When my eyes fluttered open, I thought he had skipped the gym again. But then I glanced at the clock- 4:30 a.m..

What surprised me wasn't the time, it was the quiet miracle of how I felt. Rested. My body free of its usual heaviness, my head clear, unburdened.

I couldn't remember the last time I opened my eyes without the weight of exhaustion pressing me back into the pillow.

I thought of studying, just to make use of the hour, and quietly shifted to leave. But the moment I moved, something pulled me back.

A subtle tug.

Slowly, I lifted the duvet and the sight rooted me in place.

His hand was resting against my wrist, fingers curled as if they had wandered there by instinct. His thumb pressed into my skin with the softest pressure, like it had a purpose.

I stilled. My breath caught somewhere between my chest and my throat. The faint brush of his skin against mine made the air feel thicker.

This wasn't new. He had done this before too, unaware. Still, I found myself staring, letting the warmth of his palm sink into me.

When I was little, I used to fall asleep with my nani's hand in mine, certain the ghosts would gobble me up if I let go.

Is he... scared of ghosts too? It makes sense now. There's no other reason his hand would drift to mine like this.

It's okay. Maybe he is still learning how to keep his ghosts at bay. Maybe, in some unspoken way, he needed to hold my hand too.

I gently tried to slip free. His grip wasn't tight, but there was resistance in the way his thumb pressed down, unwilling to release me.

He stirred, and panic surged through me. My breath lodged in my throat, my body going rigid, afraid he'd wake up and catch me watching.

Only when his chest rose and fell evenly again did I dare to move, inch by inch, until his hand fell away and I could rise from the bed.

When my feet touched the cold marble floor, my gaze landed on the two abandoned pillows. Mine, of course.

With an inaudible sigh, I picked them up and placed them back on the bed.

Being the first one awake felt oddly satisfying. The silence was mine alone, unshared, undisturbed.

For a fleeting moment, I wondered if I could do this every day. Three seconds later, the thought was gone. No. Sleep and I had always been inseparable.

I reached for my books and laptop from the side table, the one that no longer had a couch beside it. With nowhere else to perch, the bed would have to do.

The room was cloaked in half darkness, the sun barely stirring behind the curtains. I switched on the lamp by my side, its glow spilling gently across the sheets, warm, muted, and careful not to disturb the man still sleeping beside me.

I propped two pillows behind me, sinking into the headboard. My laptop rested on my lap, headphones connected, as I reopened the lecture I'd abandoned yesterday- cut short when Vivaan had barged in, determined to drag me outside.

I had resisted at first, offering every excuse, yet within minutes I was in the garden with a football at my feet.

I hadn't wanted to play then, but now the memory lingered softly, warming me from the inside. It had been... unexpectedly fun.

Turning my focus back to the screen, I pressed play, the professor's voice flowing steadily through my headphones.

I scribbled short notes as I listened, a rhythm that made the knowledge feel tangible, held safe within the folds of my notebook.

Only ten months stand between me and the end of my articleship. Ten months before the CA Finals decide whether all these years of exhaustion will finally be worth it.

As much as I'd complained about having no office work, this one week of leave feels like a blessing in disguise. I've never had this kind of time for myself and for my books, without the usual chaos.

Balancing office deadlines with coaching classes had always been like reconciling mismatched ledgers... something always fell short. Morning audits bled into late night lectures, and revision was shoved into whatever crevice of time I could scrape together.

With time finally on my side, I dove in, hour after hour- eight, sometimes nine. In just four days, I had finished a major chunk of group two.

What do you mean it's my coping mechanism to escape the horrifying reality of being a married woman? So what if it's a truth I'm still learning to wear without choking? A win is still a win.

I was so absorbed, lost in the quiet rhythm of provisions and case laws, that I didn't notice him stir. Not until the video dimmed to black, interrupted by an ad, did I finally feel the weight of his eyes on me, pulling my focus away from everything else.

I turned, and he was awake. Sleep still clung to his lashes, but his eyes were quietly fixed on me, calm and unblinking.

