VEDANT'S POV

I stirred slowly from sleep, claimed by warmth before the light could lay its claim.

It was everywhere. Along my chest, my side, threaded through the space between breaths. A living heat, rising and falling in a rhythm that didn't belong to sleep alone.

The world hovered at a distance, blurred and gentle, while I lingered in that quiet borderland between sleep and waking, trying to understand why the morning felt... different.

My arm was heavy. There was weight beneath my palm, soft and yielding.

For a moment, I didn't move, didn't breathe any deeper than necessary. Sensation settled in fragments, the way it does when something fragile is involved.

Diya.

She was curled into me, her head resting right over my heart, my body instinctively curved around hers. Both my arms were wrapped along her back, holding her close.

Her breathing was soft and even against my skin.

Mine wasn't.

The moment awareness sharpened, my heart lost its rhythm, beating faster and heavier, as if it suddenly understood what my arms had been holding all night and how close she was.

Her hand was tangled in my T-shirt, fingers fisted lightly in the fabric. The cotton was wrinkled where she gripped it, pulled just enough to make me painfully aware of every place our bodies met.

I stayed still, afraid that even the smallest shift might wake her. My arm had gone numb somewhere between my shoulder and elbow, a dull ache spreading down to my fingertips.

I didn't move it.

The discomfort felt distant, unimportant. Nothing compared to the warm, steady weight of her resting against me, trusting me without knowing she was doing it.

Then she smiled.

So small I almost thought it was a trick of light and shadow. The slightest curve of her lips, soft and fleeting, gone before I could be sure it had ever been there at all.

A few breaths later, it happened again.

Another small, unconscious smile, gentler this time. It bloomed slowly, like a shy sunrise, then faded just as delicately.

As if something warm had wandered through her dreams and brushed its fingers over her heart on the way past. The kind of smile babies wear in their sleep.

My breath caught in my throat.

It felt like I was witnessing something sacred. A softness she never let the waking world see.

Her fingers twitched where they held my T-shirt. Then tightened, just enough to tell me that somewhere, in whatever quiet place her mind had drifted to, she was reaching for something.

Or someone.

My heart stumbled over itself, then began to pound harder, louder, like it was trying to answer a question she had never spoken aloud.

What sweet things are you seeing in there?

The thought rose softly, touched with wonder more than words. It barely had time to form before my body leaned down on its own, drawn by something quiet and overwhelming I didn't yet understand.

My breath stirred the soft strands of her hair first, warmth ghosting over them, before my lips found the quiet curve of her temple.

The touch lasted no longer than a heartbeat, yet the trace of her lingered against my lips, soft and undeniable.

And only then did awareness crash in.

I stilled, breath catching as my mind stumbled into the moment far too late, staring at her like I'd just crossed a line I hadn't even seen.

I waited for her to wake up, for confusion to crease her brow, for her eyes to open and demand an explanation I didn't know how to give.

But she only smiled again.

I pulled back a fraction, my chest tight, thoughts scattering as I tried to gather the careful control I had built my life around, piece by piece.

What am I doing?

I tipped my head back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling, then looked at her again, still curled against me, still holding my shirt.

Not a big deal, right?

I stayed like that for a few more seconds, letting the awe ebb before it could turn into something reckless.

Then, slowly, carefully, I eased my arms away.

Her fingers loosened their hold on my shirt, curling once like they were reluctant to let go, before falling slack.

I hesitated.

Then I reached for the pillow I'd been using and slid it gently into her arms, guiding them around it the way they'd been around me.

She shifted closer to it instinctively, her body settling again without opening her eyes.

Good.

I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could and made my way to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me with a soft click.

Inside the silence, my thoughts refused to line up.

Half of me was still stuck on the way I had found her yesterday, pale and shaken and far too still. The other half was trying to make sense of this morning, of the things I had seen, the things I had done without meaning to.

I started pulling my T-shirt off, ready for the shower, but my hand stalled halfway.

The scent reached me before the thought did. Soft cocoa butter, warm and familiar.

I lowered the fabric slightly, inhaling again, deeper this time. The smell clung to the cotton, to my skin beneath it, subtle but unmistakable.

So this is what holding her does to me.

