EXPENSIVE GIFT
VIYANA SINCLAIR
I sat on the bed, scrolling through my phone without really reading anything, my mind too restless to focus on anything for more than a few seconds.
The evening sun had already started painting the sky in soft shades of orange and gold, the warm light slipping through the windows and making the whole house feel quieter than usual.
I had practically begged Adithya this morning to go back to work.
It took far too much convincing.
He kept acting like leaving me alone for a few hours was some kind of crime, but I didn’t want him taking leave after leave just because of me.
I was already taking my medicines on time, eating whatever my very serious nurse husband forced into my hands, and honestly—I was guilty enough for troubling him this much already.
The silence of the house felt strange without him.
Too quiet.
Too empty.
And I hated how quickly I had gotten used to his presence.
Just then—the sound of the doorbell rang through the house.
My face lit up instantly.
It had to be him.
It was exactly the time he usually came back.
I stood up so fast it almost made me dizzy and hurried toward the door with far too much excitement for someone trying to act normal. Little Sinclair, hearing my footsteps, ran behind me like she also knew who it was.
I opened the door with a grin so wide it probably looked ridiculous—like I had just won the whole world.
And there he was.
Standing right in front of me.
Hair slightly messy from the long day, shirt sleeves rolled up, looking tired in that quiet way he always did after work—but the moment his eyes landed on me, he smiled.
He stepped inside, and almost instinctively, I moved closer to him, ready to wrap my arms around him, ready to steal the little welcome hug that had somehow become my favorite part of the evening.
But before I could even reach him—he stopped me.
“I’ll go and take a shower first,” he said quickly, raising a hand like he was setting an invisible boundary between us.
I froze.
My face immediately lost all its excitement as I stared at him in disbelief, my expression dropping so fast it probably looked dramatic.
Seriously?
I narrowed my eyes at him, offended beyond reason, while he stood there looking far too calm for someone who had just ruined my emotional reunion.
Without saying a word, I turned away from him with full attitude and crouched down beside little Sinclair, who was still circling around our legs like she was enjoying the drama.
“At least you love me properly,” I muttered dramatically, patting her head as she rubbed against me.
Behind me, I could practically feel his silent amusement.
I refused to turn around.
Let him suffer.
He said nothing to defend himself.
Not even one word.
He just gave me that usual quiet look—half tired, half amused—and walked straight toward the shower like the emotionally unavailable man he was.
I stared at his retreating figure with pure offense.
“Your dad is emotionally constipated,” I muttered dramatically to the poor cat, who sat there looking at me like she had been dragged into problems she never asked for.
Little Sinclair blinked.
Clearly judging both of us.
I sighed like a deeply wronged woman, picked her up carefully, and carried her toward her tiny little palace—the ridiculous cardboard house I had made for her like she was some royal princess who paid rent.
“There,” I whispered, placing her inside gently. “At least one of us appreciates my love.”
She curled up immediately, completely unbothered by my emotional suffering.
Traitor.
A few minutes passed, and I was still holding onto my fake anger when I heard footsteps again.
I turned.
Adithya walked back into the room wearing fresh clothes, his hair still damp from the shower, a few drops of water still clinging near his neck, making him look unfairly handsome than necessary for a man who had rejected my welcome hug ten minutes ago.
I scowled at him the moment he looked at me, making sure he clearly understood that I was still deeply offended by his betrayal, and then turned away with as much dramatic dignity as possible.
Without saying a word, I walked straight to the bed, climbed onto it, and sat down with unnecessary attitude, grabbing my phone from the side table like it was the most important thing in my life.
I unlocked it and started scrolling through absolutely nothing, my eyes on the screen but my entire attention fixed on him.
I could hear his footsteps moving around the room, calm and unbothered, which only irritated me more because how dare he be peaceful when I was clearly suffering.
He moved around the room, opening drawers, checking the study table, looking near the chair, and even glancing around the shelves like he had lost something extremely important.
I watched him for a full minute before my fake anger started losing against curiosity.
“What are you searching for?” I finally asked, trying to sound uninterested even though I was clearly paying full attention.
