"Good news!"

Vivaan yelled as he rushed back into the house, breathless.

Tanya caught him by the arm before he could go any further. "We know it's their one month anniversary," she hissed, pulling him aside. "Why are you spoiling the surprise?"

He looked at her like she had missed the entire point of the universe.

"Bhabhi," he said, grin already stretching too wide, his voice loud despite her effort, "we're about to get a much bigger surprise than the one we planned."

"What surprise?" Tanya asked, frowning.

He didn't answer her right away. Instead, he turned just as Diya and Vedant stepped into the room.

"Bhai-" he began, then corrected himself mid breath, momentum carrying him forward before sense could intervene. "Bhabhi is pregnant."

The room reacted before anyone had the chance to think. Conversation froze, movement stalled. The air itself seemed to hesitate, caught between disbelief and awe.

"Really?" The word escaped Meera first.

Her hand rose instinctively to her chest, eyes already softening as they flicked from Vedant to Diya and back again, searching for confirmation.

Her mind jumped ahead without permission. Calculations she hadn't asked for, age, health, responsibility. Joy threaded itself through them anyway, winding tight with worry, impossible to separate one from the other.

Dadu blinked behind his glasses, surprise melting quickly into a slow, delighted smile. To him, it was simple. New life, continuation, something to thank God for. His hands folded together instinctively, already halfway to a silent prayer.

Tanya's reaction came slower. She didn't look at Vedant first, she looked at Diya.

At the faint tiredness she hadn't been able to place earlier. At the way Diya stood a little too still beside Vedant. Excitement rose, yes, but it tangled immediately with concern.

Avni - Atharv's twin, who had come only to be part of the surprise Vivaan had so carefully planned, lifted a hand to her mouth, eyes wide.

Her thoughts raced ahead unchecked, already filling with images of tiny clothes, interrupted sleep, the astonishing speed at which life seemed to change.

Before anyone could gather themselves enough to speak, motion broke through the hesitation.

Tanya was the first to reach them.

Her gaze dropped, instinctively, to the folder in Vedant's hand. The edge of the ultrasound film peeked out unmistakably.

Something softened in her expression before she could stop it. "Oh," she said, breath catching. She didn't wait for confirmation, she just stepped forward and wrapped Diya into a gentle hug.

"Congratulations," Tanya said softly, right into her shoulder.

Diya went still in her arms.

Her hands hovered awkwardly in the air before settling against Tanya's back, her mind scrambling to catch up.

Heat flooded her cheeks, embarrassment and disbelief tangling painfully in her chest. "I-" she began, then stopped.

She didn't yet know what she was meant to correct, or how.

Avni crossed the room quickly, excitement worn openly on her face, unfiltered the way it always was with her. She smiled at Vedant first, bright and unquestioning, then turned to Diya, already reaching out.

"Oh my god," she said, clasping Diya's hands in hers, warmth spilling effortlessly into her voice. "Congratulations. Both of you."

Meera had already moved closer.

Her eyes shone as they flicked between the two of them, something reverent settling into her expression.

"This is... unexpected," she said carefully, warmth cushioning every word. "Are you feeling alright, beta?" She asked as her hand rose, gentle and instinctive, cupping Diya's face.

Diya couldn't respond.

She stood where she was, fingers curling slowly into the straps of her bag, her mind lagging seconds behind the room. The word pregnant echoed too loudly in her head, bouncing off walls that hadn't been built to hold it.

Her first thought was heat, embarrassment flooding her cheeks, sharp and immediate. Her second thought followed quickly, panicked and mortifying.

They think we...

The rest of it refused to form.

Vedant felt the shift beside him before he fully registered it. For a fleeting moment, he couldn't understand how the room had arrived here so quickly, how celebration had leapt ahead of reality.

"So..." Vivaan said, far too pleased with himself, oblivious to the shift he'd caused. "When do I get my award for fastest news delivery?"

Vedant didn't react.

He just lifted his head and spoke evenly, his voice cutting cleanly through the room. "She's not pregnant."

The room went still, confusion rippling across faces that had been moments away from joy.

"Then..." Meera began slowly, her eyes flicking to the folder in Vedant's hand, where the edge of the scans peeked out. "What are those?"

Diya glanced at him nervous and unsure. Vedant looked back at her, the room blurring at the edges as the moment stretched between them, quiet and heavy with everything they hadn't said yet.

And just like that, the night before came rushing back.

Flashback : Last Night.

The room was quiet in the way it only gets after midnight.

Vedant sat on the couch with his laptop open, the glow of the screen washing over tired eyes.

The soft tapping of keys filled the space, steady and familiar, until the mattress in front of him shifted abruptly beneath restless weight.

He didn’t look up immediately.

At first, he assumed it was nothing. A shift in sleep, a half dreamed movement. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, waiting for the movement to settle.

It didn’t.

The mattress tightened again, sheets pulling taut and releasing in quick, uneven motions that carried a wrongness he couldn’t quite name yet.

He lifted his gaze fully this time.

Diya had turned inward, her knees drawn closer than they had been moments ago, her body curling and uncurling like it couldn’t decide where to rest.

Another sharp movement followed. The mattress shifted, the bed creaked softly.

His fingers slid away from the keyboard, already reaching to close the laptop when a small hitch that lingered a second too long escaped Diya’s lips.