A faint smile touched my mouth, quiet and unguarded. It lasted barely a second before it faded, chased away by a sudden, disorienting sense of déjà vu. The feeling came sharp and insistent, tugging at a memory just out of reach.

I'd felt this before.

My mind moved before I could stop it, dragging me back to that night. Her room, her bed, her scent.

The morning after.

I had woken up then with this same scent wrapped around me, woven into my clothes, clinging to my shirt exactly like it was now.

Exactly like this.

My thoughts faltered, struggling to catch up as the memory and the present aligned with quiet, undeniable precision.

I stood there, T-shirt still half in my grip, heart beginning to pound as the realization formed not in words, but in feeling first.

That can't be.

DIYA'S POV

I stepped out of the house before he could, almost on purpose.

My bag hung from my shoulder, the familiar weight grounding me, while my thoughts were already halfway to the office.

I walked toward his car a little faster than usual, like speed alone could protect me from whatever new argument he might come up with to convince me to stay home.

He's been... acting different. Something in the way he looks at me has changed.

First he didn't wake me up, just let me sleep, so I had less time to get ready and I spent the whole morning rushing. Then he kept asking if I was in pain, watching my face like he was trying to read something I hadn't said.

I'm not in pain.

Well... okay, maybe a little.

There's a dull cramp low in my stomach. 

But it's small and manageable. The kind of discomfort you fold up and tuck away because life does not pause for things like that.

It's not worth missing office for.

Does he even realize how much someone misses by skipping even one day? The explanations you don't hear, the work you don't see, the small things seniors notice when you're not there.

I don't want my articleship to turn into a trail of leave applications.

I actually want to learn. I want to sit there, take notes, understand things properly instead of playing catch up later and pretending I'm not behind.

He is treating me like I'm down with some serious illness.

I didn't even notice when he took my bag.

One second it was on my shoulder, the familiar weight steadying me as I stepped out of the house, and the next it was gone.

"I can carry that," I said, reaching for the strap.

"I know," he replied, already unlocking the car.

He didn't give it back.

We got into the car, doors closing with soft, final thuds. 

I waited for him to start the engine and pull out like he always did, but instead he just sat there for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel, gaze turning toward me.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked.

I took a slow breath in, holding onto my patience. "It's just a period. I'm fine," I told him, keeping my voice low.

Before he could spend another five minutes scanning my face like I was hiding a diagnosis, I added, "Can we leave now?"

The engine finally started.

The car eased into traffic, swallowed by the morning rush. Horns, engines, the low hum of the city waking up filled the air. Sunlight flashed across the windshield in sharp, shifting bursts, lighting his face and then taking it away again.

I caught him looking at me more than once.

Quick subtle glances, like he was checking for signs of something only he could see, something I hadn't told him about.

I turned my face toward the window, arms folding loosely over my stomach, pretending not to notice. 

At a red light, the question that had been sitting in my chest since last night finally pushed its way up.

"Can I ask you something?"

He glanced at me and gave a small nod, one hand still resting on the steering wheel. The signal glowed red ahead of us, the world around the car briefly paused.

I hesitated.

Now that the moment was here, the question suddenly felt... stupid, and silly, like I was poking at something small that didn't need to be touched.

But I needed to know.

"Why do you have those period supplies?" I asked, aiming for casual and landing somewhere painfully awkward instead.

His eyes flicked toward me for just a second. Then back to the road.

The silence that followed felt longer than it should have been, thick and stretching. My mind rushed in to fill it before he could, thoughts tumbling over each other, making something simple feel suddenly sharp.

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

"Did you get them for your girlfriend?"

He turned his head properly this time. Not just a glance, a full look.

His expression was calm, composed, but unreadable in a way that made warmth creep up my neck. 

Regret hit instantly, hot and prickling. I wished I could swallow the question back down, pretend it had never crossed the space between us.

"I got them for my fiancée," he replied.

I blinked. 

My heart dropped so fast it felt like I'd missed a step on a staircase I didn't know I was climbing.

"You... had a fiancée?" I asked. My voice tried very hard to sound neutral and failed embarrassingly.

He nodded once.

That was it. No explanation, no softening.

Something hot and unpleasant bloomed in my chest. Sharp, tight and impossible to name without sounding ridiculous.

Of course he did.

There were probably elegant, well spoken women in his past who knew how to stand beside him at events and not cry over stained bedsheets.

