MIDNIGHT MADNESS
I ran back toward the shore, laughing softly as the waves rushed forward and crashed over my feet, cold and wild against my skin.
I gathered the ends of my dress in my hands and lifted it slightly, trying to keep the white fabric from getting soaked, but after a few steps I gave up and let it fall.
Tonight did not feel like a night for careful things.
If the ocean wanted my dress, it could have it.
I let the water touch everything, let the wind pull at my hair, and let myself feel the strange, beautiful freedom of simply not caring.
I turned around and looked back at him.
He was still standing there near the shore, staring at me with that quiet expression of his.
The moonlight touched his face, the wind moved through his hair, and on his finger was still that ridiculous little paper ring I had made for him.
Slightly crooked. Completely unserious. And yet he was wearing it like it was the most important thing in the world.
My heart softened in the most embarrassing way.
I smiled and lifted my hand toward him.
"Come here," I called.
And without a single argument, without pretending to resist like he usually did, he started walking toward me.
When he reached me, the waves touched the edge of his feet as he stood in front of me, looking unfairly handsome under the moonlight like some man written by a woman with dangerous standards.
He looked around at the empty beach, at the dark ocean stretched endlessly beneath the stars, and then back at me.
"Why did you choose this place?" he asked quietly. "This beach?"
I looked at him and grinned, because finally-finally-I could reveal that I had been right all along.
"Do you remember what you said when I once asked you about your dream wedding?" I asked.
He frowned immediately, the poor man clearly searching through the ruins of his memory like he regretted every emotional sentence he had ever spoken in front of me.
After a moment, he shook his head.
"I don't remember."
I clicked my tongue dramatically and turned to him in pure disappointment.
Of course.
Of course I remembered his emotional nonsense better than he did.
Men were truly useless creatures.
"You said," I began, my voice softer now despite the teasing, "that you wanted a wedding under the stars... and between clouds reflected on the deep ocean."
For a moment, there was only silence.
The waves moved. The wind passed between us.
His eyes widened slightly, and something shifted in his face as realization settled there. He looked at me differently then.
"You remember that?" he asked, stepping a little closer.
There was something in his voice that made my chest ache.
Because yes.
I remembered.
I remembered everything.
The careless things.
The quiet things.
The things he said when he thought no one was listening.
I lifted my chin proudly, even though my heart was doing stupid things inside my chest.
"I have a better memory power," I said.
He let out the softest laugh, but his eyes were still full of something deeper.
This was never just about the beach.
It was about listening.
It was about remembering.
It was about the fact that I had held onto one simple sentence he had forgotten, because somewhere deep inside me, I had already decided that if I ever married him properly-even in madness, even with paper rings-it would be exactly there.
Under the stars.
Beside the ocean.
Inside the dream he once mentioned and forgot.
Because I didn't.
He stepped a little closer, close enough for the waves to touch both of us the same way, and placed his hands on my waist, pulling me gently toward him until there was barely any space left between us.
The cold wind from the ocean should have made me shiver, but standing that close to him, all I could feel was warmth.
He looked at me with that annoyingly calm expression, like he was about to say something simple when I knew very well it would probably ruin my emotional stability for the next three days.
"You proposed to marry me," he said slowly, "You remembered something I once said about my dream wedding, something even I forgot."
I smiled proudly.
As I should.
Because clearly I was the superior romantic in this relationship.
"But," he continued, narrowing his eyes slightly, "you forgot one thing."
My brows furrowed.
"What?"
I was genuinely confused.
Had I forgotten the priest?
The vows?
The legal witness?
Little Sinclair?
He leaned a little closer, scrunching his nose in that cute way that should honestly be illegal for a grown man.
"You didn't even say that you like me," he said.
I blinked.
He looked personally offended.
"Like," he continued, with full seriousness, "you did not even confess properly."
I just stared at him for a second and then hen I laughed.
Because this man had survived threats, forced marriage, emotional terrorism, and midnight paper-ring weddings, and now he was standing here demanding a proper school-love confession like some teenage boy.
I reached up and pulled his cheek gently.
"Isn't it obvious?" I asked, still laughing softly.
He caught my wrist immediately, his expression stubborn.
"No. I need proper words."
I rolled my eyes.
"You are emotionally greedy."
"Yes."
At least he admitted it.
"Why don't you say that?" I asked, wrapping my arms around his neck as I looked at him.
"I suffered a lot because of you," he said, his voice low and dramatic in that shameless way of his. "Don't I deserve at least one proper confession?"
"Victim mentality," I muttered under my breath.
"Accurate mentality," he corrected without missing a beat.
I tried hard not to smile.
Because beneath all the teasing and the ridiculousness of this midnight paper-ring wedding, my heart was beating so loudly it felt almost embarrassing.
There are some words that become heavier the moment you decide to say them aloud.
Love is one of them. Real love - the kind that strips you of pride and leaves you standing there with nothing but honesty in your hands - is one of them.
I looked at him.
At the man who had somehow become every quiet place inside me.
At the man who had entered my life like resistance and stayed like peace.
At the man I had fought, threatened, challenged, annoyed, and somehow loved more than my own stubbornness.
And finally, with no room left for pride, I gave him what he had been asking for.
"I am disastrously, irreversibly, stupidly in love with you."
The words left my mouth and for a second it felt like the whole world had stopped to listen. The waves still moved. The wind still touched my skin. But inside me, everything had gone still.
Because there it was.
The truth.
Naked and terrifying and beautiful.
I looked at him, my heart thudding so loudly I was sure he could hear it over the ocean itself, and softer this time-less like a confession and more like a promise-I said,
"I love you, Mr. Adithya Menon."
For one long moment, he just stared at me.
Then suddenly, without warning, he crashed his lips onto mine.