It was enough to tell him she wasn’t asleep anymore, atleast not properly.

And then his name slipped out of her, broken and uncertain, pulled free by instinct rather than intent.

“Vedant…”

He was beside her in the next moment, the space between them gone.

He leaned down, close enough to feel the uneven rhythm of her breath, and lifted a hand to her face. His palm settled against her cheek gently.

“What’s wrong?”

Her lashes fluttered but didn’t lift. She didn’t answer.

“Cramps?” he asked softly.

She nodded.

The movement slow and minimal, as though even that small admission asked more of her than she had to give.

Her hand moved next, blind and uncoordinated. Fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt near his waist, twisting the cotton as the pain rolled through her.

She didn’t pull him closer, she just held on.

Vedant inhaled once, steady and deliberate. “I’m here” he murmured. His thumb stilled against her jaw. “Where does it hurt?”

For a second there was no answer. Then her voice cracked, barely there. “Everywhere.”

Vedant exhaled slowly, focus sharpening. His gaze flicked once to the clock, then returned to her, taking in the way her body remained tightly coiled.

“I have some oil,” he said gently. “It helps with muscle pain.”

He paused, then asked. “Can I...?” The question was deliberate and carefully placed.

Her fingers tightened in his shirt for a second, then loosened just enough for the word to slip out, small and bare.

“Please.”

That was all.

Vedant didn’t say anything else. He moved carefully, like suddenness might undo the fragile trust in that single word.

He reached for the bottle, the cap twisting open.

Please.

The word stayed with him as the sharp, familiar scent of the oil bloomed in the quiet room. When he came back to the bed, he didn’t rush. He sat at the edge first, giving her body time to register what was coming.

Then he carefully cradled her foot into his hands. It was colder than he expected.

He warmed the oil between his fingers before his thumbs pressed into the arch, slowly and deliberately, working outward in small circles. 

The first touch made her flinch, toes curling instinctively.

He waited until her breathing steadied again before continuing.

He worked methodically, thumbs following the tight lines he could feel beneath the surface, pausing and adjusting without being told.

After a minute, the rigid pull in her calf began to ease, her toes relaxed. The tight line of her ankle softened beneath his palm.

“Is it helping?” he asked softly.

She nodded, barely perceptible, her head turning into the pillow as another wave passed without cresting as sharply as before.

He repeated the same careful rhythm on her other foot, anchoring her body beyond the reach of the pain.

When he finished, he rested his hands there for a moment, letting the warmth settle. Then his hands slid upward to her calves.

Thumbs applying steady pressure and releasing in slow, deliberate motions. The muscles there were tighter, the response sharper.

“Breathe,” he said not stopping, not pushing harder either.

Instead, he adjusted himself to her, slowing his movements to the rhythm of her breath. Working through the tension in small, patient increments rather than forcing it loose. Listening with his hands, waiting for her body to follow.

Gradually, it did.

When her breath steadied further, he withdrew his hands carefully and shifted, sitting back against the headboard beside her.

“Can you turn onto your stomach?” he asked quietly.

She shifted slowly, movements uncoordinated and heavy, like her body was running on borrowed energy. He steadied her by the elbow helping her settle again.

Her forehead turned to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow.

Vedant adjusted the duvet first, drawing it back into place, making sure she was covered. Then he hesitated only a moment before speaking again. “I’ll lift your top a little. Is that okay?”

She didn’t open her eyes. Her fingers moved instead, tugging weakly at the hem of her shirt, lifting it just enough to expose the area he needed. Then her hand fell back against the mattress, spent.

That was answer enough.

He poured a little more oil into his palm and warmed it between his hands before touching her again. When his palms finally settled against her lower back, the reaction was immediate. Her body tensed for a second, instinctive, then softened as the warmth spread.

He started slow. Steady, open handed strokes along the curve of her waist, letting her body adjust to being touched there. His thumbs traced careful circles on either side of her spine, working outward where the muscles had locked tight.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmured.

She shook her head faintly, breath already evening out again.

He increased the pressure gradually, following the tension as it revealed itself. Every movement was deliberate, learned not from familiarity with her body, but from paying close attention to it.

When he finally moved around to her side again, she was pliant with exhaustion, barely stirring as he adjusted her position.

His palm rested flat against her lower abdomen, warmth spreading through her skin.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” Vedant said as his hand began moving in small measured pressure.

Diya responded before she could think.

Her body leaned into him, breath shuddering once before smoothing out, her forehead brushing his side as if drawn there by gravity alone.

The tension that had coiled her so tightly began to loosen, unwinding one careful layer at a time. The tight pull in her frame eased enough for sleep to creep back in quietly.

When Vedant was certain she was gone again, truly asleep this time, he withdrew slowly, careful not to break the fragile calm he’d helped her reach.

He stayed seated beside her for a long moment before moving away from the bed.

After washing the oil from his hands, he returned to the couch and opened his laptop once more.

But this time, it wasn’t work that drew the screen to life. It was concern edged with logic.

The screen lit up, casting a pale glow across his face as he sat down, shoulders tense in a way they hadn’t been an hour ago.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard again, but this time they hesitated, the words harder to form than any report or proposal.

His gaze flicked back to the bed. Something tight and uncomfortable settled in his chest.