I stared straight ahead.

"Do you still talk to her?" I asked, my words coming out flat, smoothed over like I'd sanded all the feeling off them.

He looked at me again. Longer this time.

Not confused exactly, but searching, like he was trying to trace the path of the conversation backward and figure out where it had slipped out of place.

Inside my head, everything was noise. Sharp, overlapping thoughts, none of them patient, none of them calm.

Whatever situation we got married in, whatever strange arrangement this is, he can't... cheat on me.

The light turned green and the car moved forward.

"I married her," he said, calm as ever.

My brain stopped. My eyes widened, my mouth opening before any words came, then closing again when none did. Heat rushed to my face so fast I felt dizzy.

Before I could actually combust in the passenger seat of his car, he spoke again.

"Diya."

I turned to him.

"You were my fiancée," he said.

The world went very quiet. 

The hum of traffic, the movement outside the windows, even the sound of the engine faded into something distant and muted.

"And I bought them for you."

For a moment, I didn't understand. Not because the words were unclear, but because my mind had already run ahead, bracing for something else. Something colder, something that would have hurt in a way I could at least prepare for.

You were my fiancée.

The sentence settled slowly, like it had to knock before entering, like my thoughts needed time to rearrange themselves around it.

"Oh," I said.

It came out small and useless.

Heat rushed up my neck, spilling into my ears and across my cheeks. 

The ridiculous spiral I'd been clutching so tightly a moment ago had nowhere to go now, so it turned inward instead, folding into embarrassment so sharp it made my chest ache.

I fixed my eyes on the road ahead, suddenly deeply invested in a random autorickshaw attempting a wildly illegal U-turn, because traffic violations were far easier to process than the fact that he had got all that for... me.

"Oh," I said again, because apparently that was the full extent of my vocabulary now.

Girlfriends, cheating, an entire internal courtroom drama built on absolutely zero evidence.

God.

By the time we reached, my face still felt warm with leftover embarrassment. I got out of the car a little too quickly and started walking toward the office building, pretending I had somewhere urgent to be.

"Diya!" I stopped mid step and turned.

He was walking toward me with my bag in hand. I had forgotten it completely.

He held it out, and I took it, my fingers brushing the strap. It felt like I was accepting something more than just weight. 

Before I could step back, his hands lifted toward my collar, adjusting it gently, fixing something I hadn't even noticed was out of place.

The touch was brief, careful.

For a second, a flicker of fear ran through me, the fear of being seen with him like this. But the basement parking was empty, our footsteps the only sound echoing softly off concrete.

"Call me if you don't feel well," he said.

His hands lingered for a moment at my collar, not quite touching anymore, not quite pulling away either.

I nodded.

Words felt unnecessary, too small for the way my chest felt tight and warm all at once.

Then I turned and walked toward the elevator.

Work helped at first.

I let myself sink into it line by line, figure by figure, grateful for something that stayed consistent, something that didn't shift it's tone halfway through a sentence.

For a while, I almost forgot about my body.

About an hour in, a dull ache began to bloom low in my abdomen. I paused for half a second, pen hovering over the page, breath catching just slightly, then forced my hand to move again.

It was nothing. Just the usual, familiar and manageable background noise.

I straightened in my chair and kept working, jaw set, determined not to make a big deal out of something that visited every month like an unwanted but predictable guest.

Then it hit.

A sudden, crashing wave of pain curled through me, sharp and deep, stealing the air from my lungs. It felt like something inside me had clenched tight without warning, wringing me out from the inside.

My fingers froze on the keyboard the moment it arrived.

For a split second, all I could do was sit there and breathe through it. My eyes fixed on the screen while the world narrowed down to the ache twisting low in my stomach.

If I had been alone, I would have folded in on myself without hesitation. Groaned, complained, maybe even cursed the universe for the unfairness of it all.

But here, under fluorescent lights and quiet office murmurs, I just sat still, pretending I wasn't fighting a war inside my own body.

Two hours later, just as I was closing a file and trying to ignore the slow, stubborn ache curling through my abdomen, someone's voice rose over the low hum of the floor. "Alright guys, wrap up. We're heading out early for a team lunch with the boss."

Team lunch?

A few people let out soft cheers. Chairs rolled back, laptops snapped shut one by one, the sound echoing lightly through the office.