I let out the smallest startled sound because I had absolutely not prepared for that level of dramatic response, and I stumbled backward, caught completely off guard as he pushed me back slightly, holding me like he had been waiting years for permission to do exactly this.
He pulled away for barely a second, breathing unevenly, and I blinked at him. He took off his glasses and threw them somewhere behind him and before I could even process, he kissed me again.
This time even deeper.
Like he was trying to memorize me.
Like he wanted every version of me-the chaos, the sharp edges, the pride, the softness I pretended not to have.
And I kissed him back, smiling helplessly against his lips because honestly-how was I supposed to act normal when the man I loved was kissing me on a beach at midnight after marrying me with paper rings under the stars?
There was no dignity left.
Only happiness.
Ridiculous, overwhelming, terrifying happiness.
My fingers tangled in his hair, the waves touched our feet, the moon watched like an unpaid guest at our illegal wedding.
His kiss gone deep and slow this time, no rush anymore, just warm and all-consuming.
I could feel every line of his lips against mine, his hand cupping the back of my head to keep me close.
My whole body going soft against him, my heart racing so sweetly, I couldn't think of anything but how much I love this man.
His warm lips brushed slowly along my jaw, leaving little tingles down my neck, then pressed a soft lingering kiss to the corner of my mouth before he finally pulled away, though it felt less like the kiss had ended and more like we had both simply run out of breath.
For a moment, I just stood there looking at him, trying to process the fact that this man-this quiet, emotionally constipated, annoyingly handsome man-had just kissed me like he was trying to rewrite my entire existence.
My lips still tingled. My heart was somewhere near my throat.
He looked at me for one brief second, and I could actually see it-the same chaos, the same ridiculous vulnerability he always tried so hard to hide behind sarcasm and long sleeves.
Then, as if even eye contact had become too much for him, he closed his eyes and dropped his head onto my shoulder breathing heavily.
Just like that.
No words. No dramatic speech.
Just the quiet weight of him leaning on me like I was the only place he could rest.
I let out a soft chuckle, my hands slowly moving to his back, holding him there without thinking, without hesitation.
The night around us had gone softer somehow.
But inside me, there was only warmth. Still my stomach was fluttering like it had an entire jungle living inside it.
I rested my cheek lightly against his head and smiled to myself, because there was something so absurdly beautiful about this moment.
This man, who looked like he could survive the end of the world without asking for help, was standing here with his face hidden against my shoulder because apparently one confession and two kisses had completely broken his nervous system.
Good.
As it should.
I gently brushed my fingers through his hair and whispered near his ear, unable to resist,
"So this is the famous Mr. Justice Saviour? Reduced to this because of one confession?"
He groaned against my shoulder.
"Please," he muttered, his voice muffled, "let me suffer in peace."
I laughed softly.
"No. I plan to emotionally harass you for the rest of our married life."
He lifted his head slightly, just enough to look at me, his expression tired and fond and completely ruined.
"Threatening your husband immediately after marriage. Very promising start."
I smiled sweetly.
"I like consistency."
He chuckled softly and finally pulled away from me, then suddenly, his expression changed. His brows frowned.
"Where are my glasses?" he asked, looking around with immediate concern, like the man had just realized he had thrown away his entire personality.
I blinked.
This man had just kissed me under the moonlight like we were the final scene of a tragic love story, and now he was standing in the middle of our emotional wedding searching for his spectacles like an old uncle at a family function.
I let out a long breath and shook my head slowly.
"Wow," I said, crossing my arms. "Such romance. Such passion. Such poetry. And now we are looking for your glasses."
"They are important," he said seriously, already turning around and squinting suspiciously at the sand like it had personally betrayed him.
"So was the moment."
"My eyesight is more urgent," he said
I shook my head is fake-disappointment.
"This marriage is built on disrespect."
"This marriage is built on me being blind because of you," he said, still searching for his glasses.
Fair point.
He bent slightly, searching the sand with the concentration of a man looking for lost national treasure. I watched him for a second and then sighed like a tired wife of twenty-five years. I walked over and crouched down beside him.
"Move," I said.
"I can find it." He said
"You threw it into another continent."
He gave me an offended look.
I ignored him and started searching through the sand, my wet dress sticking to my legs, my paper ring still on my finger, and suddenly this entire night felt even more ridiculous than before.
From emotional confession to beach treasure hunt.
Perfect.
Exactly our love story.
After a few seconds, I found them half-buried in the sand.
I held them up triumphantly.
"Found your true love."
He straightened immediately and looked relieved enough to offend me personally.
"There you are," he muttered, taking them carefully from my hand like I had rescued a child.
I narrowed my eyes.
"No gratitude for your wife?"
He cleaned the sand off the glasses with unnecessary dedication before putting them back on, and the moment he did, he looked at me with that familiar calm expression again.
Ah yes.
The emotionally unavailable software had rebooted.
Then, he stepped closer again. His hands found my waist, holding me tightly.
Before I could ask what he was doing, he suddenly lifted me off the ground.
A startled laugh escaped me as I instinctively grabbed his shoulders, my fingers clutching onto him while he twirled me there in the middle of the empty beach like we were inside some ridiculously cinematic love story I would have mocked if it were happening to anyone else.
The world spun.
The ocean blurred.
The moon and stars became streaks of silver above us.
And all I could hear was my own laughter mixing with his quiet chuckle, the sound of waves crashing around us, and my heart beating so loudly it felt like it had become part of the night itself.
He finally stopped, but he didn't put me down. He just stood there holding me, my feet still barely touching the sand, my hands still on his shoulders, both of us slightly breathless, both of us smiling like fools.
He leaned closer, then he pressed his lips on mine.
And against my lips, against the midnight air and the endless sound of the sea, he whispered softly-
"Thank you, wife."