15.
PAST
Life in the Shekhawat mansion wasn't half as intimidating as I'd expected.
It had only been a day since I moved in, but my husband—God, I really like calling him that—had been glued to me like velcro since.
Right now, we were in his room—well, our room now—and Shaurya was sprawled half on top of me, clinging like a sleepy koala.
Honestly? I liked this version of him. Not the usual brooding "Rishte mein hum aapke baap lagte hai" type, but this clingy, quietly soft Shaurya.
I ran my fingers through his thick hair, studying the lines of his face.
He really was devastatingly handsome. I never say it aloud, but sometimes, I do wonder.
.. does Shaurya love me- I mean my body to be exact.
I would never question his love for me though. My husband loves me and I love him.
And I know, love is supposed to be about hearts and souls, not bodies. And I believe Shaurya and I share that kind of bond. But let's be honest—everyone has preferences, right? Some people like smooth skin, curves, a certain type.
I'm gay. I've always known that. But Shaurya? He's never really talked about it—his sexuality, his "type." Maybe he's bi? Maybe he's never thought that deeply about it.
What if he prefers soft femininity, delicate features. What if he prefers boobs more over my flat chest?
My anxious spiral was interrupted by a ping from my phone. Still idly stroking Shaurya's cheek, I glanced at the screen. It was an Instagram notification—someone from university had posted engagement photos with their partner.
And just like that, my brain short-circuited.
WE NEVER GOT ENGAGED!
I stared at my hand. Bare. Empty. So boring. Ughh.
But then I smiled. It was okay. Shaurya had been doing so much for me, without ever asking for anything in return.
Maybe it was time I surprised him for a change.
I'd buy us rings. Something meaningful. Something ours.
It'd be cute seeing his reaction. Maybe this time he'd be the one to ugly cry and not me?
Me and Shaurya never actually announced our marriage to the whole world. Just the underworld knows. But our society is too damn dramatic. It was our mutual decision. Plus I don't want to cause Shaurya any trouble and also I don't want people to talk about the royal family because of me.
I looked down at him again. His nose was buried against my bare chest, completely at peace.
"Shaurya?" I whispered softly.
"Mmm?" he murmured, lifting his head slightly, eyes still half-closed and hair tousled in the most adorable way.
"Wake up," I said, gently massaging his shoulder.
"Five more minutes," he mumbled and burrowed even closer, his warmth pressing against me. I couldn't help but smile... but he was so heavy.
"Ugh—Shaurya! Get off! You're crushing me, rakshas," I groaned, half-laughing as I tried—and failed—to push him off.
He chuckled and rolled onto his side, finally giving me room to breathe. I sat up and poked his arm.
"Let's go on a date," I said casually.
He opened one eye and propped his head on his hand, giving me a curious look. "A date?"
"Married people go on dates too," I replied matter-of-factly. "And no, you don't get to plan it—you suck at planning."
He smirked. "It's too hot outside."
I raised an eyebrow. "We'll have biryani."
That got his full attention. He sat up. God I can't with his love for biryani.
"Sheikh Darbar's?"
I smiled knowingly. "Sheikh Darbar's."
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"Ready?" Shaurya's voice was soft as he wrapped his arms around me from behind while I fixed my hair in the mirror.
"Almost," I said, adjusting a stubborn strand.
In the reflection, we looked—right. His tall frame towered protectively behind me, dressed in a crisp white shirt and jeans, looking effortlessly handsome as always. I had thrown on a tank top under an open blue shirt, casual but neat. On my wrist, the golden ribbon shimmered subtly.
I smiled. Thank God he said I don't have to wear this every day... I want to preserve its charm.
"You smell good," Shaurya murmured, his breath warm against my neck as his moustache and beard gently tickled my skin.
"I switched it. Glad you liked it."I replied, tilting my head slightly. "Hume pata hai aapko strong colognes pasand nahi".
Our eyes met in the mirror. He looked at me with that mix of admiration and possessiveness that always made me weak.
"Jaan. You're looking too good. Agar aapke upar koi nazar bhi uthaye" He shook his head with a playful warning, "hum pagal ho jaayeinge".
I snorted and turned to him. "Zyada mat boliye aap. You're not looking bad yourself, husband," I teased, emphasizing the last word with a wink. He loved when I called him that—I knew it.
Without missing a beat, he leaned in and placed a soft kiss on my lips, one hand gently holding my chin up. My lips curved into a smile as I reached for the Rolex watch on the table and slipped it around his wrist, fastening it carefully.
Shaurya laced our fingers together as we walked out of the room. But just as we stepped out, I halted.
"Wait!" I said, grabbing his arm.
He paused, looking confused. "What now?"
I smirked and motioned for him to bend down a little. He obeyed, amused. I gently twirled the ends of his moustache with my fingers.
"Now we're done," I murmured shyly.
He smiled . That rare, soft, real smile that always managed to steal my breath.
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Shaurya let out a sigh but didn't say anything as I handed him what felt like a thousand shopping bags. Meanwhile, I was busy paying for the current one at the counter.
"You know," I said while signing the receipt, "I'm actually glad I got you some color today. Honestly, I'm this close to throwing away all your black-and-white clothes. Too boring now."
We were at my friend's store—a cozy little store run by one of the few people who actually knew about our marriage.
Today was all about getting Shaurya a slight wardrobe upgrade: nothing dramatic, but definitely a step away from his monochrome obsession.
I'd picked mostly soft blues, greys, even a deep green or two—colors that would still suit his brooding charm but add some life to it.
"Come on, Aarav," my friend teased from behind the counter. "Give poor Shaurya a break. Let him buy something he likes. Shaadi ke baad pati ko badalne ka mission chalu hai kya?"