"Good morning?" I murmured, trying to sound casual, as if it were nothing unusual for two people who barely knew each other to share a bed- but it slipped out as a question.

"When did you wake up?" His voice was low and rough, still thick with sleep. The huskiness, and the pause before he spoke, made the words feel heavier than they should, almost impossibly commanding.

"4:28," I said, a little too proudly, my pen still scratching across the notebook. I didn't dare look at him- had to keep up the act of being "just focused on work."

But honestly? I wanted him to see it. That he wasn't the only early riser, I could wake up before him too.

What did he say in front of Meera aunty? "Yeah, very early." Look at him now... all sleepy, and totally out of his element.

"Why?" There was an edge to his voice now, a tension that wasn't casual, almost like a quiet worry laced between the words.

"I usually wake up early," I muttered, sneaking a quick glance at him before pretending the screen held my full attention.

"Really?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. Even half asleep, he had that ridiculous knack for turning everything into a challenge.

"You're too doubtful for someone who woke up after the sun," I said, letting my gaze drift to the balcony, tracing the soft spill of morning light.

"Indeed... after the sun," he murmured, his eyes lingering on me just a moment longer than necessary.

The weight of that gaze settled on me, and with unbidden fascination, I found myself wondering, what thoughts lingered behind those calm, deliberate eyes.

Without another word, he slipped out of bed, the sheets shifting where he had been, still carrying a faint warmth.

I tracked him from the corner of my eye, careful not to look up, letting my attention stay fixed on the screen.

Barely fifteen minutes passed before he returned. He usually took forty five minutes to get back from the gym... why was he so early today?

Then a tray caught my eye, carried delicately in his hands. The faint aroma of coffee drifted toward me, warm, comforting, and oddly grounding.

Before I could frame a thought, he set it gently beside the lamp.

"I accidentally made extra coffee," he said, his voice calm, almost casual. "Thought you might help me avoid wasting it."

I was about to nod, about to say yes, when the chorus in my mind rose like a tide, waves of doubt and reason colliding, threatening to drown me.

How could I drink coffee made by him, in his own house? How can I not feel guilty? Was it not a selfish intrusion into a space that wasn't mine?

I shaped my face into a mask of normalcy, but my hands felt heavy, my chest tight. Did he notice the subtle flicker of hesitation, the shadow that might've crossed my features?

"You don't like coffee?" he asked, voice patient, eyes lingering on me.

"I... I like it," I whispered, small and hesitant. Then, after a heartbeat, "I'll have it."

Because the thought of refusing him felt heavier than the thought of accepting it.

My chest tightened at the idea, as if saying no carried some invisible weight, pressing down where it didn't belong.

Yet... logically, none of this made sense.

These thoughts were absurd. Irrational. I was not doing anything wrong. I was not crossing a line.

I would allow myself this simple comfort. It wasn't even intentional after all, and in truth... I had been craving it all along.

"Thank you," I muttered.

The guilt that had clung so stubbornly fell away when I finally met his gaze. He gave a small, quiet nod before leaving the room again.

The first sip met my lips, and suddenly, the tension I hadn't even realized I was carrying seemed to melt away, dissolving into nothing.

It was strong yet creamy, sweet without tipping into cloying, a perfect balance, just the way I liked it.

Far too perfect for an accidental coffee.

I lingered over every drop, letting the warmth settle inside me, before finally placing the empty cup back on the tray.

That’s when I noticed a neatly folded tissue resting beside the spoon. Odd. Why would he…?

The thought barely formed before the laptop screen threw me under its cruel light.

A faint white streak on my upper lip. A ridiculous little milk moustache.

Oh.

So this is why...?

Heat surged to my cheeks so fast it made me press the tissue against my lips in a flurry.

Even alone, I felt absurdly caught, like he’d managed to tease me without even being in the room.

“You’re so bad,” I muttered, before hiding my face in my palms. Should I be thanking him for his foresight… or plotting revenge for remembering this at all?

🪔

The day slipped past in its usual rhythm, and by evening I was standing before a mirror— not in his room, but in Tanya’s.