I stared at my screen for a moment longer than necessary. Then I saved my work, shut everything down, and pushed my chair back carefully, moving slower than usual as I followed the others out.

The restaurant was quiet when we walked in.

Low conversations drifted between tables, soft and contained, like the room itself encouraged people to speak gently. Warm lights glowed overhead, golden and dim, not harsh enough to expose, not bright enough to overwhelm. 

The space felt smaller than it was, intimate in a careful, curated way.

The air carried the faint smell of fresh bread and something buttery, rich and comforting.

We were led to a long table along the side wall, slightly tucked away from the center of the room. Not hidden, but not on display either. 

Everyone settled into their seats in quiet clusters of familiarity, gravitating toward the people they spoke to most, laughed with easiest.

I chose a chair somewhere in the middle, the safest place to disappear into the blur of faces and voices.

Alisha slipped into the seat beside me, offering a small, friendly smile as she adjusted her bag at her feet. On my other side, one of the senior associates took the remaining chair.

Across from us, Neha barely waited to sit before launching into an animated retelling of a client call from last week, her hands moving as much as her voice, the table slowly warming with conversation around her.

I nodded at the right moments, offered small responses when she paused for breath, doing my best to stay present while the ache in my abdomen slowly deepened. It spread like quiet heat, heavy and dull, curling into my lower back until sitting still took more effort than it should have.

I tried to let the noise exist around me without letting it sink in.

A few minutes later, the energy at the table shifted.

"Good afternoon, sir."

Chairs straightened almost in unison, conversations softened at the edges.

I looked up.

The person who arranged the lunch had arrived.

Mr. Malhotra greeted everyone with a small nod and a polite smile, his presence calm but immediately felt. 

He moved through the cluster of voices without disrupting them, then took an empty seat on the other side of the table.

Our eyes met once.

Just once.

It was accidental.

And still, something sharp and quiet passed through me, a sudden awareness that made my fingers tighten slightly around my glass. I dropped my gaze immediately, focusing instead on the thin trail of condensation sliding down the side of the water glass, watching it fall like it required my full attention.

Alisha said something beside me, and I pulled my attention back to her with effort. She was halfway through a story about a last minute presentation disaster, eyes wide, hands moving as she described slides crashing and files refusing to open.

On my other side, the senior associate leaned in, adding his own version of a similar catastrophe, their voices overlapping in that easy, office familiar way.

The conversation flowed between them, light and continuous.

I tried to keep up, but every response felt measured, every nod deliberate.

I shifted slightly in my chair, slow and careful, hoping the movement looked casual and not like quiet desperation.

I was so focused on keeping my expression steady, my voice normal, that I almost missed it when Mr. Malhotra stood.

"Switch with me," he said.

The words didn't rise above the noise, but they cut through it cleanly, reaching our side of the table with quiet authority.

I looked up, startled, just as he addressed the senior associate beside me.

For a second, my mind went completely blank.

Switch?

The chair next to me scraped back as my colleague blinked, confused, but stood anyway. "Uh, sure, sir."

Heat rushed up my neck so fast it felt like I'd been caught doing something wrong, though I couldn't have said what.

I kept my eyes on the table, suddenly aware of everything at once. My hands resting too stiffly in my lap. The way I was sitting, the empty space beside me that didn't feel empty anymore.

Mr. Malhotra walked around the table and paused for a fraction of a second before sitting down.

"Since we have more people on that side," he said lightly, gesturing across the table, "I can see everyone better from here."

A few people nodded, accepting the explanation without question. 

His PA laughed and made a joke about him supervising even during lunch. Soft chuckles followed, and just like that, the moment dissolved back into the easy rhythm of conversation.

It took a full minute for my soul to return to my body.

He didn't look at me. He just reached for a glass of water, and joined the conversation happening across the table like nothing unusual had happened at all.

But my body knew better.

I was suddenly, painfully aware of him beside me. The warmth of his arm near mine, the faint sound of his sleeve brushing the edge of the table when he leaned forward, the subtle shift of air every time he moved.

A steady presence that asked nothing of me, didn't demand attention, didn't speak my name. And still filled all the space I was trying so hard not to notice.

A moment later, plates began arriving, the table filling with the clink of cutlery and the soft murmur of people starting to eat.

