Chapter 12 Too Warm, Too Close
Too Warm, Too Close
SITARA
Waking up in Dhruv’s arms and sneaking away was definitely not on my list of hardships I might have to face this year.
I had imagined many things when I thought of marriage. Awkward breakfasts. Polite smiles. Maybe even silence heavy enough to choke on.
I had not imagined this.
His arm is draped loosely around my waist, heavy and warm, like it belongs there.
My back is pressed to his chest, my head tucked just under his chin.
His breathing is slow and steady, the kind that tells me he’s still deep asleep.
The warmth of him seeps into me, through layers of fabric, straight into my bones.
Oh god.
This is bad.
This is very bad.
Because he smells good. Not in an overpowering way—just clean, faintly woody, like soap and something that reminds me of rain hitting dry earth. And he’s warm. Unfairly warm. The kind of warmth that makes you want to burrow deeper instead of pulling away.
And it’s cozy.
Too cozy.
My brain starts screaming before my body does. Move. Sitara, move. You cannot be here when he wakes up. This is your husband, yes, but also Dhruv. Your friend. Bhai-sa’s best friend. The man you have never—never—looked at like this.
I try to inch forward, careful, painfully slow. His arm tightens slightly, instinctive, like his body has decided I am a very important pillow that must not escape.
I freeze.
My heart pounds so loudly I’m convinced it might wake him.
Okay. Breathe. Just… breathe.
I lift his arm gently, millimeter by millimeter, like I’m defusing a bomb. The second my waist slips free, I almost sigh in relief—but of course, the universe hates me.
He shifts.
His arm drops back onto the mattress, and I scramble just enough to sit up, my back to him, hair falling into my face in a mess. I’m halfway off the bed when I hear it.
A low, sleepy sound.
“Oh no,” I whisper to myself.
I turn just in time to see him blink awake, eyes unfocused, hair a complete disaster. He looks around once, confused, before his gaze lands on me.
“Good morning,” I squeak.
I squeak.
He frowns slightly, rubbing a hand over his face, then through his hair in that absent-minded way that should be illegal this early in the morning.
“Morning, Sitara,” he says, voice rough with sleep.
Oh my god.
Why—why—have I never noticed how hot he is?
Probably because he was just Dhruv. Just my friend. Just Bhai-sa’s best friend who stole my fries and made stupid jokes with a straight face.
Now he’s sitting up in bed, sheets low on his waist, hair all over the place, eyes still heavy with sleep, and my brain has chosen now to malfunction.
I feel heat rush to my face instantly.
Abort. Abort. Look away.
I turn my head sharply, staring at the wall like it holds the secrets of the universe. “I—I think I should um… get ready,” I blurt out. “I have to go meet your mother and—”
His hand closes around my wrist.
Gently. Firmly. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on.
I inhale sharply and look down at his hand before slowly lifting my gaze to his face.
Sleepy Dhruv has to be single-handedly the most handsome man I have ever seen in my life. This is not a thought I appreciate.
“No,” he says simply.
I blink. “No?”
“You can meet her after breakfast,” he says, like this is the most reasonable thing in the world.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you ordering me, Mr. Singhania?”
He gets up then, still holding my wrist, and suddenly I have to tilt my head back to look at him. He’s too close. Far too close. His presence fills the space around me, steady and calm and dangerously distracting.
“I would never dare to do that,” he says, lips twitching, “Mrs. Singhania.”
Oh.
Oh shit. Right, I am Mrs. Singhania.
My heart does something violent inside my chest. The word hangs between us, heavy and electric, and I forget how to breathe for a second too long.
I cough, loud and awkward, breaking whatever dangerous moment that was. “Um—yes. Breakfast first.”
I nod quickly, like I’ve just made a very mature decision and not internally combusted.
He chuckles softly, finally letting go of my wrist. “Why are you so red?” he asks, studying my face. “You feeling okay?”
Way to go, Tara.
“Yeah,” I say too fast. “Just—uh—winters, you know.”
He frowns, clearly unconvinced, but thankfully doesn’t push it. I silently thank every god I know.
He walks toward the door, pauses, and turns the knob. “Oh,” he says mildly. “It’s unlocked now.”
He turns back to me. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ll meet you in half an hour, okay?”
I nod, probably a little too enthusiastically. As soon as the door closes behind him, I slump back onto the bed and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Oh thank god.
I can breathe again.
I press my palms to my cheeks, which are still very much on fire. What the hell was that? Since when does being near Dhruv make my heart race like I’ve just run a marathon?
This was not part of the deal.
I stare at the rumpled sheets, at the faint indentation where he had been lying, and feel something unsettling flutter in my chest.
This marriage was supposed to be simple. Practical. A solution.
So why does it feel like I’ve just stepped onto very thin ice—and I’m not entirely sure I want to get off?