It was small, almost unnoticeable, tucked neatly on the right side of his face, just deep enough to ruin her composure.

A dimple.

Only one.

It appeared when he smiled - genuinely smiled, and Diya could swear the room felt a little lighter for it.

She had seen him wear countless expressions; blank, restrained, occasionally amused but never this.

Never soft, never unguarded, and definitely never human enough to have something as treacherous as a dimple.

There was something disarming about seeing him like that, hair tied up in ridiculous strawberry clips, a toddler clinging to him, laughter spilling freely from his mouth.

It was the kind of sight that made her chest tighten, the kind that whispered, you shouldn't be looking this long and yet she couldn't look away.

Her eyes followed the faint curve on his cheek, the way it disappeared the moment his smile faded, leaving behind only the memory of it.

A memory she already knew she'd carry longer than she should.

It wasn't just a dent in his skin, it was a glimpse into something she had never been allowed to see.

Diya watched as Misha pressed her tiny hands against his face, squealing with delight every time he smiled back at her.

And every time he did, that traitorous dimple returned like a quiet rebellion against his own restraint.

Her heart betrayed her first. It clenched, then stuttered, and then decided to stay lodged somewhere in her throat.

He wasn't even looking at her, just sitting there with a toddler demanding his attention and getting every ounce of it.

The camera was still in her hand, fingers resting against the shutter button. She didn't even realize she was pressing it until the soft click echoed through the air.

Once. Twice. Then again.

Not because she meant to, she just couldn't help it.

Every time Misha laughed, every time he smiled back, every time that single dimple deepened in defiance of everything she thought she knew about him... she captured it.

A blur of motion, a half laugh, a fleeting softness.

It felt wrong, almost intrusive, to trap that moment inside a frame but she couldn't stop. Because how often did someone like him let the world see him like this?

And then? He looked up.

Eyes locking with the camera lens and without thinking, like a reflex stitched into her bones Diya clicked another shot.

The sound of the shutter sliced through the stillness, soft but final.

When she lowered the camera, their eyes met.

And in that suspended breath of a moment, something unspoken flickered between them... something that neither of them reached for, yet both felt settle deep beneath the surface.

His smile didn't vanish. It softened, gentled, became something quieter. No longer laughter, but warmth that lingered just for her.

Diya forgot to move. The air was too charged to breathe right.

"E-yaa!"

Misha's little voice rang out, bright and unbothered, shattering the tension.

Diya blinked out of her daze, the camera still halfway raised. She lowered it quickly, feeling a ridiculous warmth creep up her neck.

God, what was I even doing?

Clicking pictures of him like I’d never seen a dimple before, like I was seeing a man smile for the first time.

It was absurd, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.

The camera still felt warm in my hands, his face lingering on the lens like an afterimage that refused to fade.

With a small breath, I tucked the camera back into my bag, as if hiding proof of something I shouldn’t have wanted to keep.

Then I walked back toward them, letting the charged stillness dissolve into the warmth that always seemed to bloom around Misha.

The moment I sat beside him, Misha wriggled off his lap and landed in mine.

Her tiny fingers immediately found my nuptial chain, tugging and twisting it with familiar fascination, murmuring “E-yaa” under her breath with a grin that could light up the sky.

For the next two hours, she ruled the room with giggles and mischief. Tiny footsteps, loud laughter, and the kind of joy that made everything else fade into a soft blur.

She kept undoing Mr. Malhotra’s hair ties, only to frown in deep concentration as she tried to tie them back.

Every few minutes, she’d run to me for help, clutching the tiny strawberry clips like treasures, her delight bubbling over every time we managed to secure one.

He sat through it all — unmoving, patient, with that quiet endurance he wore so well, while Misha declared herself the reigning hairstylist of the house.

Eventually, she gave up entirely, leaving his hair free, only to find new ways to create chaos.

She darted to the edge of the bed, her tiny feet thudding against the sheets, every step a new attempt at giving me a heart attack.

But each time she wobbled or stumbled, a pair of hands were there, steady and sure, catching her with a gentleness that came as naturally to him as breathing.

Her laughter filled the quiet corners of the room, spilling like sunlight through half drawn curtains. The space felt warmer for it, softer, as if even the walls leaned closer to listen.