If she hadn’t reminded me, I might’ve forgotten altogether that tonight was my reception. It felt surreal, how ordinary the hours had been, only to end in something so ceremonious.

And somehow, Tanya had taken it upon herself to get me ready.

To be honest, I was really grateful because without her, I would’ve been lost in this six yard labyrinth, tripping over folds, probably close to tears.

Her hands were sure, practiced, as if she had draped a hundred sarees before this one.

“Hold this,” she said, her tone brisk but kind, as she handed me the neatly pressed pleats. I held them carefully, watching her fingers move with a grace born of habit, pinning them together with quick precision. Then she helped me tuck the pleats in place.

“You’re so good at this,” I told her, watching her hands move with effortless grace, turning yards of silk into something wearable.

“I didn’t know how to wear a saree,” she said, smiling as if at some secret memory. “Atharv taught me.”

“He knew how to drape one?” I asked, curiosity slipping into my voice.

She laughed, the sound light. “No. We both practiced on each other. So now we’re both pro at it.”

“Seriously?” My brows lifted, amused.

She nodded, her smile widening, and the room filled with our shared laughter.

All three of them are absolute sweethearts. Tanya and Misha are so loved by Atharv bhaiya. It's heartwarming and seeing them like this almost heals something in me.

Tanya moved behind me then, her fingers combing gently through my hair, twisting, weaving, shaping it into a neat bun. I sat still, staring at my reflection, watching how easily she worked.

When she finished, she reached for her kohl, uncapped it, and with tender precision drew a small dot behind my ear.

“I don’t even believe in this stuff,” she confessed softly, eyes crinkling with mischief. “But you’re looking so pretty, I can’t take risks.”

I took the kohl pencil from her hand and traced a small dot behind her ear.

“I can’t take risks either,” I said, making her laugh, her eyes shining with joy.

She looked radiant in her midnight blue saree, the fabric echoing the shades Atharv bhaiya and little Misha wore.

Together, the three of them were a picture, soft, whole, the kind of family that makes your chest ache in the sweetest way.

Turning back to the mirror, I let my eyes linger on my own reflection. Truth be told— I felt… pretty. The red saree deepened the warmth of my skin, making it glow like firelight.

The bangles clinking on my wrists felt different now, lighter somehow, no longer the weight they’d been on the wedding day. Almost as if I was wearing them for myself this time.

After thanking Tanya— though she waved it off with a smile— I slipped out of her room.

And the moment I stepped into mine— I mean... his room, the familiar scent of his cologne wrapped around me, quiet and consuming.

He stood by the mirror in a black tuxedo, all crisp edges and quiet authority. So different from the sleepy, rumpled man I’d seen this morning.

When his gaze found me, he went utterly still. The perfume bottle in his hand froze mid air. His gaze swept over me, slow and deliberate, tracing me from head to toe.

He didn’t just look at me, his eyes lingered, weighty and relentless, pressing against my pulse until it skipped a beat I hadn’t known I owned.

Why is he staring? Do I… not look good?

I cleared my throat, the sound small but enough to break whatever spell hung in the air. He set the perfume bottle down and stepped aside, leaving the mirror for me.

I lifted the necklace to my throat, fastening its clasp, the earrings soon after. My fingers brushed against my ear when I felt it, that same gaze meeting mine again through the glass.

“Do you need anything?” I asked softly, shattering the silence before it swallowed me whole.

“I was supposed to get you a gift... on the first day,” he said, voice even but not quite steady, the faintest edge of hesitation threading through.

I turned to face him, my head tilted, fingers still struggling with my earring.

“I ordered it four days ago,” he continued, pulling a slim velvet box from a paper bag, “but the delivery took longer than it should have.”

It took me a minute to realise he was talking about the ‘pehli rasoi.’

“Vivaan was joking,” I murmured, fastening the earring at last. “You didn’t have to get anything.”

“Maa asked me to,” he replied simply, stepping closer and extending the box toward me.