He typed.

Severe menstrual cramps spreading to legs and back.

The results came quickly.

Common causes sat beside less common ones, reassurances tangled with warnings. Hormonal imbalance, stress, vitamin deficiency, ovarian cysts, endometriosis.

His jaw tightened.

He scrolled, then typed again.

Pain not relieved by medication.

Another search.

Cramps waking someone from sleep.

His eyes lifted again, drawn back to her without conscious thought. Even asleep, she seemed smaller somehow, folded inward on herself, as though her body still expected pain to return at any moment.

A familiar frustration surfaced through him then. The kind he felt when something refused to fit neatly into logic.

Vedant’s fingers pressed harder into the keys. More links popped up with more possibilities, some benign, some not.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling and steadying himself the way he did before difficult conversations or final decisions.

This wasn’t something to dismiss.

The image of her twisting in the bed, fingers fisting in his shirt, the broken way she’d said everywhere surfaced uninvited.

That wasn’t normal, or at the very least, it shouldn’t have been.

When I woke up, my first thought was that I’d had a good nap.

The kind of nap that leaves your body pleasantly heavy, limbs slow, thoughts completely gone.

I blinked a few times, still caught somewhere between sleep and waking, before my eyes drifted to the clock.

10:02 a.m.

I stared at it. My mind stalled, struggling to place the numbers into sense.

Then my body jerked awake. Twelve hours? I had slept for twelve hours?

I threw the blanket aside and pushed myself up too quickly, already halfway out of bed in a rush of disbelief.

The moment my foot touched the floor, everything rebelled.

“Holy jellyfish!”

My face twisted in annoyance. I made my way to the washroom slower than a snail. I was trying not to accidentally give birth to a blood clot on the bedroom floor.

By the time I came back out, one thing was very clear.

There was no point going to the office now.

I was extremely late. Historically late. “See you tomorrow” late.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand, already preparing to face the consequences of existing in a female body, when something else caught my eye.

A sticky note.

Stuck on top of what looked suspiciously like a chocolate bar. I peeled it off, the paper soft and slightly curled at the edges.

Take a painkiller if it gets bad again. Dark chocolate helps. Eat properly. More heat patches are in the drawer. Call me if you need anything. — V

I read it once, then again, then slower.

Lips moving faintly over the words that weren’t poetic, just practical. Written in his clean, no nonsense handwriting.

Which somehow made it worse.

I set the chocolate beside me and let myself fall back against the pillow, the note still clutched in my hand. My eyes drifted to the ceiling, unfocused, heart doing that quiet, uncomfortable tightening it always did when he was gentle without asking for anything in return.

“So you left without me?” I murmured to the quiet room.

Morning light spilled softly across the bed, warming the empty space beside me where he must have sat earlier. I could almost picture it, him getting ready quietly... without me.

My fingers traced the edge of the sticky note absentmindedly.

I wonder if he applied sunscreen today.

The thought slipped in with alarming sincerity, earnest in a way that startled me.

Should I ask him?

I reached for my phone and opened our chat, thumbs already hovering, prepared to type a completely normal, not at all ridiculous question.

I didn’t get that far.

The thought collapsed before it could turn into words. Because his messages were already there, lining the screen one after another.

Mr. Me:

Hi.

Did you wake up?

Did you eat?

Are you okay?

Hello?

Something in my chest softened, even as irritation flickered right after it.

Why didn’t you wake me up? My boss is going to cut my stipend now.

I typed back, sarcasm laced neatly over genuine disappointment. I hated sitting at home when I could be doing something useful.

And if I was being honest with myself, the quiet routine of getting ready for the office together had started to feel… comforting. Familiar in a way I hadn’t meant for it to be.

His reply came almost instantly.

He won’t. You’re on menstrual leave.

I stared at the screen, then rolled onto my stomach, phone still in my hand.

That is not a thing.

I typed back lazily, my hair falling into my face as I buried half of it in the pillow.

The reply came just as fast.

It is now.

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed with an email notification from the firm.

I pushed myself upright, a little too fast for someone who had just declared herself physically useless for the day, and opened it.

The subject line made me blink.

Menstrual Leave Implementation

I sat there for a second, convinced my brain was still buffering. Then I opened the mail.

My eyes skimmed the first few lines out of habit.

I reread the mail, slower this time, like maybe I’d misunderstood something obvious. Like maybe there was an asterisk somewhere explaining this was a joke or a typo or an HR experiment gone wrong.

There wasn’t.

Four days? Paid? Menstrual leave?

Is this real? I typed in disbelief.

Mr. Me: Very real.

My chest felt oddly tight, like my body didn’t know what emotion to pick. Part of me waited for the anxiety to kick in, the guilt, the instinct to justify why I deserved this.

None of it came.

I just sat there, phone in my hand, staring at the wall ahead of me.

This wasn’t something I’d asked for. It wasn’t even something I’d imagined could happen. That was what made it unreal.

🪔

“That is not how you play with that ball,” I stopped the moment I saw Misha sitting alone on the living room couch, a small football tucked carefully under her head like a pillow.

“E-yaa!”

The sound of unearned joy and unfiltered love reached me like the best part of the morning.

I went to her immediately, sinking down beside her and pressing a kiss to her warm, milksweet forehead.