The way she ran to the edge of the bed without a second thought, completely unafraid of falling told me how much she trusted him.

Trusted that her E-dant would be there, waiting, arsm open, ready to catch her every single time.

And in that blind, innocent faith, I saw just how deeply she was loved by him.

He was careful in ways that made my heart ache softly. When she sneezed, he immediately turned off the AC, his movements precise, almost instinctive.

And when her tiny nose needed wiping, he did it with that effortless ease, like he had done it a thousand times before, always patient and gentle.

In those two hours, surrounded by her laughter and his careful hands, I realised how affection lived in him, how naturally love and care seemed to flow from him.

And I couldn’t stop the thought that bloomed quietly in my chest: he would be a great dad to his kids someday.

I wish I could say the same about myself.

The thought barely had time to sting before Misha tugged at my hand, dragging me back from it.

She pointed a finger at my phone, her face suddenly very serious, as if she were presenting a matter of national urgency.

“Masha and the Bear,” she declared, her voice small but commanding.

“You want to watch Masha and the Bear?” I asked, and she nodded with solemn determination, her little face so earnest it made me smile.

She flopped onto her stomach, legs kicking lazily in the air and propped my phone against the headrest.

Then she patted the mattress on either side of her, eyes wide and expectant, summoning us with all the authority a one year old could muster.

So there we were, all three of us lying on our stomachs, watching Masha and the Bear on my phone exactly the way she demanded.

Misha approached her viewing duties with the gravity of a world leader negotiating international trade.

Every time we tilted our heads even slightly to watch her, she would jab a tiny finger at the screen, asking us to pay attention. As if the universe might collapse if we missed a single frame.

And somehow, between her squeals of laughter and the soft hum of the cartoon’s music, the room felt... complete.

Barely twenty minutes into the video, Mr. Malhotra suddenly reached over and plucked the phone from where it rested, sitting up abruptly.

Misha and I exchanged confused glances, following his movement with the same curiosity.

“Enough screen time for today,” he said, placing the phone just out of reach.

Misha looked at me, I looked back at her and then we both turned to look at Mr. Malhotra.

I realized I was mirroring her expression: curious, slightly baffled, and a ridiculous amount of investment in her favourite cartoon.

“Do you want to play Legos?” he asked, calm as ever, as if he hadn’t just committed a crime against toddler joy.

Misha stared blankly, her tiny pout forming. Then a slow deliberate shake of her head.

He tried again. “Do you want to sleep?”

He received a perfect tiny glare from her that said: Absolutely not.

He tilted his head, patience and amusement in equal measure. “What do you want to do then?”

I was leaning forward before I realized it, waiting with bated breath because whatever she chose, I knew I’d enjoy it simply because it would mean being part of her little world.

But then she pointed one tiny, decisive finger at me, opened her mouth, and I froze where I sat.

“Boobie time.”

Silence didn’t just fall, it exploded; sharp, echoing and utterly brutal.

For a full three seconds, none of us moved, not even Misha.

I felt my soul leave my body, ascend to the heavens, then immediately come crashing back down to die of embarrassment.

I turned to him on instinct — mistake number one.

Our eyes met... then ricocheted away, like two guilty secrets colliding midair.

Heat rushed up my neck, searing and wild. I could feel it pooling under my skin, climbing from my throat to my temples until even breathing felt incriminating.

Across from me, he sat perfectly still — face composed, jaw set, like he was determined to pretend none of this was happening.

But the tips of his ears were a dead giveaway, flushed red.

The air between us… god, it vibrated. Tangled in that unbearable mix of embarrassment that made every second heavier and thicker.

I wanted the bed to split open and swallow me whole, preferably forever.

Why — why in god’s name did she have to say it now, and in front of him? How was I ever supposed to look him in the eye again?

Before my mortification could fully settle, she toddled toward me, determined and innocent, with the kind of chaotic energy only small tornadoes possess, her face lit with triumph.

And despite the heat crawling up my neck, I opened my arms, because how could I not?

She clambered into my lap with a soft little grunt, her tiny hands cupping my face — my very burning face — and her big, trusting eyes looked straight into mine, shattering every wall I’d ever built.

“E-yaa,” she cooed, sweet as syrup. Her breath smelled faintly of milk and banana. Then, god help me, those little fingers tugged curiously at the neckline of my top.

