The first light of morning tiptoed through the window, soft and grey, yet the room hummed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun.

The fairy lights had dulled to faint embers, but beneath the blanket, nothing had dimmed. If anything, the night had only coaxed them closer.

Diya's cheek rested just below his, her nose grazing the line of his jaw with every slow breath. Each exhale left a whisper of warmth on his skin.

Her hair spilled across his chest in wild, dark waves, each one daring him to move. He didn't. Instead, his arms locked firmer around her back.

Vedant buried himself deeper, nuzzling into the crown of her head. The blanket draped over them like a seal, a cocoon where the rest of the world couldn't intrude.

And in that tender stillness, they looked nothing like a pair of strangers bound by tradition. They looked like two hearts pressed into a fragile belonging, finding home in the shelter of arms.

By the time the clock neared six, their bodies seemed to sense it before their minds did. A quiet, knowing humor threaded through the way they untangled.

Her cheek shifted from beneath his, a whisper of a move, and his arms loosened, almost reluctantly.

There was a sly rhythm to it, like their bodies were winking at each other in sleep: okay, enough now, the world is waking.

Even their legs seemed unwilling, teasing the thought of staying tangled before surrendering with a kind of sleepy grace.

It was almost comical, the way their bodies obeyed the rules of morning even when their souls ached to disobey. Still, every brush of her hair, every fading press of her shoulder, left imprints that refused to vanish.

When Vedant’s eyes finally opened, the space between them was small but precise, just as it had been last night.

He exhaled softly, a quiet gratitude threading through him that sleep hadn’t betrayed his restraint. That he hadn’t, in some unguarded moment, reached for her without permission.

But above them, the fairy lights twinkled with sly amusement, as if laughing at his misplaced relief— little witnesses to how he had cradled her only minutes ago, how their limbs had tangled and their breaths had mingled until morning pulled them apart.

Just then, Diya shifted in her sleep, a small movement that stilled him instantly. She turned to face him, their features now only inches apart on the shared pillow.

Her lashes stayed closed, expression softened by dreams, untouched by the weight of his gaze. She slept on, unknowing.

Vedant didn't dare blink. His eyes lingered, as if her face was a map drawn only for him to wander.

The tiny mole beneath her eye, the gentle slope of her nose, the delicate bow of her lips,  he gathered each detail reverently, storing them away knowing the morning would steal this unguarded softness from him.

He told himself he was only looking, but with every stolen second, his heart was slipping further than his mind would ever admit.

Time unraveled. Minutes stretched thin, folding one over the other until fifty five slipped away unnoticed.

His hand ached to move, but even the smallest gesture felt sacrilegious. So he stayed, letting the rhythm of her breathing fill him until it was the only sound in existence.

And then, slowly, as though the world itself had exhaled, Diya's lashes fluttered open.

Vedant stilled. His body tensed, bracing subconsciously for what it thought came next— her absence. Any second now, she would rise and the spell would break.

But the truth— one he has never witnessed was Diya didn't wake like that.

She was all softness and haze for the first thirty minutes after waking up. A jellyfish adrift in the tide, boneless, formless, unaware of her existence.

She lay there, still half drifting in that foggy in-between, the place where thought had yet to arrive and the mind hadn’t quite claimed the body.

Her eyes, usually darting and guarded, lingered where they normally wouldn't, they rested on him.

Vendant felt the shift immediately. Surprise struck him. He had expected her to look away after five seconds.

But she didn’t.

His eyes held hers with quiet reverence, patient and intent. And Diya… she returned the look, with no thoughts behind her sleepy eyes.

Time folded softly around them. Five minutes passed in silence, and then ten.

Then, almost of its own volition, her hand lifted toward his face. It hovered for a moment, uncertain where to land, like a feather drifting on a quiet breeze.

Then slowly, her index finger touched the tip of his nose, with a gentle, tentative tenderness.

Vedant’s breath caught. His eyes shut on instinct, his heart giving a sharp, unsteady throb.

And when he opened them again, Diya’s slumber soft eyes blinked back at him with quiet wonder.

“Good morning to you too,” he murmured, his voice low and husky, still rough from sleep.

When she didn’t move her finger away, a quiet huff of amusement slipped from him.

“Are we staying like this?” he asked, tone gentle, threaded with lazy warmth.