“You’re supposed to kick it,” I told her, pointing at the ball.

Misha considered this very seriously.

Then she grabbed the ball in both hands, lifted it with great effort and hurled it forward with all the strength her tiny arms could gather.

It landed barely two steps away from the couch.

She stared at it for a second, then clapped for herself utterly delighted.

I laughed before I could stop myself and clapped along with her, because how could I not? Pride shone on her face like she’d just scored a winning goal.

“That was… impressive,” I told her solemnly, scooping her up into my arms. “But you kick it with your feet Mishki.”

She didn’t wait for instructions.

Her legs flew into the air immediately, kicking wildly, socks flashing, balance entirely forgotten. She giggled at her own enthusiasm, a sound so bright it could make dead flowers bloom.

I laughed with her, holding her securely as she kicked and kicked, convinced she was doing exactly what I’d asked.

“Diya?”

The voice came from behind the couch, warm and familiar. I turned slightly to find Meera Maa standing there.

“You’re here?” she said, surprise softening into a smile. “Come, I’ll serve you breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry today,” I told her hesitantly.

She opened her mouth, ready to say something, then she stopped. Something passed through her expression, unreadable and gentle all at once, and she simply nodded instead.

I turned back to Misha, who was now thoroughly distracted by her own fingers.

That was when I noticed the pendant.

It rested against her chest, the familiar little evil eye charm I had gifted her on her first birthday, it caught light every time she moved.

“Are you wearing the pendant that e-yaa gave you?” I asked.

She followed my finger with her eyes, then looked down at it seriously.

“Shineyyy,” she declared, grinning with pride.

I smiled, warmth blooming unexpectedly.

Before I could say anything else, she reached out with surprising determination, her small fingers tugging at my nupital chain, fascinated by the way it caught the light.

“Shineyyy,” she said again, pleased with herself.

The smile slipped from my face for a moment. Because how was I supposed to explain that it wasn’t the same kind of shiny?

How was I meant to tell her that two metals could glint the same way under the sun and still carry entirely different meanings?

One chosen with love. One worn because it had been placed there.

The thought sat heavy, unasked and unanswered, and I might have stayed there longer if Meera Maa hadn’t returned just then, a plate balanced carefully in her hands.

“I—” Before I could even shape an excuse, the food was already in my mouth.

I blinked, momentarily startled, cheeks full, dignity entirely abandoned.

Misha burst into laughter at the sight of me, delighted by my sudden inability to speak. Her giggle came out in short, breathy bursts, shoulders bouncing with it.

That was when Meera Maa slipped a piece of strawberry between Misha’s lips.

She paused, completely still. Then her face lit up, eyes widening as the taste registered, and she began to chew with exaggerated seriousness, savoring it like it was the greatest discovery of her life.

I laughed then, helplessly, watching her tiny performance.

“I know you said you’re not hungry,” Meera Maa said, already preparing another bite for me, entirely unbothered by my earlier protest. “But someone asked me to make sure you’re well fed.”

“Who?” I asked, just as she fed me again.

“E-dant!” Misha yelled proudly, strawberry stained fingers raised in the air.

Meera Maa chuckled. “Wow, Mishki knows everything, huh?” she said, rewarding her with another piece.

I was still processing that information, mind lagging a step behind my heart, when Misha suddenly squealed again.

“E-dant!” She announced, louder this time, pointing emphatically toward the doorway.

We both turned to follow her gaze, only to find him walking in like he’d been summoned by Misha.

“Did you forget something?” Meera Maa asked gently as he reached the living room.

He shook his head as he sat beside me.

Misha reacted instantly.

She hurled herself at him with startling speed, tiny arms wrapping around his neck like she’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Earlier, I used to wonder why Misha always ran to hug him the instant she saw him. Why it was always him she chose, every single time.

But now, knowing how it felt to be held by him, how easy it was to relax into that quiet steadiness… I understood.

He probably made her feel safe too.

“It’s not even noon yet. “You’re never home this early.” Meera Maa remarked, feeding me another bite without breaking rhythm.

“Just finished work early today, Maa,” he replied calmly, one hand resting securely against Misha’s back.

That was when Tanya came downstairs.

“Meeting over?” Meera Maa asked as she approached.

Tanya nodded once.

“Did she fall asleep?” she asked softly, eyes drifting to Misha.

I glanced at the little face resting against his chest. Eyes closed, mouth slightly parted, completely surrendered to sleep.

I nodded in response.

“What magic do you have Vedant bhaiya?” Tanya said, smiling fondly as she looked at her daughter. “She’s always dozing off in your arms.”

I wondered the same.

“With her dad,” Tanya went on, shaking her head, amused, “it’s a whole battle every night. She suddenly remembers she’s hungry, then she wants water, then she wants stories. Anything but sleep.”

The way she said it didn’t sound like a mother complaining about her baby. It sounded like a baby complaining about her baby, affectionate and amused all at once.

Tanya reached out for her. “I’ll put her in her crib.”

She left with the baby as Mr. Malhotra passed the little one gently to her.

I opened my mouth again without thinking, almost out of habit now, waiting for another bite.

“Do you want more?” she asked lovingly, already glancing down at the plate in her hands.

That was when I noticed it. The plate was completely empty.

“No— I thought—” I stopped, a little embarrassed.