“Boobie?” she asked, voice so innocent it could melt stone.

“No,” came his rushed voice.

I looked up before I could stop myself.

He was staring straight ahead, posture stiff, his jaw tight, but his ears... those traitorous ears were crimson again.

And even in the absurdity of it all, something about his restraint made my heart stumble.

The way he looked everywhere but at me; the ceiling, the floor, the farthest corner of the room that suddenly seemed fascinating, anywhere that wasn't my face.

It almost made me laugh. Almost.

His fingers brushed over his neck, restless and unsure, like he was trying to find something solid to hold onto.

His breath left him in a soft, uneven exhale he tried to disguise as a sigh. I could see the tension running through his shoulders, the careful, deliberate calm like he could smooth the moment away if he just kept moving.

There was a quiet desperation in the effort... that endearing sort of grace, like he was fighting the air itself to make it less awkward.

And somehow, in all that fumbling restraint, in the way he tried so earnestly to pretend nothing had happened, something inside me softened... softened in a way I didn’t have the courage to name.

He moved fast, too fast, “Let’s watch Masha and the Bear again,” he said trying to get her away from me.

His voice was lower than usual, steady but not quite steady, like he was trying to breathe through the same fire that was devouring me.

But Misha wasn’t having it.

She shook her head, lower lip jutting out in protest, arms looping around my neck like a lifeline. A clingy little storm of warmth and stubbornness.

Her small frame was tucked into me, soft and certain, while his hands hovered uncertainly midair, caught between wanting to take her away from me and not knowing how to.

So he stood there, still and quiet.  And I sat there, pretending I wasn’t hyperaware of the air thickening around us — of how gentle he looked even in his restraint and how his patience somehow made everything worse and better all at once.

But when Misha repeated those words for the third time, softly and quietly now, barely more than a sleepy murmur, something inside me shifted.

The sound wasn’t playful anymore, it trembled at the edges, small and uncertain.

And then it hit me, slow and aching that she wasn’t just babbling, she was actually hungry. It wasn’t mischief at all, it was need.

The realization moved through me like a quiet pulse, dissolving the heat of embarrassment and leaving only concern in its wake.

“She’s hungry,” I murmured, forcing my voice to steady as I rocked her gently in my arms. “Can you get her milk bottle?”

I looked up briefly, just long enough to meet his eyes.

He nodded once, quick and silent, before turning toward the door. His movements were brisk but the air seemed to cling to him as he left, thick and too warm, as if the moment still followed him out.

Misha squirmed in my arms, her tiny body twisting with restlessness. That little whimper at the back of her throat, it wasn’t impatience anymore. It was hunger, plain and small and human.

I remembered Tanya mentioning she still breastfeeds her, and when I glanced at the clock, it was almost nine, her bedtime.

It all made sense now, the sudden agitation, the clinginess, the way her laughter had slowly begun to fade into little sighs.

She’d spent three whole hours tumbling around us, wrapped in giggles, lost in play but even joy can tire you when you’re that little. And maybe now, she was missing her mother.

The door opened softly.

He came in, one hand holding her pacifier, the other a bottle of milk, still steaming faintly.

He settled beside me, the bed dipping under his weight, the warmth of him brushing against the edge of my space.

His hands moved instinctively, reaching to take Misha from me but halfway through, he stopped.

His gaze lifted to mine, quiet and searching. “Do you want to feed her?” he asked, his voice softer than the question deserved.

The answer left me before thought could form. A small immediate nod. Anything with Misha? Yes, always yes.

He didn’t say a word. Just drew his hands back and reached instead for a pillow, sliding it behind my back.

Then he adjusted my arm, angling it so Misha’s head would rest perfectly against the crook of my elbow, his fingers light against my wrist, guiding me.

I already knew what to do, Tanya had taught me the other day but I didn’t stop him. I let him teach me because it was the first time he'd ever looked this soft and letting him help just felt... right.

When he handed me the bottle, I took it carefully, angling the sipper toward Misha's lips. She latched instantly, the sound of her sipping breaking the silence in the gentlest way imaginable.

Her tiny fingers flexed against my wrist, her lashes fluttered like little wings.