Her lashes fluttered, her voice soft and childlike, still wrapped in the fog of sleep. “You’re holding my wrist… did I say anything?”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “And why would I do that?” he asked, genuinely amused.

Then, slowly, almost absentmindedly, Diya lifted her wrist. The movement was small, nothing more than a lazy stretch, yet it tugged at him too.

His hand rose in tandem, dragged upward as though bound to her by some invisible thread.

He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding her wrist for an hour, his thumb resting on her pulse, each throb tapping steady against his skin, while his gaze stayed fixed on her sleeping face.

Their eyes met, and widened at once. Clarity struck them like cold water, and just like that, the last remnants of drowsy haze evaporated.

What remained was a jolt, sharp and undeniable, stealing the air between them.

Her hand snapped back. His grip fell away.

And in perfect, panicked unison, they sat up on the bed, backs a little too straight, breaths a little too uneven, as if posture could erase what just happened.

“Don’t go down without me.”

The words had left her lips in that tender space between insistence and request, a thread of command woven with a plea, before she disappeared into the bathroom.

Last night’s sleep wasn’t just sleep, it was restoration, something that sank into the marrow.

I woke as if every second of those six hours had been spent repairing me, each breath drawing a finer stitch across something I didn’t know was frayed.

As for what happened after waking… we pretended it hadn’t. Not out of denial, but because neither of us knew what to do with it. So we skipped the clumsy weight of words.

Now, I sit at the edge of her bed, five minutes in and counting. She told me to go first, but I refused. Said I’d go after her.

Truth is, I wanted to give her that solitude, the small ritual of being alone with herself while she dressed.

I let my gaze wander, tracing the lines of her room as daylight spills across it. It looks altered in the sun, less sanctuary, more secret revealed.

At the back of her door, my eyes caught on a scatter of posters, faces of singers I didn’t recognize. Their names meant nothing to me, but the way they filled her door told me enough.

She loves music.

Before reason could stop me, I raised my phone and took a picture. I couldn’t explain the impulse, maybe it was the way those posters felt like a window into her.

A sudden knock pulled me still. She’d told me not to open the door, so I stayed still, ignoring the first few raps against the wood.

“Diya,” a voice whined from the other side, dragging out her name, “wake up, you zombie.”

She's not a zombie.

The knocking grew more insistent. “Open the door, I’m getting late for school.”

I assumed it must be something urgent. So I opened the door.

A boy stood there. Her younger brother, the resemblance was faint. His hair was damp, probably from a rushed shower, strands sticking out at odd angles. A neck tie hung from his fingers, collar still upturned.

He froze when he saw me. His mouth parted, disbelief written all over his face.

Before I could react, he bent low, his hand reaching toward my feet.

The gesture caught me off guard. My chest tightened with guilt, he was just a kid, years younger than me. I didn’t deserve that kind of reverence from him.

“You don’t need to do that,” I told him, my voice softer than I intended.

Relief washed over his face. “Thank God.” It slipped out of him, boyish and honest, and I found myself fighting back the smallest smile.

“Where’s my sister?” he asked, looking straight at me, his voice pitched lower than usual in an attempt to sound older, more adult.

“In the shower,” I answered.

He turned as if to leave, the loose tie still dangling from his hand. “I can help with that,” I offered, my eyes on the bit of fabric.

He hesitated, then stepped inside. I closed the door behind him, just as his sister had instructed. Because obviously I was her secret boyfriend and not someone she's legally married to.

Without a word, he handed me the tie. I draped it around his neck, adjusting the collar, the fabric warm under my hands. My fingers moved slowly, careful not to tighten it too much.

“I find the word ‘jiju’ extremely cringe,” he declared, staring straight ahead as if rehearsing bravery. “So I won’t be calling you that.”

A corner of my mouth lifted. “Sure,” I replied, my hands still working on the knot, pulling it neat and even.

“What should I call you?” he asked after a beat, trying for a formal tone, though the hesitation in his voice gave him away.

I glanced at him, amused. “They still haven’t invented any cool terms for this relation, so I'm not sure.”

He gave a small nod, then straightened his shoulders. “Alright, Mr. Malhotra. Let's keep it formal then.”

I almost laughed.

Of course! Like sister, like brother.

I was about to answer back, amusement rising in me, when the bathroom door clicked open. Steam curled out softly before Diya stepped into the room.

