44. SOFT
AAROHI:
I wake up slowly. Not because of noise. Not because of fear. Because of warmth. For a few seconds, I don't open my eyes. I just feel.
Strong arms around me. A steady heartbeat under my cheek. Slow, even breathing against my hair. I'm not just lying beside him. I'm half draped over him, my leg tangled with his, my arm across his chest, my face tucked into the curve of his neck.
He's shirtless, his skin warm beneath my palm, his arm wrapped around my back protectively, like even in sleep he knows where I belong. And the strangest part? I feel safe. So safe that my chest feels light. So safe that I don't want to move, don't want to wake, don't want this moment to end.
The morning light filters through the curtains softly, painting his face in pale gold.
His lashes rest against his cheeks. His jaw, usually tense and sharp, looks relaxed.
Peaceful. I swallow. Somewhere between fear and healing, between pain and care, I have fallen for him.
The realization doesn't crash into me. It settles. Quiet. Heavy. Certain.
I lift my hand slowly, almost afraid to break the spell, and trace his cheek with my fingers. Just once. Lightly. Like a question I'm scared to ask. He shifts slightly, pulling me closer in his sleep. My breath catches.
I'm almost lying on top of him now, my forehead resting against his collarbone. His arm tightens around my waist instinctively. I smile softly. I don't want to wake him. I want to stay here forever.
In this moment where he isn't angry, isn't cruel, isn't distant. Where he's just a man holding the woman he married, without force, without rules, without punishment. His voice comes out low, thick with sleep. "You woke up?"
I freeze. "Hmm," I reply softly. A pause.
"...No?" he mumbles. I shake my head against his chest. "No.
" He exhales, half-asleep, and pulls me back again, murmuring, "There's still time.
.. go back to sleep." My heart melts. I close my eyes again, obeying him without fear this time. Curling into him. Letting myself rest.
For a few minutes, maybe longer, I drift again.
Then, "OH MY GOD." I jerk awake. So does he.
The door is wide open. Suhana stands there, hands on her hips, eyes sparkling with mischief, staring straight at us.
I'm still in his arms. He's still shirtless.
My face burns. I scramble upright immediately, slipping out of his hold and sitting at the edge of the bed, pulling my dupatta over myself in panic.
Suhana bursts out laughing. "Wow. If you wanted to romance each other, you could've at least closed the door.
" "I-It's not like that!" I blurt out, mortified.
"We were just..." "Just what?" she interrupts, grinning.
"Just cuddling?" "SUHANA," I whisper-shout, my face on fire.
Veeransh sits up slowly, rubbing his face, finally fully awake.
He shoots her a warning look. "Don't be dramatic. "
She raises her hands in surrender. "Okay okay. But mom was calling both of you downstairs." She turns to me. "Tomorrow is the pooja, preparations need to be done. And bua also needs help. Get ready and come downstairs."
I nod quickly. "Yes... yes, I'm coming." She smirks one last time. "Take your time," she says pointedly, then walks out, deliberately leaving the door open wider than before. I jump up and shut it immediately.
Silence fills the room again. I don't turn around at first. I can feel him behind me. Sitting on the bed. Watching. My hands are shaking. "Sorry," I say softly. "The door... wasn't locked." "It's okay," he replies quietly. I turn. He's looking at me, not angry, not amused. Something else.
Something softer. He gets up, grabs his shirt, pulls it on slowly. For a second, our eyes meet. Neither of us speaks. There's an unspoken understanding hanging in the air, something fragile, something new.
I break eye contact first. "I... I'll get ready," I say. He nods. "Yeah." As I move toward the bathroom, my heart is still racing, not from fear, but from the echo of his arms around me.
From the warmth that still lingers on my skin. From the quiet truth I can no longer deny. I don't just feel safe with him. I want him. And that realization both terrifies me and makes me feel alive for the first time in a very long while.
The water runs over my skin in slow, steady streams. Warm. Steady. Unhurried. I stand beneath it longer than I need to, letting the heat sink into my shoulders, my neck, my spine.
My fingers trace absentminded patterns along the tiles as my mind drifts, back to the morning, to his arms around me, to the way his chest rose and fell beneath my cheek.
My heart still beats faster just remembering it.
I wash my hair carefully, feeling each strand slip through my fingers, the scent of shampoo filling the small bathroom.
For a moment, I close my eyes and breathe, trying to calm the flutter inside me. But it doesn't settle. When I finally turn off the shower, the room feels quieter, heavier. The mirror is fogged.
My reflection appears slowly as I wipe it with my palm. My cheeks are pink, not just from the heat. I wrap myself in a towel, then step out, my feet making soft sounds against the marble floor. The room is brighter now, curtains drawn back slightly.
The air feels different, charged, almost. I dry myself quickly, then slip into a saree, light, pastel, the fabric smooth against my skin. I drape it carefully, adjusting the pleats, making sure the pallu falls properly over my shoulder.
When I look in the mirror again, I pause. My hair is still damp, falling loosely down my back in soft waves. Tiny droplets cling to the ends, catching the light. My waist is visible where the blouse meets the drape of the saree, the curve of my body outlined gently.