I shook my head lightly. “I can’t take this… I didn’t get anything for you,” I confessed, eyes darting away, guilt prickling soft against my ribs.

“You don't need to.” His voice carried a certainty that stilled me, warm but firm enough to leave no space for argument. My eyes lifted back to his, and he added. “You’re supposed to be on the receiving end.”

A beat. His gaze didn’t waver.

“According to the ritual.”

My protest rose instinctively. “But—”

“We’re getting late,” he cut in, not harshly, but with that quiet finality he always carried.

The velvet box hovered between us and with reluctant fingers, I finally took it.

“Open it,” he said, voice even, though I caught the faint edge of nervousness threading through it.

I lifted the lid, and nestled inside was a delicate gold chain, tiny stones catching the light like scattered stars. For a moment, I only stared, it was beautiful, understated, almost fragile.

“I didn’t know what else to get you,” he admitted, his tone softening, eyes searching mine as if for approval. “So I chose this.”

Curious, I lifted the chain between my fingers. It slipped through my hands like liquid sunlight, but as it pooled against my palm, its length startled me.

And the moment I saw the clasp— realization struck, my breath stuttered.

No. it couldn’t be...

Heat climbed swiftly to my cheeks.

A waist chain?

I swallowed hard, the air suddenly too thick, too heavy. His gaze hadn’t leave me, and that only made the realization sharper.

Before I could bury the thought, he frowned, tilting his head. “Why is it this big? It’s supposed to be a bracelet.” His eyes narrowed as he studied the length of gold dangling from my hand.

“It’s not a bracelet,” I managed, my gaze darting anywhere but him. My voice dropped even lower, barely above a whisper. “It’s… a waist chain.”

The horror in his eyes was almost comical, if not for the thick silence that followed, charged and fragile.

“What?” The word tumbled out of him, horrified, as if I’d just accused him of something scandalous.

He snatched his phone from the table, fingers flying across the screen. A second later, he turned it toward me. “See? It is a bracelet.”

On the display, the same chain gleamed— only smaller, delicate, easily mistaken for what he thought it was. But my eyes slid down to the product description beneath the picture.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. I just lifted a finger and pointed.

His gaze followed mine. And then— silence.

For fifteen whole seconds, he looked like the ground had just slipped beneath his feet, like the universe had set him up. Then the words tumbled out of him in a rush.

“I’m so sorry. I swear I didn’t know. It looked like a bracelet, I thought it was a bracelet— I didn’t read that part, I didn’t know it was a waist chain, I—”

His expression was a jumble of guilt, embarrassment, and sheer confusion, and yet the apologies kept tumbling from his lips in a frantic rush.

“It’s okay,” I said quickly, though I was equally red and embarrassed. “I’ve been there too. I once ordered a ring and ended up with a bracelet because I forgot to read the description.”

I said gently, hoping to lift the weight sitting so heavily on his shoulders. But silence stretched between us, and the look didn’t leave his face.

That raw embarrassment paired with a guilt I knew too well clung to him like a second skin. My chest tightened, aching with a strange, unspoken understanding.

“Do you want me to pretend this never happened?” I asked, pulling out my oldest coping mechanism, the one that had carried me through years of awkward and embarassing situations.

His nod came immediately. Too immediate. And that eagerness— oh, I swallowed my laughter so hard it burned my throat.

And just like that, the moment folded itself away. We left for the venue. The car ride was quiet, words tucked between us, both of us conserving whatever scraps of energy we had for the performance that waited and bracing ourselves for the roles we’d have to step into.

When we arrived, the air shifted. The weight of expectation descended. And in the soft glow of lights and flowers, we became the couple everyone wanted to see.

The happy newlyweds.

We smiled until our cheeks ached, thanked every well wisher with rehearsed grace, let congratulations roll off us like a tide we had no choice but to stand in.

It was strange, how convincing we were, moving through a crowd as if joy came naturally to us.

And still, somewhere deep inside, I wondered if he felt the same exhaustion I did. The same longing for quiet— for a space where neither of us had to perform.