Her eyes darted between us, her voice cutting through the quiet. “What’s happening here?” she asked, startling us both into stillness.

We both looked at her in unison. My hands froze mid tie.

She stood there in a green kurta, the fabric clinging just enough to trace the soft lines of her frame. Her damp hair fell in soft, almost curly strands, tumbling around her face and brushing the graceful slope of her waist, a few stray locks curling tenderly against her temple.

Her face glowed with that post shower radiance, cheeks soft with the lingering warmth of the steam, lashes damp and delicate, lips a subtle rose, as if kissed by the morning light. Every detail held me captive.

I forced my gaze back to her brother, fingers tugging the tie into place. With one careful pull, the knot tightened, sitting neat and perfect against his collar.

He smoothed the fabric down, then wandered toward the full length mirror tucked into the corner of her room. I watched his face change in the reflection, first cautious, then satisfied.

When I glanced up again, Diya was still watching us, confusion soft in her eyes, like she’d walked into a scene she hadn’t expected.

“Thank you, Mr. Malhotra,” he said, turning back to me with a seriousness far beyond his years.

I gave him a small nod in return.

“You’ve been scamming me all these years,” Aarav announced suddenly, spinning around to face Diya.

“I just realised this is what a proper tie looks like,” he added, running his fingers over the knot with exaggerated reverence, like I’d just pulled a miracle out of thin air.

Diya’s eyes flicked to him, calm at first, taking in his dramatic display. Then, slowly, a smile tugged at her lips. But it wasn’t warm— soft, yes, but sharpened at the edges, carrying a subtle sting.

“Wow, Aarav. So much gratitude,” she said lightly, her voice sweet on the surface but edged with unmistakable sarcasm.

The air between them crackled with sibling banter, but I found myself caught on her. And for reasons I couldn’t explain, I liked seeing this, raw, unpolished side of her.

Aarav, unfazed, turned back to me, his eagerness shining through. “Can you teach me how to tie it like this?”

“Sure,” I replied, my voice steady, though something small stirred in me, an odd swell of pride.

Aarav opened his mouth to say something, but Diya stepped forward before the words could leave him.

“Can you give me your car keys?” She asked turning to me.

I slipped a hand into my pocket, our fingers brushed for the briefest moment before I placed the keys in her palm without hesitation.

“You said you had extra clothes in your car,” she continued, her gaze fixed on her brother. “Aarav will get them.”

He frowned but nodded, clearly used to her instructions.

Then she turned fully to him, her voice dropping. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”

That caught both of us off guard. I felt my brows lift before I could stop myself. Aarav blinked at her, baffled.

“You sneaked your husband in?” he blurted, eyes wide.

“You two are married. No one’s going to say anything,” he went on, a laugh bubbling up in his throat that he tried and failed to smother.

Diya's eyes narrowed into a glare. “Did I ask for your valuable feedback?” she deadpanned, her tone cutting enough to silence him instantly.

He wisely shut his mouth and left, his laughter still threatening to spill as he walked out the door.

The silence he left behind pressed heavy, and I found myself speaking before I even thought it through. “I didn’t mean to open the door,” I explained quickly. “He sounded like it was something urgent, and—”

Her eyes met mine, steady, unflinching. “It’s okay,” she said softly. The shift in her tone undid me.

Then she turned to her wardrobe, pulled open a drawer, and took out a neatly packed toothbrush. She held it out to me.

“Here.”

I took it from her, the bristles still crisp and untouched.

“I’ll pass you the clothes,” she added, glancing at the bathroom door. “You can go in.”

I nodded, my throat tight, and slipped inside.

The moment my t-shirt came off, the air shifted. A familiar fragrance wrapped around me, soft cocoa butter with something warmer beneath, a little earthy, a little sweet. My pulse stuttered.

Her.

I paused, the shirt bunched in my hands, and brought it closer to my face before I even realized what I was doing.

Why do I smell like her?

Probably the remnants of her shower. Probably nothing more.

Shaking my head, I shoved the thought away and stepped under the spray, letting the water drown it.

After a quick shower, I changed into the fresh clothes she’d handed me through the door. Thankfully, I always kept a spare set of clothes, and a pair of shoes, in my car for emergencies.

When I stepped out, she was standing by the mirror, hands at her ear, fastening a delicate earring. The soft glow of the light caught the curve of her cheekbone, the bare slope of her neck.