I tried to focus on what was in front of me.

But my attention kept slipping, catching on everything else instead. The scrape of a chair leg against the floor. Someone laughing a little too loudly across the table. The quiet, steady warmth from the person seated to my right, close enough that I could feel it without looking.

I reached for my glass of water, and that was when I noticed.

Neha wasn't looking at her food. She was looking at Mr. Malhotra. More specifically, at the ring on his finger.

Her expression wasn't obvious, not curious, not shocked. Just... focused. The kind of look people give when they are piecing something together.

My stomach tightened, and this time it had nothing to do with cramps.

Before I could even think, my own hand slipped off the table and into my lap. My fingers curled inward, my thumb pressing over the thin band I wore, covering it instinctively, like I could hide the truth just by not letting it catch the light.

The movement was automatic, protective.

I didn't want questions, didn't want curious eyes flicking from his hand to mine, didn't want quiet whispers forming around something I was still trying to understand myself.

A few minutes later, Mr. Malhotra set his glass down and glanced at his watch.

"Alright," he said, his voice calm but easily carrying across the table. "You can wrap up here. If there's anything pending, finish it from home. We'll call it a day."

A ripple of surprise moved through the group.

Then—

"Seriously, sir?"

"Half day?"

"Best boss ever."

Laughter spread, light and genuine. Relief loosened shoulders. Weekend plans started forming out loud, overlapping and cheerful.

I blinked.

I hadn't expected that.

He stood, gave the table a single nod, and left without lingering, his exit as quiet and contained as his presence had been.

I watched him go before I could stop myself, then I quickly looked away, pretending to adjust my bag, like I had been focused on that all along.

"He's... not what I expected," Alisha murmured beside me as we stood.

I glanced at her. "Hmm?"

"Our boss," she said, lowering her voice like we were sharing something scandalous. "I thought he'd be some strict uncle type in his fifties. Grey hair, glasses, permanent frown. Not..." She waved her hand vaguely toward the exit he'd disappeared through. "That."

I looked down at the table, pretending to wipe my hands with a napkin. "Yeah," I said.

He's not what I expected either.

"I think I have a crush on him," she joked, half laughing at herself.

A few people around us laughed along.

But something in my chest pulled tight, quick and sudden. 

I didn't understand it. It wasn't anger exactly, not hurt either. Just a sharp, unfamiliar resistance, rising before I could reason with it.

She wasn't even being serious. So why did it feel uneasy like that?

"Have you met him before?" she asked suddenly.

My steps faltered for half a second.

A strange, defensive instinct flared before I could think, fast and quiet, like I had something to protect without knowing what it was.

"No," I said, steady. "First time."

The lie slipped out smoothly, but the tightness in my chest stayed.

We stepped out into the afternoon sun, the brightness hitting hard enough to make me squint. The noise of the restaurant fell away behind us, and with it the distraction. 

The dull ache in my abdomen pulsed again, heavier now, more present, like it had been waiting patiently for quiet.

"I'll just book a cab," Alisha said, already unlocking her phone. "You?"

My phone buzzed just as I opened my mouth to answer.

Mr. Me: Stay there.

My breath caught halfway in. For a second, I just stared at the screen, the words simple, direct, doing strange things to my pulse.

"I have someone picking me up," I said, a little too quickly. I locked my screen faster than necessary and slipped the phone back into my bag.

"Oh, okay," Alisha nodded, already distracted by her app again.

Her cab pulled up within a minute. She gave me a small wave before hurrying off, disappearing into the blur of traffic.

I stayed where I was.

A few employees lingered nearby, talking in small clusters before peeling off in different directions.

I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder. Then shifted my weight. Then did it again.

The ache in my abdomen curled tighter, a deep, dragging pull that made standing still feel like work. I kept my face neutral, breathing slow, pretending my body wasn't quietly demanding me to sit down or fold in.

A car slowed near the curb.

The window rolled down.

We didn't exchange a single word. I just opened the passenger door and slipped inside quickly. 

The door shut, sealing out the noise of the street.

I leaned back against the seat, and the tension I'd been holding in public began to ease in small, quiet degrees.

The ride back home was quiet. Exactly what I needed. No small talk, no questions. Just the low hum of the engine and the city moving past outside. 