I sit on the dressing table chair, fingers automatically reaching for the comb. That's when I feel it. Not touch, presence. I glance up in the mirror.
He's sitting on the sofa. Veeransh. Not working. Not on his phone. Not looking away. Just... watching me.
His posture is relaxed, one arm resting along the back of the sofa, the other draped over his knee. But his eyes, those dark, unreadable eyes, don't look relaxed at all. They travel slowly from my hair to my shoulders, down my back, to my waist.
I swallow. My fingers still mid-air, clutching the comb. There's something in his gaze that makes my breath hitch, something intense, something unguarded, something that makes my skin warm all over.
I shift slightly on the chair, suddenly too aware of how I look, how I'm sitting, how close he is. He straightens almost without realizing it, leaning forward a little, elbows resting on his knees now. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but before words can form, he rises. Slow steps. Measured. He comes toward me from behind, close enough that I can feel his presence before I see him.
My heartbeat grows louder in my ears. He stops right behind my chair. I can feel the heat of him through the air. Then his arms slip around my waist.
Not sudden. Not rough. Slow. Careful. He pulls me gently back against his chest. The world narrows to this single moment.
My breath leaves my lungs in a shaky exhale. My hands fall limp in my lap, the comb slipping from my fingers. My body reacts before my mind can, stiff at first, then melting slowly into him.
I feel everything. The firmness of his arms around me. The steady rise of his chest against my back. The warmth of his breath near my ear. My pulse thrums wildly beneath my skin.
I don't pull away. I don't move at all. His chin comes to rest lightly near my shoulder. His hand shifts, lifting my damp hair from one side of my neck, gathering it gently over my shoulder so it falls in a loose cascade.
The small action makes something tremble inside me. His fingers brush the bare skin at the curve of my neck. My eyes close without my permission. Then I feel it, soft, warm, lingering.
His lips against my neck. Not forceful. Not hurried. Just... there. My body responds in ways I don't understand. A shiver runs down my spine.
My fingers curl into the edge of the dressing table. My breath catches again, shallow and uneven. I try to speak. "Vee..."
The door opens. The sound slices through the moment like glass. I freeze completely. His mother stands in the doorway.
For a heartbeat, no one moves. Her eyes take in the scene in one sweep, him standing behind me, arms still around my waist, my hair draped to one side, the unmistakable closeness between us.
Her expression shifts, surprise first, then something softer, knowing, almost relieved. She clears her throat lightly. "Alright... I'll come later," she says gently, already turning.
Panic jolts through me. "Mom, no, no," I blurt out, scrambling to stand, my saree rustling. "You... you can come inside." My face burns. My voice trembles.
Veeransh doesn't say a word. He releases me slowly, stepping back as if pulled out of a trance. Without looking at either of us, he walks toward the washroom and closes the door behind him.
The soft click feels louder than it should. Mom steps inside, her eyes flicking briefly toward the closed bathroom door, then back to me. I can't meet her gaze.
My cheeks are still red, my heart still racing, my skin still tingling where his hands and lips were moments ago. "Beta," she says calmly, "I came to call both of you downstairs. Tomorrow is the pooja, so the preparations needed to be checked, and bua also needed some help."
I nod quickly, hands fidgeting with my pallu. "If I had known that you two were..." she pauses, choosing her words carefully, "...busy, then I wouldn't have come."
My face grows even hotter. "N-no, mom," I stammer. "It's not like that. He was just..." She raises an eyebrow slightly. "He was just...?"
I open my mouth, but no words come out. What do I say? That he hugged me? That he kissed my neck? That my heart forgot how to behave?
My cheeks burn deeper. Mom watches me for a second longer, then her expression softens into something fond. "Alright," she says finally. "I'm leaving. But don't take too long. Come downstairs soon."
I nod rapidly. "Yes, mom." She gives me one last look, gentle, understanding, then leaves, quietly closing the door behind her. The moment the latch clicks, I rush to the door and lock it.
My back presses against it as I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. My hands fly to my face, covering my flushed cheeks. I can still feel him.
His arms around me. His chin near my shoulder. His lips on my skin. My heart pounds so hard it almost hurts.
My mind replays the moment over and over, the way he looked at me, the way he came close without hesitation, the way my body responded so willingly. I sink down slowly until I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, palms still pressed against my face.
My hair is still damp. My saree still drapes around me. My bangles still rest against my wrists. But everything inside me feels different.
I lower my hands just enough to look toward the washroom door. Behind it, I know he's there. The man who once terrified me. The man who forced me into this marriage.
The man who locked me in darkness. And yet. The same man who held me through the night. The same man who massaged away my pain. The same man who carried me when I couldn't walk.
My fingers touch my neck instinctively, right where his lips had been. A small, involuntary smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. Then I press my hands back over my face, mortified with myself.
What is happening to me? I stand abruptly, smoothing my saree, tying my hair loosely at the back, trying to look composed, normal, unaffected. But my reflection betrays me.
My eyes are brighter. My cheeks flushed. My breathing still uneven. As I turn toward the mirror, I whisper to myself, "Aarohi... be careful."
But even as I say it, I know the truth settling deep inside me. I don't want to pull away anymore. And that realization, terrifying and beautiful all at once, makes my heart beat faster than ever.