I chuckled awkwardly at the joke—but it landed a little too close to my skin. Was I pushing too much? I hadn't even asked Shaurya if he liked what I picked...
Sensing my sudden change in expression, Shaurya shifted closer and rubbed my back comfortingly, despite still holding all those bags.
"He is my husband," Shaurya said with a soft smile, turning to the owner. "He can dress me up however he wants. Hume ise kuch burai nahi dikh rahi. I like that Aarav thinks about me".
I looked up at him, surprised and a little touched. "Shaurya... Still, I should've asked you first," I said, my voice a bit quieter.
"Nope. We're equals, Aarav. There's no more or less between us. Aapko jo sahi lage aap woh kr sakte hai".
"Wah, Aarav," the owner chimed in. "Shaurya tumse sach mein bohot pyaar karte hain."
I noticed the playful comment was a bit too familiar for Shaurya's taste. He glared—not aggressively, but enough to send a clear message.
"Pyaar karte hain tabhi to shaadi ki hai," he said calmly. "Ab aap bill banaiye."
I awkwardly laughed, but my heart swelled a little. Not because of the shopping, or the clothes—but because of him. My husband, standing beside me with arms full of bags and a heart full of love.
We stepped out of the store and made our way quickly to the car. Shaurya was clearly worn out—shopping wasn't exactly his idea of a good time. The weight of all the bags and the blazing summer heat weren't helping either.
"Let's take a break. You're going to melt at this rate," I said as we slid into the car.
Shaurya leaned back in the seat with a sigh, his face already flushed from the heat. I turned on the AC and waited for the car to cool down. Then I looked over and said gently,
"Push your seat back a little."
He did as told without a word. I climbed onto his lap, carefully adjusting myself. Thank god for the black tinted windows—privacy was bliss.
"You need to rest for a while," I murmured, brushing away the sweat from his forehead.
"Am I too heavy?"
Shaurya's arms instinctively wrapped around my waist as he shook his head. His response came not with words, but with the way he rested his forehead on my shoulder, his breath slowly evening out.
I smiled softly and adjusted him a little, guiding his head back against the seat's headrest. Then I started massaging his forehead, slow and gentle. He let out a low hum of relief, eyes fluttering shut.
After a few minutes, he pulled me into a warm embrace. I wrapped my arms tightly around him in return, resting my head against his chest.
"You're growing old, Shaurya," I teased, chuckling under my breath.
"Then I guess you've got a thing for old men," he murmured.
I laughed, heart swelling, and leaned in to place soft kisses all over his face—his cheek, his nose, his temples, even that little scar near his eyebrow.
By the time we reached Sheikh's Darbar, the sun had dipped just enough to cast golden light on the white marble of the restaurant's facade.
The soft clinking of plates, the subtle hum of Urdu ghazals playing in the background, and the smell—God, the smell—of rich spices and charcoal-smoked meat made everything feel timeless.
Shaurya held the door open for me, his hand gently resting on my back as we entered. We chose a booth tucked near the far window. It was quiet there, secluded—just the way Shaurya liked things when we weren't wrapped in the chaos of the outside world.
Once seated, the waiter handed us the menu, but I didn't even glance at it.
"You go ahead and order". I said, resting my chin on my palm as I watched his eyes scan the laminated pages with way too much focus.
Shaurya nodded seriously. Too seriously.
"Full chicken biryani," he began, "then mutton kebabs, double masala. Garlic naan—soft, not crispy. And daal as well. And Malai Paneer and gulab jamun, Aarav loves it. Oh, and that carrot halwa. Not the one with ghee floating on top—the proper one."
I blinked.
"Are we... feeding a football team?"
Shaurya didn't look up. "No. Just your husband."
I laughed under my breath, amused at how unbothered he was. The waiter had clearly seen this before—he simply nodded and walked away with a straight face.
The moment the food began to arrive, something changed in Shaurya. His shoulders relaxed. His brows unknotted. And when the first bite of steaming biryani touched his tongue, he actually closed his eyes and let out a quiet, contented groan.
"God," he whispered.
I chuckled, reaching for my own plate but not taking my eyes off him. There was something so wildly endearing about the way he became a complete child when it came to food. His fingers were precise, tearing off naan, mixing the daal just right, stacking kebabs with exact bite-size confidence.
"You know," I said between spoonfuls, "anyone watching you right now would never guess you're a mafia boss."
He paused just long enough to raise an eyebrow.
"What would they guess?"
"A really enthusiastic food blogger. Possibly one with emotional damage."
"You're not entirely wrong," he said, then added with a grin, "But keep talking and I'll feed you the biryani myself—with my hands."
I rolled my eyes playfully, but the idea wasn't terrible.
There was something sacred about the silence that followed—our kind of silence.
The kind filled with clinking spoons and the soft sips of chilled water, the rustle of napkins, and the gentle shifting of feet under the table.
Nothing dramatic. No fancy speeches. Just us—two people who'd been through too much, finally getting a quiet moment to enjoy something simple.
A bite. A smile. A brush of his foot against mine under the table.
I liked watching him like this. No hard glares. No cold orders. No power plays. Just a man—my man—living a small, quiet joy. His face was softer when he ate, almost boyish. As though the world couldn't reach him here, not through all that saffron and cinnamon.
And as I wiped the corner of his mouth without even thinking, he caught my hand and kissed my knuckles.
"You know," he murmured, "I'd sit in traffic for three hours just to eat biryani with you."
I smiled, my heart impossibly full.
"You'd sit in traffic for biryani even without me."
He smirked. "True. But it tastes better with you next to me."
"Pagal kahike", I murmured.