Her gaze would drift from my face to his, and when he smiled at her, faint and fleeting, she made a sound that could only be described as a sigh of contentment.

For a while, neither of us moved. The room had gone still,

wrapped in the small, domestic peace of the moment.

When I finally turned my head, he was already looking at me. His expression was unreadable; gentle, intent and a quiet something I couldn't figure out.

The last three hours had been… something else, blissful in a way I didn’t know I was capable of feeling.

Three hours filled with Misha’s wild, unfiltered giggles that spilled into every corner.

And Diya’s soft, unguarded laughter: a sound I hadn’t realized I’d been waiting to hear until it wrapped around me like warmth I didn’t know I’d missed.

It lingered long after the laughter quieted, floating in the air like the scent of something sweet and gone.

It did something strange to the room… to me.

I’d spent those hours watching her more than I should’ve, not out of intent, but because she made it hard not to.

The way she smiled when Misha called her name, the way she leaned forward when the little one laughed — eyes lighting up like it was her personal victory, the way her hands always reached out before her words did, the way she leaned down to listen, even when the child was just babbling nonsense, the way she forgot herself, bit by bit, until the careful distance she always kept dissolved into something gentler.

She wasn’t the Diya I’d first met, not the one made of caution and edges.

This one laughed until her eyes turned into half moons, sat cross legged on the bed with a toddler perched on her lap and let her hair fall loose across her face.

And I, a man who never noticed much, couldn’t seem to stop noticing her.

Now, sitting beside her, my ears still burning from the chaos that toddler had unleashed on both of us, I tried to gather the frayed threads of composure.

God, Misha was chaos incarnate — my chaos, yes, but chaos nonetheless.

I love her, every part of me does. But when she clung to Diya, tugging at her top with her toddler insistence, all I wanted was to shield Diya, to get that little whirlwind away from her.

Not out of annoyance, never that, but because I wanted to protect her from the awkwardness of it all. The way her breath stuttered, the way she tried to hold onto her grace even as her face went crimson.

And now, watching her cradle the little one in her arms... I couldn’t stop the awe creeping into my chest.

Just a few minutes ago, she’d been red faced with embarrassment, flustered enough to stumble over her own breath. And yet here she was, calm and composed, instinctively knowing what the child needed before I’d even begun to think straight.

The change was so seamless it caught me off guard.

I don’t know how she figured it out. My mind hadn’t even gone there. I’d been too busy pretending that Misha’s innocent words hadn’t hit where they did — they had, painfully so.

But her?

Despite the awkwardness, despite the heat that must’ve still been burning under her skin, she’d moved without hesitation. She’d chosen care over discomfort, instinct over pride.

And now, the same little creature who had been restless and irritable moments ago lay quietly in her arms, full, safe, and utterly content.

Because of her.

And I couldn’t help but think — she’d be the best mother ever, if she ever chose to be one.

The kind children would run to without thinking twice, arms full of scraped knees and unspoken fears, the kind whose love wouldn’t need words — it would live in the smallest things, the kind that feels like safety, like home.

The effortless kind.

Not me though. I don’t think I’d ever be good enough for a child... for that kind of love. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

The realization sat heavy in my chest, a weight that felt older than I was.

And then her soft, almost careful voice slipped through it, scattering the quiet like light breaking over still water.

“It’s nine already,” she said softly, careful not to disturb the weight sleeping against her arm. “You should go have dinner.”

Her tone was even, but her eyes never left the baby’s face. Every word seemed secondary to the slow rise and fall of Misha’s chest, to the tiny breaths that misted the silence.

“What about you?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“I’m not hungry,” she murmured, tilting the bottle slightly, eyes tracing the last drops of milk like they were the only thing that mattered. “You should go.”

Of course. I knew better than to argue with that kind of conviction.

So I nodded, even though something in me resisted the idea of leaving the room — of leaving them.

The faint clatter from the kitchen echoed through the hall as I walked in.

I made a plate carefully, filled with food she couldn’t possibly refuse: rice, the mild curry I’d noticed she reached for more than once, the paneer dish she’d taken seconds of two nights ago.

Little things I’d filed away without meaning to. Half the credit goes to varun too.

Diya sat where I’d left her when I returned. The bottle still in her hand, eyes hazy but soft. I held the plate carefully in one hand and sat down in front of her.