My back felt like it was on the verge of giving up entirely, a deep, spreading ache that made every small movement feel louder inside my body.

How did I get this tired in a few hours? It wasn't even a full day.

I shifted slightly in my seat, trying to find a position that didn't pull at the dull cramps twisting low in my stomach.

And then a thought slipped in before I could stop it.

Did he call the day off because of me?

It lingered for half a second, fragile and dangerous. Then I pushed it away. 

Why would he do that for me?

I turned my face toward the window before the thought could grow roots, watching buildings slide past in soft blurs of color and glass. My reflection floated faintly over them, tired eyes, drawn expression, hair slightly out of place.

I squinted at myself.

If this is me at twenty three, what exactly is the long term strategy here? Am I just destined to spend my fifties permanently bent over like a question mark?

🪔

It was a little after dinner when I came back to our room.

I changed into something softer, fabric that didn't press or cling, and left my hair open down my back, too tired to tie it up again. 

Instead of reaching for my textbooks out of habit, I picked up another book today. Something I had meant to read for a while but never found the time for.

I curled against the headboard, legs stretched out beneath the blanket, the book resting open in my hands. The pages shifted softly each time I adjusted my grip, the faint rustle loud in the quiet room.

Outside, the house was settling into night. Distant sounds drifted in from the hallway, a door closing somewhere far off, low voices that slowly faded into silence.

I had been holding it together all day: through the office, through lunch, through the ride home.

 All that time, the cramps had stayed dull, a low, background ache I could pretend wasn't there if I focused hard enough on everything else.

Now there was nothing left to distract me.

The pain crept in slowly at first, a tightening low in my abdomen that made me pause between lines, eyes hovering over the same sentence without really reading it. I shifted slightly against the headboard, adjusting the blanket over my legs, hoping the discomfort would ease if I just ignored it a little longer.

It didn't.

Instead, it sharpened, twisted and spread into my lower back like a slow, smoldering burn that refused to stay contained.

I lowered the book to my lap and drew one knee up, then the other, curling forward instinctively.

 The position helped for a few seconds, just enough to breathe through it, before the pain surged again, deeper this time, strong enough to pull a quiet gasp from my throat before I could stop it.

My palm pressed against my stomach, as if I could soothe it by touch alone. 

But the ache only grew heavier, more insistent, like my body had been patiently gathering every bit of discomfort I'd brushed aside since morning and was now returning it all at once, with interest.

My eyes burned.

I blinked hard and picked up the book again, holding it closer to my face, like proximity might force the words to matter more than the pain.

The door opened.

I straightened a little, wiping at my cheek with the back of my hand before he could notice anything out of place.

His attention stayed on the laptop tucked under his arm as he walked in. He looked at me once, brief and unreadable, then moved toward the couch and sat down.

The laptop opened, its faint glow lighting one side of his face.

I coaxed myself into being quiet.

I'm not used to being quiet when I get this kind of pain. 

Back home, I used to make my pillows suffer along with me. Hitting them, biting into them, punching them like they'd personally offended me.

Somehow, the ridiculous violence of it helped bleed the pain out just enough to survive it.

I couldn't do that here.

He had already done enough. More than enough. Yesterday. Today. He didn't need to look up from his work and find me acting like a complete lunatic in the corner of the room.

I kept my eyes on the page, but the words had stopped arranging themselves into meaning. Letters blurred together, sentences dissolving before I could reach the end of them. 

Another wave of pain rolled through me, sharper than the last, and my fingers tightened helplessly around the edge of the book.

A tear rolled down my cheek.

I lifted the book higher, covering my face just as another one followed, warm and silent, disappearing into the pages like I could hide even this.

"Are you crying?"

His voice cut through the room, calm, but closer than it had been a second ago.

I shook my head quickly, eyes still on the page. "No."

"Then?" he asked.

I swallowed, pulling in a breath I hoped didn't sound as unsteady as it felt. "The book," I said, lifting it a little like proof. "It's... really emotional."

There was a quiet click as the laptop closed.

I barely had time to register the sound before he was beside the bed. He reached over and gently slid the book out of my hands, holding it just out of reach.

"You were reading Atomic Habits"

I looked up at him then, eyes still damp, vision slightly blurred. His face was unreadable, but there was something softer beneath it, something that made the embarrassment bloom hotter than the pain.