She turned slightly, her eyes flickering to me in the glass. “Do you want to wear your blazer?” she asked.

“I don’t have one,” I said, pulling at my shirt cuff.

Without a word, she moved to her wardrobe with quiet, practiced steps, fingers brushing against hangers until they paused at a paper bag tucked neatly at the corner.

She pulled it out, unfolded the crisp edges, and from within… a blazer emerged.

Her movements were careful, almost reverent, and for a heartbeat, all I could do was stare. Because it wasn't just any blazer. It was my blazer.

At first, confusion pricked at me, an odd sense of deja vu gnawing at the edges of recognition. Then memory snapped into place with merciless clarity.

That night.

How could I ever forget?

Her eyes stayed trained on the floor, on the dresser, on anywhere but me. “I was going to give it back,” she whispered, words careful, fragile, “but I never got a chance.”

She extended it toward me, the fabric swaying slightly between us, but I couldn’t bring myself to take it.

My gaze was caught elsewhere— on her. The way her shoulders curled inward as though she could fold herself into invisibility.

The way her chin dipped, her lashes lowered, every inch of her body language spelling out an apology that shouldn’t even exist.

My silence lingered too long, thick, and she mistook it.

“It’s not dirty,” she rushed out, almost tripping over her own voice. “I… I got it cleaned.”

Something inside my chest tightened, sharp and unbearable.

Because of course she did. Because she was always too careful, too considerate, too desperate to make things right when there had never been anything wrong.

The fabric she held out was clean, pressed, untouched. But all I could see was her, clutching it like she owed me something, like I’d think less of her if she hadn’t gone out of her way.

I waited.

I waited for her to look at me. And I knew she wouldn’t do it on her own. So I didn’t take the blazer. I let the weight of inaction stretch thin between us, until her restraint cracked and her gaze finally lifted, colliding with mine.

“It was never dirty,” I said quietly, steady, holding her eyes as if I could will her to believe it.

Only then did I take the blazer from her hands, sliding it over my shoulders. The fabric settled against me, familiar and strange all at once.

And only then did I notice what I was wearing beneath. The same black shirt and the same black trousers I was wearing that night. As if fate had dressed me deliberately.

We moved toward the door together, her steps quick, mine deliberate. Just as her fingers curled around the knob, I saw it, her grip falter, knuckles paling.

“You came here early morning because I asked you to bring my laptop,” she said, voice steady but eyes fixed ahead, like reciting lines she’d rehearsed.

I frowned, confused. “What?”

“If anyone asks, that’s what we’ll say,” she clarified.

“Okay…” I agreed slowly, still watching her. “But… why not the truth?”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. Like she was weighing something inside herself, debating if it deserved air.

Her shoulders tensed, then loosened. And when she finally spoke, the words were laced with a bitterness so quiet it hurt.

“Not everyone understands why a grown adult has a cat plushie.”

The words slipped out before I could catch them.

I hadn’t meant to say them, not like this, not loud enough for him to hear every hesitation, every weight behind them.

I turned away, almost opening the door to escape the sudden vulnerability of my own voice. But then, something inside me pulled me back, and I found myself looking at him again.

“You don’t need to do any formalities when we go down,” I said softly, the sound of my own words strange in my ears. “I don’t care about rituals, traditions… or what married people are supposed to do.”

I swallowed, my gaze dropping. “I know you didn’t want this marriage. And I know we decided to do it for our families… but you don’t have to pretend even for them.”

I didn’t know if I was making sense. I just didn’t want him to carry burdens he never asked for. I didn’t want him to perform gestures that felt alien, to bend himself to fit in.

He looked at me then, his eyes steady, unflinching, but soft. There was something unreadable there, a pause where I thought he might speak, but he didn’t.

He simply nodded and it was enough.

We walked downstairs together, our footsteps soft against the polished floor. The house was quiet, punctuated only by the rustle of papers and the faint clinking of utensils from the kitchen.

It was nothing like his house, where warmth always hovered in the hum of conversation. Here, the stillness pressed in, intimate and almost fragile.

When we reached the living room, my father looked up, surprised and asked when he had arrived. I delivered the lie I had carefully rehearsed, and Mr. Malhotra mirrored me perfectly.

He touched my parents’ feet with quiet respect, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Every subtle movement, every flicker of expression on his face, my gaze traced it all.

