare pinning me to the spot, I braced myself.

"Do you want to explain that?"

Her voice was sharp. Calm.

Hands still folded in front of her.

But I knew better.

Underneath that carefully blank expression, she was seething.

And I?

Well… I deserved it.

Probably.

Maybe.

Okay— definitely.

"Explain what?" I asked innocently.

Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Seriously, Mr. Malhotra?”

“Oh… is it about that?” I asked, dragging the words out deliberately.

I knew it would set her off more.

But at least she was expressing her emotions. So what if it's anger?

“You don’t have to thank me for holding your sleeve and saving it from getting drenched,” I added casually, like I didn't just add fuel to the fire.

She let out a sarcastic little laugh and hit me with a smile so fake it deserved an Oscar.

“Oh, my sleeve didn’t ask to be saved,” she replied sweetly, “but since you’re so eager— thanks a lot, Mr. Malhotra.”

The mock politeness practically dripped from her words.

But before I could say anything, she continued, eyes sharpening like she was done playing.

“But I’m not talking about that.”

Oh boy.

“I’m talking about the fact that you snatched the ring from me. And cheated.”

“No, I didn’t,” I said calmly.

Her mouth twitched— just slightly.

Like she knew I’d say that.

“You pulled the ring,” she snapped. “I felt it. I had it.”

“I was underwater,” I said with a shrug.

“So was I.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not imagining things.”

“I never said you were.”

Her lips pressed into a line. She looked away for a second, took a breath, then turned back to me.

When she spoke again, her voice had dropped— quieter now, less sharp, but somehow heavier.

“It wasn’t supposed to be serious,” she said. “It was just a dumb ritual. But you still had to win so badly… you cheated?”

“You didn’t even care about the ritual,” she added after a pause, her voice softer, almost thoughtful. “Neither of us did. You barely looked at the bowl. And then suddenly you win, and I’m supposed to believe that was fair?”

I tilted my head, studying her. “Are you saying you lost because of me?”

“I’m saying I didn’t lose,” she replied flatly.

She shifted slightly, arms still crossed, like she suddenly wasn’t sure if she should’ve said anything at all.

That flicker of doubt on her face— like maybe she’d let me too close without meaning to.

And maybe…

maybe that was the moment I should’ve apologized. Or admitted it. Or something remotely decent.

But no.

Because watching her get all adorably indignant somehow made me want to keep going.

So I just said, “I didn’t cheat.”

“Yes, you did. You’re a cheater.”

I wanted to laugh. God, I really did.

“No,” I said calmly.

“Yes,” she shot back.

“No.” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

She paused for half a second— just long enough for that glint of suspicion to flicker in her eyes.

“Thanks for admitting,” she said coldly, turned and walked towards the couch.

I blinked. “You were supposed to say no.”

“I’m not dumb,” she replied, already adjusting her pillows.

I watched her for a beat before saying quietly,

“Sleep on the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

She didn’t even look at me. “I told you— I’m not taking your bed.”

“It’s not just my bed,”

The words left my mouth faster than I meant them to, and when I heard them echo back in the stillness of the room, the weight of it finally landed.

She paused. Just for a second.

But that pause was loud.

“Thanks,” she said after a beat, voice softer now, “but I don’t want to invade your personal space.”

And just like that, the wall was back up.

She turned, tugging the blanket over herself, curling into the couch, and vanished under the blanket.

I stared at the couch for a long moment, then at the bed behind me.

Yeah.

🪔

Monday mornings always came with a certain predictability.

The buzz of alarms. The stiffness of responsibility settling back on your shoulders.

The sleep still clinging to your bones even as your hands reached for crisp shirts and coffee.

But this Monday?

It didn’t just bring deadlines and alarm clocks. It brought a quiet reminder—

You’re married now.

Because I wasn’t the only one rising with the sun, brushing sleep from my eyes, reaching for formals in half light.

She was already standing in front of the mirror, her back to me, her silhouette sharp against the soft gold light filtering through the curtains.

It hit me then—

This wasn’t just another morning. It was the first of many. Of her existing in the same frame as me. Of silent rituals performed side by side.

Not lovers. Not strangers.

Just… two people navigating the hush between toothbrushes and tie knots, learning how to share air.

She was dressed in a crisp white shirt, tucked neatly into grey trousers. A slim silver watch hugged her wrist— clean and effortlessly put together.

But the difference was in the details.

In how she looked like herself— but not the same girl I’d seen barefoot in the kitchen or curled on the couch with a blanket pulled over her face, calling me a cheater.

This version of her was different.

Composed. Collected. Distant.