I looked at him for a second, then down at my hands, then at the narrow stretch of space between us that suddenly felt too close and too exposed.

The pain twisted again, sharp and unforgiving, pulling a breath out of me before I could catch it.

He lowered himself to sit in front of me, close enough that I could feel the shift of his presence. He was about to say something.

But another wave crashed through me, stronger, and instinct moved faster than pride. My fingers reached out blindly and closed around the first solid thing they found.

His forearm.

The contact startled me as much as it did him.

I held on tighter than I meant to, my head dropping forward as I tried to breathe through the pain, as if anchoring myself to something outside my own body might keep me from folding in on myself completely.

"Did you also get... heat patches," I asked, my voice barely steady, "for your fiancée... by any chance?"

He quickly pulled a drawer open, took out a small packet, tore it open with a soft, careful rip, and held it out to me.

I took it from his hand after staring at him in disbelief. I didn't expect him to have these.

He looked away as I peeled the backing off slowly. 

My fingers unsteady as I pressed the patch against the dull, aching center of the pain beneath my clothes.

The warmth hadn't begun yet. But the promise of it settled over me anyway, a small, fragile comfort I couldn't quite put into words. 

Another cramp hit, folding me inward before I could brace for it. My body curled in on itself, breath catching, a small, helpless sound slipping out.

"I'll get you a painkiller," he said immediately, already on his feet.

I almost told him not to bother.

I knew how this usually went. Once the pain climbed this high, pills felt like suggestions, not solutions. But the words stayed where they were, trapped somewhere between pride and exhaustion. Even speaking felt heavier than just letting him go.

He returned a moment later with a glass of water and a tablet resting against his palm, holding both out to me.

"Take it."

I did.

Not because I believed it would make much difference, but because he did.

My eyes burned again, and this time the tears came quietly, slipping free without resistance. It wasn't just the pain anymore, it was the way everything inside me felt too close to the surface.

His thumb moved before I realized what he was doing. He brushed a tear from my cheek, the contact feather light, almost unsure. "Is it always this bad?" he asked softly.

 I shook my head a little. "This is just how it is."

The words felt older than me, worn smooth from years of saying them.

He went quiet after that.

"Does massaging help?" he asked after a moment.

"Sometimes," I replied, my voice barely more than breath.

"Can I try?" he asked hesitantly.

I looked at him for a second, my thoughts slow and heavy.

Beggars aren't choosers, Diya.

I gave him a small nod.

His hand hovered uncertainly between us, awkward and gentle all at once. "Where should I—"

I reached for his hand and guided it down myself, placing it over my lower abdomen, the warmth of his palm settling there like something my body had been waiting for without knowing it.

I reached for his hand and guided it down, placing it gently over my lower abdomen.

He started slowly, unsure at first, his touch careful like he was afraid of pressing too hard. Then, gradually, his movements grew steadier, small circles of light pressure, almost tentative imitations of what I'd done for myself on nights when no one else was there to help.

The warmth from the patch began to bloom beneath his hand, a slow, spreading heat that seeped into the ache, softening its sharpest edges. It didn't take the pain away, but it made it feel less lonely somehow. Less like something I had to endure by myself.

Another cramp surged, stronger than the last.

My breath hitched, and without thinking, I placed my own hand over my stomach, right above his.

The pain bent me forward, pulling me inward, until I was leaning toward him without meaning to, my forehead nearly brushing his shoulder as I tried to breathe through it, one slow, shaky breath at a time.

He didn't stop. His hand kept moving in slow, patient circles, steady and unhurried. The pain began to dull at the edges.

My body felt heavier with each passing minute, the tight coil inside me gradually loosening. My breaths evened out without me noticing, each one deeper than the last, my weight settling more fully against him.

The room softened at the edges. The light, the quiet hum of the house, the steady rhythm of his hand.

Somewhere between one slow circle and the next, everything faded. I don't remember the moment sleep took me, only the lingering awareness of one of his arms around me, firm and careful at my back, while the other hand kept moving over the ache long after my eyes had closed.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Please ignore the random spaces and fvcked up formatting in this chapter. It's a glitch, I'll fix it later.

I do have an explanation for why things turned out the way they did, not sure if anyone wants to hear it, so I'll skip it.

Thankyou for being here.