She laughed at that, the sound light and warm, the kind that fills a room without trying. “I’ll get you some water.”

“No, I’ll get it myself,” I said quickly, already leaning forward to stand.

She reached out and hushed me at once.

“Shh,” she said gently but firmly. “I’m getting it.”

And before I could protest again, she was already walking away, her presence lingering even after she’d left the living room. I settled back into the couch, feeling oddly cared for.

A brief silence settled in her absence.

Just me and the person sitting beside me, the space between us suddenly noticeable. It lingered for a moment too long.

So, naturally, I broke it...

“Why are you back so early?” I asked. “Are you on menstrual leave too?”

...in the worst possible way.

He turned to look at me.

There was no annoyance on his face, no irritation, not even surprise. Just calm, steady patience, as if my question wasn’t ridiculous at all.

“No, I’m not,” he replied simply.

Then he added, “We have somewhere to be.”

“Where?” I asked, resting my head against the back of the couch while looking at him, curiosity slipping into my voice.

“Drink water first,” he said, reaching for the glass from Maa’s hands.

🪔

“Where are we going?” I asked, peering at him suspiciously as I fixed my earrings. “And why did you ask me to get ready at this hour?”

He was an unpredictable man. On any given day, this could mean anything from an emergency pacifier run to a very necessary stop at a not so random vada pav shop.

“We’re visiting a gynecologist,” he replied.

I felt my face react before my brain did. It dropped. Actually, it collapsed.

I stood there for a solid five seconds, staring at nothing, like my system had frozen mid update. Then, very deliberately, I slid my bag off my shoulder and placed it on the couch.

“I’m not going,” I said, already walking toward the balcony.

“Diya, listen to me first,” he said, following after me.

“No.”

I reached for the balcony door, fully prepared to put a clear, glassy layer of distance between us and this conversation.

His hand closed around mine before I could open it. He turned me around gently, but with enough firmness that I didn’t try to pull away.

Suddenly, my back was against the glass and his presence solid and inconveniently close.

“Look at me,” he said.

I resisted for half a second out of sheer stubbornness, then I looked up at him.

“I’m sorry for booking the appointment without asking you,” he said calmly. “We won’t go if you really don’t want to. But—”

“I’m fine,” I cut in immediately. “This is normal. It happens every month. I don’t need a doctor telling me to drink more water and do yoga.”

“That’s not—”

“I’ve had this since forever,” I continued, the words spilling out faster now, like if I kept moving they wouldn’t have time to be questioned. “Some months are worse. That’s all. I took a painkiller. I’m alive. Thriving even.”

“You cried last night,” he said quietly.

“What’s new?” I shot back. “I cry all the time. That doesn’t mean I need medical intervention.”

He closed his eyes briefly, like he was counting to ten in a language I didn’t speak.

“I’m not saying something is wrong,” he said carefully. “It’s just a checkup.”

“And if they say something is wrong?” I asked. “Then what? We panic? We Google? We unlock new anxieties?”

“We deal with it.”

“I don’t want to deal with it,” I said, slipping past him before he could block me again.

I managed exactly three steps.

Then my legs met the edge of the bed, and I toppled backward onto the mattress with an undignified little bounce.

Before embarrassment could fully register, instinct took over. I grabbed the duvet and yanked it over my head, cocooning myself like fabric could shield me from adult responsibilities and its extremely inconvenient appointments.

Two seconds passed.

I peeked out, adjusted my expression, and sat up slightly like I’d just noticed him standing there.

“Oh,” I said brightly. “We have a gynecologist appointment? Aap zaroor jana. Goodnight.”

[“We have a gynecologist appointment? You should definitely go. Goodnight.”]

And then I vanished again, disappearing completely beneath the duvet.

Barely a moment later, light poured in as the duvet was tugged away.

“Don’t you have manners?” I squinted up at him, blinking against the sudden brightness. “You shouldn’t disturb someone when they’re sleeping.”

“Stop being dramatic and get up,” he said, reaching for my hand.

He tugged. I resisted. He tugged again. I resisted harder. Which is how, in the next second, momentum betrayed us both.

Instead of pulling me up, I yanked him toward me. He fell onto the bed, right on top of me.

There was a brief, horrifying pause.

When did I get this strong?

For a moment, neither of us moved. Not an inch, not even a breath too loud.

The argument slipped right out of my head, like it had never existed.

All I could feel was the weight of him pressing me into the mattress and the fact that his face was far too close for this to still be an argument.

I looked up at him, and every scrap of confidence I’d gathered minutes ago evaporated on the spot.

“Can you get up from me?” I asked quietly, my voice softer than I meant it to be.

He didn’t.

“Are you coming with me?” he asked, just as softly.

I shook my head.

He studied me for a second then, like he was weighing a decision, like he was torn between doing the sensible thing… or something incredibly stupid.

Then he sighed.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Goodnight to you too.”

And before I could process what that meant, he lowered his head, resting it in the small hollow between my neck and shoulder.

My entire body froze.

Surely this was a joke. Surely he’d move in three… two—

He didn’t.

His breath brushed against my skin, warm and steady, and my heart immediately decided this was an emergency.

I lifted my hand and tapped his shoulder lightly. A polite, civil request.