She looked up, brows furrowed in quiet confusion, but before she could speak, I scooped a spoonful of rice and held it out toward her.

“Open your mouth.”

“I’m not—” she started, about to repeat the lie, but before she could finish Misha stirred in her sleep, a soft, restless motion that froze us both.

“Eat,” I said softly, keeping my voice low, careful. The spoon stayed steady near her lips.

My voice was quiet, careful, carrying more insistence than I’d expected. I wanted her to let herself just this once  be taken care of.

She blinked, torn between resistance and surprise and for a heartbeat, I thought she might refuse again.

But then her gaze flickered down to Misha, still sleeping soundly.

She let out a slow breath, then leaned forward, just a fraction and took the bite.

She ate slowly at first, hesitant, as though she wasn’t sure she was allowed to.

My hand would hover in the air for what felt like forever, the spoon waiting patiently while she stayed completely focused on holding Misha’s bottle, utterly unaware of the next bite waiting for her.

And yet, somehow, between tiny pauses and distracted glances, Ms. I’m not hungry managed to finish nearly seventy percent of the plate.

A quiet miracle, really. One bite at a time, one small surrender at a time.

Liar. A stubborn, terrible liar.

She chewed thoughtfully, and then suddenly paused, like realization struck her in that soft, fleeting moment. “Did you eat?” she asked.

“After you,” I said, barely above a whisper.

Her eyes flicked up for a fraction of a second, not long enough to read, but long enough to feel. Then she nodded once and went back to finishing what was left.

I left the room with an empty plate in my hand but a heart fuller than I could have imagined.

Quietly grateful because for the first time since we got married, she had eaten this freely.

Later, after I’d eaten, I was on my way back to our room when Mom stopped me in the corridor. Her expression was warm, the kind she reserves for family traditions she doesn’t plan on explaining.

“There’s one more ritual tomorrow,” she said, and I could hear the unspoken you’ll both attend it.

I sighed, part annoyance, part relief. Annoyed because the endless ceremonies were beginning to feel like theatre, relieved because she also said it was the last one.

One final ritual.

And maybe, after that, we could stop pretending we were just performing something sacred and start quietly living it instead.

When I finally entered, I found them both lying on the bed asleep, utterly at peace.

I stopped where I stood.

For a long moment, I didn’t move. Couldn’t, because I wasn’t looking at one sleeping baby... I was looking at two.

Misha was curled up against Diya’s side, her lips parted in the soft rhythm of dreams. The faint rise and fall of her chest matched the quiet hum of the night.

And Diya looked no less childlike.

Her head rested close to Misha’s, hair spilling over the pillow in a dark, gentle mess. Her features had softened in sleep.

The two of them looked like they belonged to the same dream.

I reached into my pocket for my phone, every movement deliberate. The screen’s glow felt too harsh against the softness of what I was seeing. Still I raised it, focused, and clicked.

A small sound, small moment, a tiny fragment of something I didn’t want to forget.

I switched off the lights after, letting the darkness slip back into the room, calm and kind. Then I walked to my side of the bed, painfully careful not to disturb either of them.

The mattress dipped beneath my weight, and still, Diya stirred, eyes fluttering open slowly, catching mine in the dim glow.

And just like that, the quiet of the room wrapped around us, heavy with unspoken things and tender warmth I couldn’t name.

We didn’t speak, not a word. We just lay there, suspended in the kind of stillness that makes you aware of every breath you take.

Just silence, thick and comforting, wrapping around us. Our gazes drifted together to Misha, who slept like the world had finally stilled.

We lay there like that for almost fifteen minutes, until a soft knock at the door stirred me from the haze.

I got up to answer the door and found Atharv and Tanya standing there.

Both looked exhausted, but there was no trace of worry on their faces, and the relief that washed over me was almost physical.

“Is everything alright?” I asked, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. Atharv gave a small, reassuring nod.

Diya appeared behind me with Misha cradled in her arms.

Tanya’s face softened the instant she saw her daughter. She reached out, and Diya passed Misha to her with careful, gentle movements.

Misha stirred, whimpered once, then relaxed the moment Tanya pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I hope she didn’t trouble you too much,” Tanya murmured, her voice heavy with fatigue but laced with warmth.