Her hair was half tied, and I watched as she twisted the rest into a low ponytail, fingers moving with the kind of practiced precision that came from routine.

Her wrist brushed the collar of her shirt as she adjusted it slightly. Her sleeves were rolled exactly to the elbow. Not a wrinkle in sight.

I stood there watching for a second longer than necessary, caught off guard by the transformation.

She looked... efficient. Professional.

Like she belonged out there— in the world. Not in a room filled with silence and unsaid things.

I walked toward the mirror slowly, tying the necktie in my hand. I kept a little distance, but  close enough to share the space.

I started tying my necktie, fingers slower than usual. Our eyes met in the mirror— and in the same moment, she stepped away. Giving me space I didn’t ask for.

Maybe she thought I needed it.

Or maybe she needed it herself.

She moved to the couch, putting things into her bag with quiet efficiency.

I focused on my tie again, keeping my eyes low, my thoughts quieter.

When I finished, I sat on the edge of the bed and bent to put on my shoes. The room was still. Clock ticking. Fan humming. Her perfume lingering.

I tied my shoes slowly, more focused on the quiet between us than the laces in my hands.

She walked toward the mirror again. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her applying something on her face.

For a few seconds, I could feel her eyes flicker toward me.

And then—

“Do you want some sunscreen?”

It took me a second to process that the words had come from her.

I was still sitting on the bed, almost done tying my laces when she said it— so softly I almost thought I imagined it.

I looked up.

She stood near the mirror, arm slightly extended, a small puddle of white sunscreen resting awkwardly in her palm.

Her gaze was everywhere but on me.

“I squeezed too much by mistake,” she added, her voice nearly inaudible.

God. She looked… mortified for offering. And still, she offered.

I blinked. “Yeah… sure,” I said, getting up from the bed.

I stepped toward her to take it.

But before I could reach her hand, she stepped closer.

Too close.

I went still.

She rose slightly onto her tiptoes, barely a few centimeters, but just enough that her breath touched my chin now. And before I could react, her fingers— cool and slender— were on my cheek.

Every single muscle in my body forgot how to function.

Her touch was impossibly gentle. Like she was afraid I’d flinch. Or disappear.

She spread the sunscreen along my cheek in soft, deliberate motions, her fingertips barely pressing into my skin.

It was oddly clinical, but… not cold. Her fingers moved in small, practiced circles— smooth, careful, intimate.

My eyes closed instinctively. I couldn't stop them. Something about the way her touch felt made me want to stop time right there.

The scent of the sunscreen was faint, but her proximity drowned everything else out.

I could feel the warmth of her breath. The soft hitch in it when her hand slid from my cheek to my forehead.

She was being careful. Overly so.

As if any wrong move might wake me up from this dream.

Her fingers traced across my forehead next, spreading the cream gently along the lines there. My skin tingled wherever she went.

Not from the sunscreen— but from her. From her feather light touch.

I was holding my breath.

I didn’t know when that had happened— but I couldn’t risk letting it go.

And then… her hand shifted lower.

To my jaw.

My eyes fluttered open just a little.

She wasn’t looking at me.

That should’ve helped. It didn’t.

Because her fingers were resting against my jaw like I was something fragile. Like I could be held that way.

My throat went dry. My pulse kicked up like it was running from something. Or to something.

And all I could think was—

She shouldn’t be allowed to do that.

Not if she wasn’t going to look at me.

Not if she wasn’t going to feel this the way I was.

Her brows were pinched in concentration, lips parted ever so slightly as she focused on the task like it was surgery.

Her fingers slowed as they spread the cream along my jawline. They lingered.

And then she touched the corner of my mouth.

Accidental. Fleeting. Barely even there.

But I felt it like lightning.

My breath caught, my heart stuttered violently, and for a split second, I was sure she could hear it pounding in my chest.

She paused there, fingertip hovering dangerously close to the edge of my lip, before she pulled her hand away in one swift motion, as if realizing what she'd done.

She stepped back, clearing her throat.

I opened my eyes fully, still trying to remember how to function.

“You tied your shoelaces,” she said casually, “Your hands were dirty.”

That’s why.

She said it like it explained everything. Like she hadn’t just completely, unintentionally, shattered my entire emotional infrastructure.

She went back to fixing her earrings like nothing had happened.

But something had.

My face still burned. My breath hadn’t evened out. And every inch of my skin where her fingers had wandered buzzed like it remembered her touch.

No one had ever touched me like that. Not with that kind of gentleness.

And that wasn’t the part that scared me.

The part that did?

I wanted her to do it again.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

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- M 💌