“Don’t you have manners?” he mumbled, voice deliberately drowsy, like he was already halfway asleep. “You shouldn’t disturb someone when they’re sleeping.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it, bubbling up despite myself. “Stop copying me.”

He didn’t respond, not even a twitch. I stared at the ceiling for a second, then sighed, surrendering.

“Okay,” I said softly, still smiling. “I’ll come with you.”

Nothing happened.

I waited a beat.

“Get up now.”

He moved immediately, lifting himself off me.

🪔

Hospitals have a very specific way of making you feel small.

Not frightened exactly. Just… reduced. Like confidence drains out of you somewhere between the automatic doors and the sharp, sterile bite of antiseptic in the air.

We walked in together, side by side, but I was acutely aware of my steps. Too fast, too slow, normal, be normal, don’t limp, don’t look like you’re here for something dramatic.

The waiting area was quieter than I expected.

A few women scattered across chairs, some with files hugged to their chests, some staring at their phones like they were trying to disappear into them.

I sat down and immediately adjusted the way I was sitting. Then adjusted again, then once more, just to be sure my body didn’t suddenly decide to make a public announcement about how uncomfortable it was.

I glanced at the door with the doctor’s name on it, then away again.

I want my mom. How will I explain what’s wrong with me without her?

The thought came out of nowhere, uninvited and childish, and I immediately scolded myself for it. I was fine. This was fine. I was an adult woman now.

Fine.

Any second now, the doctor would call me in and say something reasonable and underwhelming like drink more water, reduce stress, maybe add yoga. And I would nod seriously, pretend I didn’t already know all of this, and we’d leave.

That was the plan.

The door opened.

“Diya Sharma?”

That was me, unfortunately.

I stood up too quickly, then pretended I hadn’t.

The doctor smiled at me, warm and unhurried, which immediately threw me off because I had been bracing myself for judgement.

She wasn’t stern, or rushed, or intimidating.

She was… nice.

I sat across from her, answered questions, nodded where required, spoke when spoken to. She listened, actually listened. Didn’t interrupt me, didn’t dismiss me either.

And then she said, “I’d like to do an ultrasound.”

Oh.

“Okay,” I said, with impressive composure, like this was something I casually did every weekend between errands.

She stood and gestured toward the adjoining room. “You can come in.”

The ultrasound room was dimmer, cooler. The bed sat in the middle like it was waiting for me specifically.

“Just unzip your pants and lower them a little,” the doctor said gently, already turning away to give me privacy.

My fingers hesitated at the button.

I did as she said, every sound suddenly too loud in my ears. I lay back on the bed, hands folded awkwardly over my stomach, staring at the ceiling like it might offer guidance.

The doctor turned back a moment later, glove snapped into place, a small bottle of gel in her hand.

Before she could begin, something tightened in my chest.

“I— um…” I said, my voice coming out softer than intended. “Can I have my... husband in here?”

She paused for half a second, then smiled. “Of course.”

And without another word, she stepped out, leaving the room hushed again.

The doctor stepped out and stopped in front of me.

“Your wife would like you to be inside with her.”

The sentence landed quietly, but it settled deep. A slow and unfamiliar warmth spread through my chest before I could understand why.

I nodded once.

The room was dim when I walked in. Cooler and quieter than the waiting area outside. The machine hummed softly beside the bed.

Diya lay there already.

At first, her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, unfocused, like she was waiting for something inevitable. Then her gaze shifted, finding me instantly.

I moved to her side and stopped there. She turned her head to look up at me. There was something in her expression she didn’t try to hide this time.

I met her eyes and gave her a small reassuring nod.

The doctor explained the procedure again, her voice calm and practiced. I barely registered the words. My attention was fixed on Diya’s face, on the tight lines around her mouth.

The device touched her skin.

My hand found hers before I made a conscious decision to move. She tightened her grip immediately, nails pressing lightly into my skin like she’d been waiting for it.

Her eyes flicked toward me for a second.

The machine hummed softly as the doctor worked, eyes fixed on the screen. I barely noticed. My attention stayed anchored to Diya, to the way her breath shifted, the faint tightening of her jaw, the small tells she didn’t know she had.

I adjusted my grip when her fingers flexed, offering pressure instead of words.

“It’ll be over soon,” the doctor said.

Diya nodded once. Brave in the quiet way that never asked to be admired.

“Alright,” the doctor said a moment later. “You can wipe the gel and come out.”

Relief loosened something in my chest.

I reached for the tissue and leaned closer, carefully helping her wipe the gel away gently.

She sat up slowly. I stepped back just enough to give her space without ever leaving it.

We returned to the consultation room and took our seats side by side.

Diya sat very straight, shoulders drawn back, hands folded neatly in her lap. The posture of someone preparing for impact rather than conversation.

The doctor looked at the reports, then at us.

“You have ovarian cysts,” she said calmly. “That’s likely why your cramps are so intense during menstruation.”

The words settled into the room.

Diya didn’t react. No nod, no question. She simply stayed still, eyes fixed somewhere past the desk, as if she was giving the information time to decide what it meant to her.

The doctor continued explaining.

I leaned forward slightly, listening closely as the doctor explained what it meant, what it didn’t mean, what needed monitoring, what could be managed. I absorbed every word, every term, every implication, storing it carefully.

Then the doctor paused.