If even the smallest sign of discomfort appeared, I had already decided we would retreat back to my room.

The house felt strangely empty. Aarav and Ananya had already left for school and college.

So it was just us until the villian arrived.

“Arey damad ji, aap kab aaye?” Bua’s voice floated into the living room, carrying a sweetness I had never heard from her before.

[“Oh son-in-law, when did you arrive?”]

“Subah aaye hain, Diya ka laptop dene,” my father replied.

[“He came this morning to give Diya her laptop.”]

I knew her tongue was itching to say something sharp to me, but she didn’t utter a word.

Mr. Malhotra rose from the couch and bent to touch her feet. “I’m Diya’s bua. You must’ve seen me at your wedding,” she said, placing a hand on his head.

I was suppressing the urge to brush that touch off.

He didn’t give a reply, just a nod, curt but respectful. Then he settled back beside me, calm, composed, the way he always was, as if the world could tip sideways and he would remain unmoved.

They exchanged a few more polite words before my mother called us to settle for breakfast.

We stood, ready to move toward the dining table, moving in the quiet rhythm of the morning, when Bua’s sharp voice clipped the air, halting me mid step.

“Diya,” she called, and instinctively, we both turned.

“Tumne damad ji ke pair chuye?” she asked, eyes sparkling like she knew exactly what she was doing.

[“Did you touch son-in-law’s feet?”]

Why can’t she ever leave me alone?

I didn’t reply.

She passed me a smile, but it wasn’t sweet.

“Bhool gai hogi, koi baat nahi, abhi choo lo,” she added deliberately.

[“You must have forgotten, it’s okay, touch them now.”]

My fingers clenched, nails digging into my palm. Did I have a problem touching his feet? No. I could do it over a thousand times, without hesitation.

It wasn’t about doing it.

It was about why she expected it. About the suffocating weight of tradition, the old rules dressed up as respect, the patriarchal undercurrent I refused to swallow.

And of course, she knew. She knew I wouldn’t refuse. She knew my father was here. She knew every unspoken rule I had to obey.

So I bent forward, ready to do it, when her words cut through me.

“Not like this. Do it properly, your forehead should touch his feet.”

My chest tightened, a bitter surge of fury coiling inside me.

I hate this.

I hate her.

I hate everything.

But even in that anger, I couldn’t help glancing up, and for the first time, he wasn’t looking back at me.

His eyes were fixed on Bua, calm, steady, unreadable. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

Let’s just get this over with. I told myself, forcing my resolve, and bent forward, ready to drop to my knees.

But two steady arms caught me, holding back my weight.

“Why does she need to touch my feet?” His voice was calm, too calm, but the usual softness in his eyes had shifted. There was something unreadable there, a flicker of intensity that made my chest tighten.

It wasn’t discomfort. It wasn’t anger. It was something far sharper, heavier, a quiet force that demanded attention.

Bua’s eyes narrowed, but she recovered quickly. “It’s tradition,” she said, as if stating a fact could make the centuries old, suffocating mindset feel harmless.

I was still trying to untangle my thoughts when I felt something unexpectedly cool graze my feet. My gaze dropped, and the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding hitched sharply in my throat.

I froze.

He was kneeling before me, his forehead bowed against my feet with such reverence that the world shrank to the space between us.

Time slowed. His presence was a quiet force, grounding yet electric, carrying a weight of respect I had never known.

The air felt heavy, my chest constricted, every nerve alert.

And before I could breathe, before I could even crouch down to stop him, he was back on his feet.

“You…” My words faltered, melting in my throat under his knowing look. There was something in the calm assurance of his gaze that made me feel both seen and startled at the same time.

“Tradition done?” he asked Bua, voice clipped, precise.

A rush of satisfaction warmed me from inside. And yet, guilt prickled sharp and immediate, because he had touched my feet.

“I’m her equal,” he said quietly, meeting my eyes, before looking back at her. “Not her god.”

Bua stilled, words caught on her tongue. I couldn’t help the flicker of amusement at her silence, it was rare, and somehow, deliciously satisfying.

Wordlessly, we walked toward the dining table, the soft scrape of our steps blending with the low hum of Dad’s work call. He was absorbed in it, entirely oblivious to everything else.

Mr. Malhotra pulled out a chair for me, then settled beside me.