I glanced at Diya, she smiled shaking her head slightly.

She looked calm, content even, but there was something unreadable in her expression, a quiet fondness she hadn’t quite tucked away yet.

Once Atharv and Tanya left with Misha, the quiet aftermath of it everything settled like dust, heavy and impossible to ignore.

The room, which had been alive with laughter and small sounds for hours, felt too still now.

Diya glanced at me, just for a second before looking away, retreating into herself.

The warmth that had wrapped around her all evening was gone. The carefree, laughing Diya... the one who’d held a child like she was made for it had vanished.

In her place stood the quiet, distant version of her, folding into herself like she was afraid of taking up too much space. The girl who made herself smaller so everyone else could breathe easier.

She slipped under the duvet, pulling it over her head like a shield, cocooning herself in that fragile distance she wore so well.

I followed suit, careful to leave the duvet mostly for her, giving her the space she needed.

The silence stretched between us, thick and alive, and for the first time all night, I wished I didn’t know how to be so careful.

The night stretched heavy and still, the kind of silence that carried its own weight. The AC hummed faintly.

But somewhere beneath the duvet, peace did not reach her.

Diya's breaths grew uneven, shallow. Her fingers twitched against the sheets, curling, gripping, as if holding on to something unseen.

Then came the whisper, barely a sound.

“I didn’t do it.”

Her voice small and broken barely escaped her throat.

The words echoed in her dream first, bouncing off faces that blurred in the dark, eyes that wouldn’t meet hers, hands pointing, voices rising.

“Please,” she begged into the void, her voice cracking in that desperate, hollow way that came from knowing it didn’t matter.

“Please believe me.”

They turned away. One by one, the faces faded, leaving behind only the noise of their disbelief. The air pressed down, thick and punishing.

She tried to scream again, but the sound caught somewhere between her lungs and her fear. The ground beneath her tilted, the world collapsing into fragments she couldn’t piece together.

And then... silence.

Her eyes snapped open.

She gasped, dragging in air like someone who’d been underwater too long.

The duvet slipped off her face as she sat up abruptly, breath trembling, hair clinging to her temples. Her skin was slick with sweat, her chest rising and falling too fast.

Tears clung to her lashes, some already tracing their way down her cheeks.

For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was, couldn’t tell if she’d escaped the dream or brought it with her.

The room was dim, calm, untouched. But her heart was still racing, pounding against her ribs like it didn’t belong to her.

The bathroom light flickered weakly as she stood before the mirror, water dripping from her fingertips.

She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, stifling the sound that wanted to break free.

Her reflection looked pale — eyes swollen, strands of hair plastered to her forehead. The cold water had done little to chase away the remnants of the dream; the words still clung to her like damp fabric.

“I didn’t do it.”

“Please believe me.”

They echoed faintly, cruelly, somewhere in the back of her mind.

When she finally turned off the light and stepped back into the room, the darkness greeted her softly, calm and unbothered, like it hadn’t just watched her unravel.

Vedant was asleep. The duvet had slipped off him entirely, laying abandoned on her side of the bed.

The faint moonlight from the balcony traced the outline of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the quiet set of his mouth.

He looked almost boyish.

She stood there for a second, uncertain... then she moved slowly and lifted the edge of the duvet, pulling it gently over him.

The fabric rustled softly, catching on his arm before settling across his chest.

She stood there for a heartbeat longer, watching him breathe. Then she turned away, slipping back to her side of the bed.

But sleep didn’t come.

She lay still, eyes open, the dream still whispering at the edges of her thoughts. Her pulse wouldn’t slow. The silence was too loud, her chest too tight.

She tried to slip back into sleep, but when it refused to take her, she let out a slow breath and whispered to herself. “Just this once.”

Her hand moved before her mind could argue.

Fingers brushed against Vedant's, tentative and trembling, until they found the rough warmth of his knuckles.

She hesitated, then gently curled her own around two of his.

Not enough to wake him, just enough to feel something steady. His skin was warm against hers, grounding and alive.

Her heartbeat eased within seconds.

She shifted closer, just a little, close enough to feel the faint rhythm of his breathing and closed her eyes.

The darkness settled around them again, softer this time.

And somewhere between exhaustion and solace, Diya fell asleep again.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