She looked between us, expression thoughtful. “Do you think you might want children later?”

The question wasn’t cruel, that was what made it unbearable.

It was asked the way people asked about weather, or meals, or plans for the weekend. As if the future was a simple thing. As if marriage automatically came with consent already signed into flesh.

Diya had answered everything else easily. About pain, about bleeding, about nights she curled inward and learned how to endure quietly. She spoke like someone who had made peace with suffering long ago.

But that question stopped her cold.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.

It shouldn’t have meant much. Just a checkbox. A line in a file. A question that lived on paper more than in people. But the moment it was spoken, the air shifted.

Diya froze.

And so did I.

My tongue went dry. My pulse deafening. I saw her eyes flicker to me, not with confusion, but with something heavier.

I turned to look at her and the way her body tensed I knew, immediately, that this was not a conversation she was ready to have in this room.

“Doctor,” I said quietly, standing. “Could we have a moment alone?”

She nodded without question and stepped out.

The silence she left behind was heavy.

As soon as the doctor left, Diya stood up like her seat burned her. She walked straight to the window, fast and restless, as if the walls were closing in.

And then she broke.

She pressed her palm to her face, trying to stifle it. But the tears betrayed her. Silent, aching sobs slipping through fingers that never learned how to cry out loud.

I followed her without thinking. Stood behind her, unsure for a second, then placed my hands on her arms and gently guided her back until she leaned into me.

She didn’t resist, she folded into my chest like she’d been waiting to.

Her face stayed covered, her shoulders shaking as she cried. I wrapped my arms around her carefully, like touch itself was something fragile between us. My hand came up to her back, patting, soothing, useless and desperate all at once.

“Why is it like this…” she asked, voice muffled and broken.

I held her closer, careful not to overwhelm her, my hand resting against her back like an anchor that barely knew its own strength.

“I’m sorry that it is like this,” I said quietly.

The words felt insufficient the moment they left me. An apology for a life neither of us had designed. For a question that should never have cornered her like that. A sorry that didn’t give her back the right to choose when and how she wanted to want something.

“You don’t need to answer that question,” I told her quietly.

I meant it.

She didn’t owe me clarity. She didn’t owe this marriage a future. Her body was not a contract, her pain was not an invitation.

And the truth was, I didn’t know how to answer it either.

If I said no, it would feel like I was taking something from her before she had even decided if she wanted it. Like I was refusing her a possibility that might one day matter to her deeply.

And if I said yes… It would mean something worse.

It would sound like an expectation, like entitlement, like her body was already bound to mine simply because a ritual had taken place. That her future, her choices, her physical self belonged to this marriage just because it existed.

I could not be the man who made her feel owned.

She pulled back slightly, still within my arms.

“I need to answer it,” she said. Not because she felt obligated, but because uncertainty probably was tearing at her more than the answer ever could.

“Diya.” I whispered her name.

“Do you want to have kids one day?” The question left me quietly, carefully, as if I could soften its weight by the way I said it.

For a moment, she didn’t respond.

Then she shook her head against my chest, her face still hidden.

It was immediate and reflexive. Her body answering before her heart had the chance to catch up. Fear, confusion, self protection all speaking at once.

And then she stopped. I felt it against me when her breath faltered.

Then she nodded, slow, reluctant, almost imperceptible.

That moment cracked something open in me.

Because even after everything: after the pain, the confusion, the lack of choice, she still carried a quiet want inside her. Something tender, something hopeful, something that deserved to be protected, not demanded.

The knowledge settled heavily in my chest.

She lifted her face then, eyes red, glassy, searching my expression like it might decide whether that truth was allowed to survive.

“Do you?” she asked.

The room went unbearably still, and suddenly I was the one trapped between answers.

Because the truth was, I didn’t know how to want anything without first making sure it wouldn’t hurt her.

I lifted my hand and cupped her face, grounding myself in the warmth of her skin. I rested my forehead against hers, breathing her in, giving myself a moment to be honest without speaking.

Her eyes searched mine relentlessly.

So I met her gaze, and then I nodded.

Yes.

But not as a promise, not as an expectation, not as something owed. Just as a truth that existed somewhere far away, in a future that would only ever belong to her to choose.

And in that moment, I knew one thing with painful clarity— Whatever she decided someday, it would be hers.

We stayed like that for a while.

Forehead to forehead, breathing slowly, letting the weight of what had been said settle between us without forcing it into meaning.

After a moment, I pulled back just enough to look at her. “Do you want to continue the consultation?” I asked quietly.

She wiped at her face, took a steadying breath, and nodded again. “Yes,” she said, voice tired but resolved.

The door opened again, and the room filled back up with normalcy far too quickly. The doctor returned with a polite smile.

Diya sat back down beside me. Her hands folded in her lap again, posture composed.

The doctor glanced between us, careful now.

“So,” she said gently, “starting where we left...”

I felt Diya inhale beside me. I spoke before the silence could ask her to perform strength again.

“We’re not planning for kids right now,” I said evenly. “If and when that changes, it will be her decision.”

The doctor nodded, understanding settling into her expression.

“That’s perfectly fine,” she said. “There’s no urgency. The focus right now is managing symptoms and pain. Fertility looks different for everyone, and it’s something that can be addressed later— only if and when you want to.”