For more than three hours we stood there, receiving gifts and blessings from people we barely knew. Faces blurred, voices melted into each other, and still we nodded, smiled, played our part.

Every now and then, my gaze strayed to him, only to find his already on me. Those fleeting glances were the only unscripted thing in the evening.

By the end of it, the weight of it all pressed down on us. My feet ached and my head felt heavy.

Beside me, he still carried himself with that steady composure. But I could see it, in the quiet shadow of his eyes— the same exhaustion I felt.

He drove us home in silence, the hum of the car filling the spaces where words might have been. And when we finally reached, all I wanted was to collapse onto the first surface soft enough to hold me.

Still, I dragged myself up the stairs, every step heavier than the last. With the stubborn patience of someone who had stood upright for three endless hours, I rummaged for whatever clothes my hands could reach.

I wasn’t in the state to give a damn about propriety. Off went the bra, and on came my oversized shirt— the one that always felt like a soft exhale against my skin.

Tonight, though, it felt different. Maybe it was the exhaustion, but the fabric seemed to carry a different comfort, something I hadn’t realized I needed.

I wiped away the weight of makeup, unpinned my hair until it spilled loose and heavy, and went straight to bed. The mattress welcomed me like an old friend. My body barely touched it before sleep pulled me under.

The evening had wrung me dry. Not of strength— I’ve known harder, longer nights.

This was heavier. The kind that gnawed at my head, that drained my social battery until silence became a craving.

And I knew I wasn’t alone in it. Diya wore the same fatigue, I saw it in the way her shoulders sagged once the car doors shut, in the way her eyes fought against sleep even as she tried to sit straight.

Watching her hold herself together for hours, all grace and quiet nods, made me want to bundle her away before the world took another piece of her.

By the time we reached home, she was gone from my sight, slipped into our room, then into the washroom.

A stupid and selfish part of me hadn’t wanted the evening to end. The sight of her in red saree replaying mercilessly in my mind. She’d looked different tonight. Not just beautiful, but… divine. I couldn’t stop glancing at her.

The washroom door creaked, and she stepped out— hair loose, eyes half closed, no saree, no earrings, no careful bun.

Just paw print pajamas and a T-shirt that looked a little too… familiar.

Later, when I stepped inside and reached for what I thought was mine, I stilled. The T-shirt in my hands felt wrong. Smaller, softer, carrying faint traces of something that wasn’t me.

I frowned— until I realized.

It wasn’t mine.

It was hers.

Which could only mean the one she's wearing is... mine.

And just like that, the exhaustion I’d been drowning in all night scattered, replaced by something sharp, restless, unexplainably alive.

The realization flickered through me like a struck match. Such a simple confusion— two shirts, the same shade of black, nothing more. She must have grabbed it in her sleep drunk haze.

Yet the thought of her wrapped in something of mine sent a quiet storm rippling through me. My shirt on her skin. My fabric carrying her warmth. I told myself it was nothing. But the truth was, it was anything but ‘nothing.’

I changed quietly, slipping into sweatpants and walked out.

I knew she was too far gone in slumber to see me shirtless. I pulled on another shirt, the act quick and practiced, before turning toward the bed.

She was so lost to sleep she hadn’t even tucked Honey into her arms tonight. The little plush sat at her side, its stitched eyes fixed on me with a kind of silent accusation, as if her forgotten ritual was somehow my fault.

I sighed. She drew comfort from this toy, so I reached across, gentle as a thief in the dark and placed it back into the cradle of her arms.

Instinct did the rest, her fingers curled around it, her breathing steadied, and the faintest ease softened her features.

Only then did I turn off the lights and retreat to my side of the bed.

Sleep came quickly, dragging me under before I could think too much about the way she looked in that red saree or with my t-shirt on, or the way the room felt different with her breathing beside me.

🪔

The knocks dragged me out of sleep, insistent, steady, refusing to let me ignore them. I blinked at the clock— Twelve p.m.

What the hell.

I turned, and there she was, curled into the center of the bed, her breathing soft, her face untroubled. Peaceful in a way that made me want to look at her until she woke up.