I thought breakfast might pass quietly, peacefully even. But peace and the woman sitting across from us, rarely traveled together.

“Diya, damad ji ko nashta serve karo,” she said, eyes sharp, voice sweet but edged like a blade.

[“Diya, serve breakfast to son-in-law.”]

I was going to serve him regardless, not out of obligation, but because I wanted to. Because I didn’t want him to feel awkward, to stumble under the weight of any expectations.

But now, with this self appointed dictator dictating my actions, my resolve wavered. I didn’t want to do it anymore.

Still, I reached to pull out his plate, fingers brushing the rim, when his hand stopped me.

He took the plate from my hands gently. “She is not my servant. I can do it myself,” he said looking at bua, leaving no room for argument.

I was still processing each word when he added more.

“Or is it tradition again?” he asked her in the same tone he uses with his employees.

My eyes darted to my parents. Dad remained absorbed in his file, unconcerned. Maa, however, gave me a small, knowing smile.

Mr. Malhotra didn’t wait for Bua’s reply. He moved with deliberate ease, putting food on his plate. When he was done, he swapped it with my empty one.

Then he served himself and began eating. My brain felt like it was short circuiting. Too much. Too many things to process.

So I decided to focus on my own plate, letting the warmth of the food anchor me.

I hadn’t imagined the morning would unfold like this. From the moment he arrived, the air had shifted— different, lighter somehow, as if the weight of expectation had softened just a little.

Last night had been different. I was crying when he texted me. And it took me nearly ten minutes to compose myself, to make my face look normal and presentable.

And still, he had noticed, the quiet shadow under my eyes, the faint puffiness that betrayed my exhaustion.

I had expected to cry myself to sleep, to wake again in the dark with tears still clinging to my lashes.

But it didn’t happen. For the first time in what felt like forever, I actually rested, truly, deeply, without the weight of my own thoughts pressing me down.

When I woke, with the brain of a jellyfish, I thought I was still dreaming of him.

He murmured something about me touching him, and in my groggy, dream drunk state, I tried to respond as though it were part of the dream.

But when the undeniable reality hit me. That he was real. Warm, solid, awake, right there beside me. I was so embarssed I wanted to melt in the sheets.

But thankfully… he said nothing. He simply let it pass, and together we pretended, seamlessly and shamelessly that nothing happened.

And now, at the breakfast table, the thought of food no longer made my stomach twist. I didn’t have to survive on nothing but orange juice, carefully swallowing around the lump of anxiety in my throat.

I actually ate. A proper meal. Slowly, deliberately, without the constant shadow of worry that usually hovered over every bite. No thoughts threatening to send me spiraling. Just the warmth of food, the quiet normalcy of the morning, and him beside me.

I thought the rest of my stay in this house, this place that no longer felt fully mine, would be miserable. But somehow, it wasn’t. The day, this moment, was quiet, steady, and for once, gentle.

When breakfast ended, my parents suggested he stay a little longer. But he declined politely.

And though I didn’t want him to stay here, something inside me shifted. My chest tightened with each step he took toward the main door.

I can’t wait for evening. I wanted to leave right now. Please, take me with you. The thought clawed at me, insistent and urgent.

But soon he disappeared from view, leaving me alone. I reluctantly turned toward the stairs, subconsciously bracing myself for the inevitable lecture on what a married woman “should” do, how she “should” behave.

“Vedant beta? Did you forget something?” My mother’s voice cut through my thoughts.

I turned to see him standing in the living room, again. His gaze flicked to mine for a heartbeat before he addressed Maa. “Can I take her back with me?”

Maa gave me that knowing smile, warm and playful. “Haan, le jao. Tumhari hi biwi hai— isme puchne wali kya baat hai.”

[“Yes, take her. She’s your wife, what’s there to ask?”]

He nodded once, brief, composed, and yet the tilt of his head carried reassurance.

Thank the universe for small mercies today.

Mr. Malhotra’s eyes met mine, calm, unreadable, silently saying, I’ll be waiting. My pulse spiked, and I darted upstairs, gathering my things with hurried hands.

The hallway was quiet, almost peaceful, when I was returning with my things, until Bua’s voice cut through it like a knife.

“Yes… she didn’t even wear a saree, let alone apply vermillion,” Bua said, speaking to someone on call.

The words hit me like a cold splash of water. So that's why she left the breakfast table early.