She turned to Diya then, her tone softening.

“This doesn’t mean you won’t be able to have kids,” she added. “It just means your body needs care, and time.”

Diya nodded once, quiet and absorbing.

The rest of the consultation passed in measured voices and medical terms. Treatment options, pain management. Words that stayed clinical, distant, mercifully impersonal.

I watched Diya through it all. The way she listened, asked questions, took notes.

When it was finally over, we thanked the doctor and stepped out into the corridor. The air outside felt heavier, warmer, real.

We walked to the car without speaking. She got in first, I followed and closed the door.

And then... nothing.

The engine stayed off, the world outside moved on without us. Cars passed, people talked, life continued at a pace that felt almost offensive.

Diya stared straight ahead, hands resting loosely on her thighs. Her breathing was steady now, but distant. Like she’d retreated somewhere inside herself to rest.

I didn’t touch her, didn’t speak.

Some silences asked to be filled, this one needed to be honored.

So we sat there.

Flashback ends

“What are you thinking?” Meera asked when Vedant didn’t respond, concern clinging to the pause. “Is everything alright?”

“These are just medical reports,” Vedant said simply.

Diya went rigid beside him. The room suddenly felt too exposed, too aware. The thought of everyone knowing made her spine lock.

“Everything’s fine,” Vedant continued, steady and unhurried. “It was just a routine checkup. The reports are normal.”

A collective breath was released.

Relief washed over the room, softening faces, easing shoulders. The excitement that had flared moments ago faded, melting first into relief and then into something like mild disappointment as eyes turned toward Vivaan.

“I’m really glad you’re studying business and not journalism,” Avni said dryly, looking straight at him.

“I thought—” Vivaan began, then caught himself, recalibrating his tone entirely. “Anyway.”

“You both should go and freshen up,” Tanya suggested smoothly, waving them off.

Vivaan nodded a little too eagerly. “And don’t come back for at least thirty minutes.”

He paused, then smiled. “I mean… take your time.”

The moment Diya and Vedant stepped out of the living room, the house erupted.

Voices overlapped, furniture shifted. Decorations appeared from places they definitely hadn’t existed in before.

Everyone moved with the chaotic precision of people who had rehearsed this badly but cared deeply.

When everything was finally in place, Vivaan walked to the switchboard and very deliberately turned off the main lights.

Silence fell.

Footsteps approached.

The moment Diya and Vedant entered the living room, the lights snapped back on.

“Happy one month anniversary!”

The words crashed into them all at once.

Diya and Vedant stood there, blinking, utterly clueless. It took a second too long for the meaning to register.

Because neither of them had realized it had been a month since they’d gotten married.

And honestly, to them it didn’t feel like one.

The time they had spent together felt heavier than days, fuller than weeks. As if the quiet moments, the shared silences, the unspoken understanding had stretched time into something denser.

At this point in their relationship, it almost felt like they’d known each other for years. The kind of knowing that doesn’t need history, only presence.

The anniversary itself meant very little to them.

But for the family, it meant everything.

“Why are you both standing there like that?” Avni said first, amused, hands on her hips. “Is this a photoshoot or are you planning to move at some point?”

“Yes, please,” Vivaan added, already laughing. “The cake is getting older by the second.”

Tanya gently pushed them forward. “Come on. Cut it before Vivaan eats it out of impatience.”

“I would never,” Vivaan protested immediately. “I’d wait at least ten more seconds.”

Vedant glanced at Diya then, a quiet question in his eyes. She looked just as stunned, lips parted like she was still deciding whether this was real.

“Go,” Meera said softly, smiling at them. “It’s your day.”

They moved together without thinking, steps falling into an easy rhythm, as if even walking toward the table required no discussion between them. The cake sat there waiting, neat and carefully chosen, and entirely unnecessary.

As they got closer, they finally noticed the cake properly. On top sat two tiny fondant figures, standing a little awkwardly, hands stretched out toward each other like they’d just met five minutes ago. One of them had a tiny speech bubble that said hi.

Avni stared at the cake, then laughed. “Why are they introducing themselves like that?”

Tanya grinned immediately. “Because that genius idea came from him,” she said, pointing straight at Vivaan.

Vivaan shrugged, completely unashamed. “It’s accurate. One month in and you both still act like you’re meeting for the first time every morning.”

Vedant picked up the knife, then glanced at Diya.

“Together,” Avni reminded them, already recording.

Diya slid her hand over his automatically, fingers settling where they apparently lived now.

They cut through the cake, slow and slightly crooked, because apparently even knives felt shy around them.

Applause broke out immediately, too loud for such a small victory.

“Feed each other,” Meera said, smiling in that way that made refusal impossible.

Diya scooped up a neat bite of cake and lifted it toward Vedant. He leaned down without thinking, eyes already on her, and took it easily, like this was a habit they’d been practicing for years instead of weeks.

Vedant reached for the cake next, carefully lifting a small, perfect bite.

Everyone leaned in, waiting.

He brought it to his mouth, and ate it.

“Bhai?” Avni and Vivaan said together, perfectly synchronized, their disbelief overlapping. “You were supposed to feed your wife.”

“She doesn’t like vanilla,” Vedant said calmly.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

I didn’t realise you all wait for these chapters so religiousl

y 😭

I hope you liked this one :>

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