“My water bottle,” he said, still searching without even looking at me.
I frowned and looked around.
It was literally right there.
On the second rack.
In plain sight.
I stared at it.
Then stared at him.
Is he blind or what?
I let out an exaggerated sigh, got up from the bed, and walked toward him like I was dealing with a hopeless child instead of a grown man.
Without a word, I reached up, grabbed the bottle from the rack, and held it in front of him.
“You became blind?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
He looked at the bottle.
Then at me.
And instead of taking it—
he smiled.
That quiet, dangerous smile.
Before I could even process it, his hand caught my wrist and with one easy pull, he brought me straight into his arms.
I let out a startled breath, the bottle nearly slipping from my hand as I landed against him, my heart immediately forgetting every single argument I had prepared.
“You found it,” he murmured, his voice low, amusement hiding in it.
I narrowed my eyes, though it was hard to stay angry when I was trapped like this.
“You were pretending.”
“Maybe.”
I scoffed softly.
“Manipulative man.”
He just chuckled softly, saying nothing, like he didn’t even feel the need to defend himself because we both already knew he had done it on purpose.
I rolled my eyes, but the fight had already left me.
Slowly, I rested my head against his chest, letting myself relax there, the steady sound of his heartbeat strangely calming, the warmth of him making something inside me quiet down.
His scent wrapped around me—that familiar mix of antiseptic and something warmer, something softer… like cinnamon.
It was funny.
I had always hated the smell of hospitals.
The sharp chemical scent of medicines, disinfectants, sterile rooms—I hated all of it.
It made everything feel cold.
Clinical.
Lonely.
But somehow—when that same scent clung to him, it felt different.
It didn’t feel like hospitals.
It felt like comfort.
Like safety.
Like coming home after a long day and knowing someone is there.
There were some scents in life that didn’t belong to places.
They belonged to people.
And somehow—his had become one of them.
I closed my eyes for a second, just breathing, letting myself stay there without overthinking anything.
He pulled away just enough to look at me properly, his arms still around me, his hands resting lightly at my waist.
He smiled.
That soft, quiet smile that always did something dangerous to my heartbeat.
I narrowed my eyes at him immediately and raised my brows.
“Same man who once said he hates me,” I said, giving him a look full of accusation, like I was presenting evidence in court.
He let out a small laugh, shaking his head faintly.
“You are also the same woman who threatened to kill me,” he said, looking at me with that calm expression that made it impossible to know whether he was teasing or genuinely keeping score.
I groaned immediately, the bitter memory wrapping around me like an unwanted guest I had no interest in entertaining.
“Oh God, not that again,” I muttered, closing my eyes for a second in pure embarrassment.
Because unfortunately—he was right.
I had, in fact, threatened his life.
Very passionately and with full confidence.
I opened my eyes and pointed a finger at him with complete seriousness.
“I will still threaten to kill you,” I said, my expression so grave it almost looked believable.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Very romantic.”
“I know,” I replied proudly.
“Most people get flowers. You got death threats. Be grateful.”
He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly.
“I should frame that.”
“You should,” I said. “It shows character.”
He looked at me for a moment, amusement sitting quietly in his eyes, before his expression softened again.
“You know,” he said, his voice lower now, “I was terrified of you.”
I smirked immediately.
“As you should be.”
“I still have that licensed gun of mine,” I said, looking at him with complete seriousness, as if I was delivering a very important warning. “So if you annoy me too much, I’ll just pull the trigger.”
He blinked once.
Then slowly nodded.
“Wow,” he said, in the flattest tone possible.
He shook his head, still smiling.
“I married a criminal.”
“You married a visionary.”
“A dangerous visionary.”
“The best kind.”
He sighed like a tired man carrying the burden of loving chaos itself.
“If you pull the trigger,” he murmured quietly, “make sure you aim properly. I don’t like unfinished work.”
I just chuckled at him, still shaking my head at how impossible this man was, when he suddenly pulled away slightly, his expression shifting into something quieter.
“I bought something for you,” he said.