Her voice dropped lower, venom lacing every syllable. “I doubt she even satisfies his needs. Or even lets him touch her. And when he will find satisfaction in other women, she will come here crying, to be a burden on my brother.”

I froze. How can someone be so fucking disgusting? I felt bile rise in my throat.

I stormed into her room without a single thought, anger propelling my steps. The moment she saw me, her voice faltered.

“Arey Diya, come, we were talking about you—”

“I know exactly what you were talking about,” I cut her off, cold and sharp.

“Not every man is like your husband. Not everyone cheats on their wife for sexual needs.”

Her jaw tightened, but I didn’t pause. I would’ve let her get away with her insults if they were just aimed at me, but dragging him into her garbage talk was a mistake she would regret.

She gasped, eyes wide, a flicker of fear betraying her composure.

“Are you not being a burden on your brother?” I pressed, voice low but cutting. “After marriage, the in laws’ house becomes our home, right? Then what exactly are you doing here?”

“Diya!” Her voice tried to swell, sharp and defensive. “Is this how you talk to your elders? I will tell Anil everything!”

“Yes, go ahead and tell him,” I snapped. “Tell him that you were discussing his daughter’s sex life with random people. And don’t forget to mention your brilliant prediction, that his son in law would cheat on her for sex.”

Her jaw literally dropped. Not because of what I said about her, but because I had uttered the word sex out loud.

I stepped closer, heat coiling through me, every inch of me simmering with controlled anger.

“I’m warning you, for the first and the last time, keep my husband’s name out of your filthy mouth.”

My sleep cycle was back to square one.

It was two a.m., and sleep had slipped away from me. I twisted and turned on the cold floor, each movement futile. My mind refused to rest.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About the fact that I’m really… married now.

If my younger self could see me, he’d probably laugh, or choke, or simply refuse to believe it. Me. Married. The word tasted strange, heavy and surreal all at once.

The memory of that night still haunts me. Dadu's struggles, the uneven rhythm of his breaths, the panic clawing at my chest as I watched him helpless and desperate. I could still feel it.

He’s better now. But he’s not the same. I see it in the quiet lines of his face, the pauses that weren’t there before. And yet… he’s smiling again, lightly, almost fragilely.

At least I was able to give him that. A small comfort, a quiet fragment of peace. Tiny, maybe insignificant compared to everything he has given me, but still something.

It’s not that I don’t think about the fact that I never wanted this.

I do sometimes.

But every time my mind drifts that way, it’s pulled back to the image of Diya sobbing and gasping for air, at midnight, in the middle of nowhere.

And then… a pang of embarrassment hits. To even think about how my life has changed after marriage feels petty and shameful. Because technically, it hasn't.

It feels selfish, like I have no right to dwell on the past when her pain lingers in my chest more than anything else.

I was swallowed by my thoughts when I heard it. A sound so soft, so tentative, it almost slipped past my awareness. Then it came again, muffled, almost breaking.

Sobs.

I froze, every sense on edge.

Am I imagining it? Or… is it really her? Diya… crying?

I slowly sat up, letting my body adjust to the stillness of the room, and tried to make out her shape in the dim light of the night lamp.

She was curled up on the couch, small and tense, almost trying to make herself invisible.

Then came another soft sniffle, and I felt a cold knot forming deep inside my chest.

Had I made a mistake bringing her back without asking her? I just... didn't want her to stay around her bua any longer.

Though it's not like we communicate alot. But I can tell. I always can when her silence is simply her being herself… and when her silence is her trying to disappear.

She’s been different since we arrived here. It wasn't obvious, but the subtle shifts that didn't go unnoticed by me.

It didn't look like she didn’t want to come with me. No. It was something else,  something I tried so hard to understand, but couldn’t.

She was silent during the car ride, and when we reached home, she buried herself in her studies. I watched quietly, noting the effort she made to stay occupied.

I was relieved when I saw her eating breakfast properly. But by lunch, and then dinner, she had slipped back into her old pattern, small bites, hesitant hands, eyes that seemed elsewhere.

And now… at two a.m., she was crying. My body wanted to move, to reach for her, to ask. But a thought stopped me cold.

Right now, didn't need my interference or my questions. She needed space.

So I lay back down, stiff and restless, forcing my hands to stay still. And with every sound that drifted through the quiet, every soft sob that reached my ears, my chest sank a little deeper.