And then memory came rushing back— six a.m., the weight of her hand on my chest, the shock of finding her so close, her body gravitating toward me in sleep.

I hadn’t moved. Couldn’t. I’d just watched her, until somewhere between her breaths and mine, sleep stole me again.

Another knock snapped me out of it.

I got up quickly and opened the door to find Maa, balancing a tray full of breakfast.

“Maa, we were going to—”

“Shh,” she hushed me softly. “Take it. You both must’ve been tired after yesterday.” She pressed the tray into my hands before I could argue further. “If you need anything else, just call me.” And then she was gone.

I carried the tray back in and set it down on the table— the one that used to have the couch as its companion.

“My condolences.” I muttered, looking at the empty space with zero regrets.

When I turned, I saw her awake— or almost. She sat there with the duvet pulled up to her chin, hair tousled, one eye still sealed in sleep.

“What time is it?” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“12:00,” I replied.

She let out a small hum of acknowledgment and promptly collapsed back against the pillows, already surrendering to slumber again.

“P.M.,” I added, almost casually.

The effect was instant. She shot up faster than lightning, eyes wide, horror etched across her face.

“What?” she asked, mortified, as if she had just slept through a decade. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I woke up just now,” I explained.

She rubbed her face as if she could erase the traces of sleep with her palms.

“Do you want to go first?” I asked, glancing toward the washroom.

She tugged at the duvet again, even though most of her was already swaddled.

“No. You go first.” The reply came too fast, almost suspiciously fast.

When I returned, teeth brushed and face washed, I found her sitting at the edge of the bed, eyes closed, her whole body tilting precariously to the left as if gravity itself was trying to lure her back into sleep.

Sleepyhead.

I moved quickly, steadying her head before it could tip any further. She jolted upright, every trace of drowsiness vanishing in an instant.

“I was not sleeping,” she blurted, far too fast, far too defensive.

“You were meditating, right?” I asked, amused at how adorable she looked when she tried to lie and failed so miserably.

She nodded rapidly, too earnest to be believable, and hurried off toward the washroom.

That’s when I noticed it again. My t-shirt on her. The sleeves swallowed half her arms, the hem brushed mid thigh, and she looked like the fabric had claimed her entirely.

A sight so simple, yet it tugged at something unexplainable in me.

Later, when we sat down to have breakfast, I saw it again— not the shirt this time, but her plate. Fruits. Only fruits. The untouched aloo paratha lay there, growing colder with each passing minute, while she quietly avoided it.

I didn’t say anything. Not then. The last thing I wanted was to make her feel exposed, cornered, while eating. But the thought lingered, stubborn and heavy.

Once the breakfast was over, I did what I had to do.

I called Varun.

🪔

“Can you call your friend and ask what her friend likes to eat?” I asked the moment he picked up, skipping over greetings the way we always did.

Varun’s voice came back, dry as ever. “Why don’t you ask my friend’s friend directly?”

“Because we’re not friends,” I muttered under my breath. It wasn’t meant for him, but of course, he heard it. He would’ve caught it even if I’d only thought it.

“Surprise!” he drawled. “You’re a married couple.”

That's what makes it worse. The title that binds us together is ironically the same thing that builds more distance between us.

“I’ll text you the questions,” I said flatly. “Get the answers by eod.”

[EOD: End of the day.]

“I might as well sell my degree and become your full time personal detective,” sarcasm dripped from his voice but we both knew, he'll get the answers before eod.

“I’ll offer a good package, if you’re considering that,” I shot back without missing a beat.

“CEO through and through,” he laughed.

I stepped out of my study once the call ended, moving toward my room, when Atharv’s voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Bhai!” he called out. I turned to see him in his office clothes, worry etched across his features.

“Is everything alright?” I asked.

“Tanya’s dad is unwell. I’m taking her to the hospital,” he said softly, careful not to wake the sleeping Misha cradled in his arms. “Can you look after Misha until we return?” His voice held a hesitant edge.