My brows lifted immediately.
“For me?”
But instead of answering, he simply turned and walked toward his bag that he had left near the chair.
Curiosity took over faster than pride, and I followed him immediately like an impatient child, staying close behind him as he crouched down and unzipped it.
He reached inside carefully and pulled out two small rolls wrapped in newspaper, holding them with surprising care, like they were something fragile.
I frowned, leaning closer.
“Bangles?” I asked, my voice softer than before.
He looked up at me and nodded. A small smile sat on his face, quiet and warm.
I just stood there staring.
Because suddenly, my own words from earlier came rushing back.
When someone buys something simple for you with love…it feels different.
My fingers slowly reached for them, careful, almost hesitant, as if touching them would make the moment too real.
“Glass bangles?” I asked, my voice quieter now, almost careful, like I was afraid the moment would disappear if I spoke too loudly.
He nodded.
Slowly, he unwrapped the newspaper, layer by layer, and under the soft dim light of the room, the red glass bangles glinted beautifully—simple, bright, delicate.
For a second, I just stared at them.
Red.
The kind my mother used to wear. The kind I had stopped touching years ago.
Before I could even process that feeling, he opened the other roll too.
“I also bought metal bangles,” he said, showing me the second set, simpler but sturdy, chosen with the kind of thoughtfulness that hurt more than expensive things ever could.
“Since you said you were scared to wear glass bangles because they broke and hurt your skin,” he said, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.
I looked at him.
He remembered that.
That one small conversation.
That one passing sentence.
He remembered.
“I know it’s very cheap for you—” he started, almost awkwardly, like he was already preparing himself to dismiss his own effort.
“Shut up,” I muttered immediately.
Before he could finish another word, I took the bangles from his hand carefully, holding them like they were something far more precious than what they looked like.
Because they were.
My fingers traced over the glass lightly, and something inside me ached in the softest way possible.
Cheap?
No.
People spend money every day.
But not everyone pays attention.
Not everyone listens.
Not everyone remembers.
And not everyone buys you the thing you stopped asking for years ago.
I swallowed hard, blinking away the sudden sting in my eyes.
I quietly rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, my fingers slower than usual, like I was trying to hold onto the moment for a little longer, and then I placed the bangles back into his hands before stretching my arms toward him without saying anything.
For a second, he just looked at me.
Then he smiled.
That small, soft smile that never came loudly but somehow always reached me.
He held my wrist gently, careful like I was made of glass too, and slowly began sliding each bangle over my hand, one by one, the soft clinking filling the quiet room in the most beautiful way.
The red glass touched my skin again after years.
And strangely—it didn’t hurt.
Not physically.
Not emotionally.
It just felt… warm.
Like something lost had quietly found its way back.
His fingers moved slowly, making sure they didn’t hurt me, adjusting them with a patience that made my chest ache.
“You don’t need to wear this just because of me,” he said, still focused on my hand. “If you don’t like this—”
“Stop your nonsense,” I said immediately.
He looked up.
I held his gaze.
“If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t be standing here like some obedient bride with my hands stretched out for you,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.
A quiet laugh escaped him.
But I wasn’t joking.
I looked down at the bangles around my wrist, the red shining softly under the light, and my voice lowered.
My eyes burned suddenly, tears gathering before I could stop them, and I bit my lip hard, trying to hold myself together, trying not to let something so simple undo me this much.
But it already had.
I stepped closer to him slowly, the soft sound of the bangles following me, and before I could overthink it, I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding onto him like the only safe place I knew.
He looked at me quietly.
Just those eyes on mine, steady enough to make my heart beat louder.
“This is the most expensive gift anyone has ever given me,” I said, my voice soft, trembling at the edges as I looked at him.
His brows pulled together slightly, like he wanted to argue, like he was about to say they were just simple bangles.
"The most expensive gift I ever got." I muttered.
I am not talking about the bangles.
Adithya— was the most expensive gift life had ever handed me.
I leaned closer as I closed my eyes, resting my forehead on his.
"And I am fucking scared of losing it."