After what felt like an eternity, her sobs stopped. I rose slowly, letting the floor anchor each careful step as I approached the couch.

My flashlight hovered in my hand, angled away from her face, but the soft beam was enough to reveal the traces of her tears.

My chest tightened, a heavy weight pressing down as if my ribs could contain the ache of seeing her like this.

I leaned closer, careful not to wake her, and brushed a stray strand of hair from her tear streaked cheek.

“I gave you all the space you needed,” I whispered, my voice low enough to blend with the quiet of the room.

“Now… I need you in my space.”

I let my hand fall back gently, watching her chest rise and fall with each slow, peaceful breath.

“You won’t be sleeping on the couch anymore.”

The words hung in the stillness, a quiet promise hovering over her slumber— soft, unspoken, yet heavier than any command I’d ever given.

🪔

Morning light was barely seeping through the curtains. And the first thing I noticed was her head dangling off the couch, again.

God, Diya.

I moved closer, careful, almost afraid to break the fragile calm she carried even in sleep. With gentle hands, I lifted her head and rested it back on the pillow.

“Are you trying to strain your neck?” I murmured, a breath of amusement escaping me as my eyes caught the other two pillows lying abandoned on the floor.

I bent down and arranged them, one at her feet, the other tucked between her arms. She clutched it instantly.

Sleepyhead.

Even as I left for the gym, my thoughts lingered on her. On the way she curled into pillows, the way she hugged them, the quiet rhythm of her breathing.

Every thought circled around finding a way to coax her to the bed and to let her rest properly.

After thinking for a while, I finally found a solution.

I wouldn’t have pushed her if she had been even a little uncomfortable sharing a bed with me.

But she wasn’t.

She was just… herself. Always making herself smaller, folding inwards, trying not to take up space, trying to keep everyone else comfortable.

The weights clinked around me, but I barely noticed. My mind was circling the plan I had carefully laid out. I grabbed my phone and called Varun.

“What a great morning, Vedant Malhotra is calling me?” I shook my head, a faint smile tugging at my lips. Some things never change.

“Are you free today?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

“Not if you’re going to make me call people and ask them to lie for you,” he replied immediately. 

He wasn’t letting this go anytime soon.

“I won’t,” I said, though I knew exactly what I’d be doing.

A beat of silence passed before I continued, “Can you come over today?”

“Is everything alright?” His voice sharpened, alarm threading through it.

“Yes,” I said, steadying myself, feeling the burn in my arms from the weights I wasn’t really lifting. “Just come around five.” That’s when Diya usually takes her study break. “And… bring Pluto with you.”

“I’ll answer your questions when you show up with Pluto,” I added quickly, before he could launch into a thousand why’s and how’s.

“Alright.”

The line went silent. I hung up, letting a quiet satisfaction settle over me as I returned my attention to what I was doing.

🪔

The clock neared five, and finally, Diya had gone off to spend time with Misha. Thankfully the house felt quieter today, giving me space to think… and to act.

When Varun arrived, I didn’t waste a second. I grabbed him by the arm, dragging him toward my room, Pluto trotting along like he already knew the plan. The soft padding of his paws against the floor made a comforting rhythm.

“Are you going to tell me now?” Varun asked as I finally closed the door behind us.

I crouched to greet Pluto first. It had been a year since I last saw him, and he had grown, but the spark in his eyes, the same puppyish eagerness, was still there. The fur under my fingers was soft, slightly coarse at the tips, warm against my palms.

“Come,” I said, patting the couch. Pluto jumped up gracefully, settling beside me. His tail thumped against the cushion.

Varun’s eyebrows shot up. “What are you—?”

I ignored him, instead focusing on Pluto. A few gentle pats on the back later, he did exactly what he had come for, sinking his teeth into the fabric with perfect precision.

Varun lunged, “He’ll ruin your couch!” he exclaimed.

I held him back, a slow grin spreading across my face.

“That’s exactly what he’s here for.”

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Hello natkhats, sorry for the delay 😞

How was the chapter? Did you like it? What was your favourite part? 👀💬

Drop your thoughts, favourite scene or favourite lines in the comments 🎀

Smash the ⭐️ if you liked the chapter and drop alot of comments 💗

Follow me on instagram for book aesthetics and spicy spoilers ✨

ig : authorem_

Thankyou for reading.

- M 💌