I took Misha gently from him. “Call me if you need anything and drive safe.” I said just as carefully, he nodded before leaving.

When I stepped into our room, Diya was propped against the headboard with a book and a highlighter in hand.

The moment her eyes landed on Misha, her face brightened with a quiet, uncontainable warmth.

She closed the book softly, placing it on the nightstand, and her gaze lingered on the little bundle in my arms, tender and soft.

I eased Misha onto the bed, careful not to jostle her, while Diya’s eyes followed every small movement with quiet fascination.

“Tanya’s dad isn’t well, Misha will stay with us until they get back,” I whispered in her ear.

Diya nodded, her gaze softened, a gentle blend of concern and soft excitement of having the little one around.

Just as I was about to rise, Misha stirred. Diya’s hand lifted instinctively, a delicate attempt to soothe her back to sleep, but Misha's eyes were already opening, pools of sleepy curiosity.

Then she saw me. A faint, drowsy smile curved across her lips. “E-dant,” she murmured, her voice like a tiny sunbeam, warm and tender.

I lifted her into my arms, feeling the fragile weight of her small body settle against me. Her head rested lightly on my shoulder, arms dangling in languid trust.

Diya watched silently, her expression a mix of awe and quiet joy. There was something magical in the hush of the room, the way tiny breaths and soft sighs could make the world slow down, even for a moment.

When it comes to sleep, it seems Misha takes after her E-yaa.

Then she wriggled a little, pulled back, and looked up at me with those wide, curious eyes. “Ae go,” she murmured, as if nudging me into attention.

Legos are usually the center of her universe, a tiny obsession she carries everywhere, but now her gaze found something far more precious.

“E-yaa!” she squealed, her sleepy haze evaporating in an instant. Diya’s face lit up with the kind of pure, radiant smile that could melt the morning sun.

She opened her arms, and Misha, without hesitation, launched herself into her embrace.

“E-yaa!” the little one squealed again, tiny hands cupping Diya’s face with love. Diya bent down, pressing a soft kiss to her nose.

“Good morning, princess,” she whispered, her voice a gentle echo of warmth and affection.

“Goo Mo nin!” Misha replied, her enthusiasm bubbling over, both of them completely unbothered by the clock showing five in the evening.

I rose from the bed to fetch Misha’s Lego set, I always kept one tucked in my room. Whenever Tanya was busy in work, I would take Misha from her and me and Misha would escape into tiny worlds of blocks and towers.

When I turned. I saw Diya leaning against the headboard again, and Misha perched atop her, both of them melting into giggles that sounded like chimes in the quiet room.

“Legos?” I asked, holding up the set like a golden ticket. Normally, that would have sent Misha into a flurry of excitement— but not this time.

She cast a single, fleeting glance at the colorful blocks in my hands, then turned back to Diya, her little world fully captivated by someone far more important than any Lego.

And I just stood there, arms dangling, completely ignored, an amused spectator to their little world.

Misha wobbled on me, wriggling and trying to tickle my stomach, letting out those little giggles that always filled my chest with warmth.

I brushed the messy strands away from her face, her hair tie long gone, probably loosened in sleep.

My fingers lingered on the soft tangles as I gently opened her hair while she fumbled with my nupital chain, fascinated by the little glinting beads.

“There’s a pack of hair ties in that drawer,” I called softly to Mr. Malhotra. “Can you pass it to me?”

He nodded, wordless, and handed over the tiny treasures— cute hair ties, fruit shaped clips and a miniature comb, little pieces of magic, waiting to tame her tiny, restless mane.

I opened it and let Misha explore, watching her tiny fingers sift through the colorful pieces. I spotted these long ago, way before our engagement and I had to get them for her.

Her eyes widened as they fell on a little strawberry hair tie, and she let out a squeal that made my heart melt.

“Strawberry!” she chirped, all sweetness and slurred excitement.

“E-dant,” she called, turning to Mr. Malhotra, who was perched on the edge of the bed, pretending to be aloof but clearly feeling left out of the fun.

“Strawberry!” she repeated, holding it up with both tiny hands, beckoning him closer with a little wave. Her joy was infectious, and even in his calm, composed way, I could see the softness in his eyes as he moved.

He hesitated for a moment, then eased himself down beside me, the quiet weight of his presence settling softly.

I parted Misha’s wild little hair into two neat sections and tied up tiny fountain pony on each side, her small hands still busy exploring the clips, showing them proudly to her E-dant with gleeful squeals.

Once they were done, I held up my phone's camera to show her reflection. Her eyes grew wide as she examined herself, and then, in a burst of pure delight, she jumped on me, clapping her tiny hands, shrieking “Strawberry!” over and over, the sound bubbling like warm sunlight in the room.

Then she hopped off me and climbed onto Mr. Malhotra’s lap, her little hands immediately claiming his face with gentle authority before venturing toward his hair.

“E-yaa,” she declared, all business, pointing at the strawberry hair tie she had left atop me. I handed it to her, curiosity sparkling in my chest, waiting to see what she would do next.

With a determined frown, she gripped a handful of his hair in her tiny fist. Mr. Malhotra leaned down patiently, letting her attempt whatever she was trying.

After several earnest, fumbling tries, she gave up, leaving the hair tie perched precariously atop his head like a crown.

“E-yaa,” she called again, lips forming the cutest, most helpless little pout. It was an invitation, a silent plea— did she want me to join her in this chaotic mission?

I glanced at Mr. Malhotra, unsure what to do, his head still bowed under Misha’s tiny hands. “Help her before she gets mad,” he muttered.

I hesitated, then reached toward his hair. The moment my fingers threaded through the silky strands, Misha withdrew her little hands and settled back on his lap with a satisfied giggle, as if she had delegated the task perfectly.

He lifted his head, and our eyes met. Heat bloomed in my chest at the closeness of our faces.

I quickly lowered my gaze, pretending to focus, as I carefully parted his hair.

I gathered a small bunch between my fingers, but they kept slipping through my grip, impossibly smooth. What kind of shampoo does he even use?

I finally managed to weave a little fountain on one side, and Misha hopped onto his lap again, inspecting my handiwork with a critical eye and a triumphant giggle.

Encouraged, I repeated the process on the other side, securing the strands with strawberry hair ties.

Who would have thought my CEO would let me tie his hair with strawberry hair ties?

I couldn’t resist adding a few extra clips, just because, and leaned back to admire the result.

I didn't know his age but somehow, he looked ten years younger, a teasingly soft version of himself that only mischief and tiny hands could conjure.

I was waging an internal war to keep from bursting out laughing while Misha scrutinized my work like a proud little judge.

“You can laugh,” he muttered, a deadpan edge to his voice, and that was all the permission I needed.

I surrendered to it, laughter spilling from me in uncontrollable waves, Misha joining in with squeals of delight.

“You look so…” I started, but the words crumbled into laughter, my chest shaking too much to finish.

“Funny?” he asked, stone faced, and that only made me laugh harder.

“Cute,” I managed, still clutching my stomach, trying to catch my breath.

My gaze wandered back to him, and I almost melted. There he sat, his hair tied in two fountains, eyes soft and warm, expressions unreadable but with that heroic attempt at looking serious and grown.

When I finally wrestled a little control over my giggles, I hopped off the bed and rummaged through my tote bag for my camera.

“Look here!” I called, and both of them turned toward me. I clicked, capturing a perfect, candid frame of chaos, a moment frozen that felt far too precious to ever forget.

“Smile.” It was basically for Mr. Grumpy, because Misha was already beaming her brightest, most mischievous grin at me.

And then… he did it. He smiled.

For the first time, I think. I had never seen him fully smile before. It was only ever a ghost of it. But this time… this time it was genuine. Soft, unguarded, real.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I snapped three photos, each one capturing a little more of him letting go, his lips curving wider, his eyes softening with each shot.

The last one was the most beautiful, where Misha was looking up at him with the widest girn and he was looking down at her with nothing but love in his eyes.

And that’s when I noticed it.

A dimple.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

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