Reyansh Carter
My sweet little wife is dead asleep by the dinner table when I reach home. Her head rests on the chair beside her in an awkward position that will hurt her neck and give her a killer headache.
I quietly remove my shoes by the door, removing my coat and placing my bag on top of the table quietly.
Her mouth is open slightly, and I can’t resist the urge to kiss her, but because she is asleep and would probably hit me if I got too close to her, I choose not to. Instead, I take out my phone to click a picture of her.
My gallery app is nothing but photos of her, us, and occasional event pictures. She dominates my life, my heart, and my photos app.
The only place I don’t let her do that is, well, the bed.
“Pretty little wifey,” I murmur, bending close to her face and brushing the hair out of her face. “What would I do without you?”
I roll my sleeves and bend down to pick her up. Her face falls in the crook of my neck, and her flowery scent fills my air.
I take slow, steady steps towards our bed, and when I drop her on the bed, she stirs in her sleep.
“Rey?” she says in her sleep, her eyes opening up.
“Yes, meri jaan?” I smile, and even in her half-asleep state, her cheeks get my favorite red color.
“You are back.”
“I always come back to you, baby.”
She sits up, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand like a child, and I just sit there and look at her being effortlessly pretty. She yawns loudly, and I chuckle.
“Were you waiting for me?” I ask the obvious.
“No,” she deadpans. “I was waiting for thieves to break into our house.”
I humor her. “Were you now?”
She nods, fresh and fully awake now.
“Did he come in?”
“Oh, sure.”
“What did he steal? Perhaps your heart?” I wiggle my eyebrows.
“No, just my sanity and peace.”
I scowl, and she laughs, and that makes my mood infinitely better. Even though I love what I do, being the boss can be tiring sometimes.
“You must be hungry,” she says after she is done laughing at me. “I will reheat dinner for you.”
“No need,” I say, pulling her down. “You just stay here with me. I want to adore you some more.”
She clears her throat. “Cute, but I am hungry too, and if I don’t eat, I will kill you in your sleep.”
I don’t doubt her skills for a second. She has read more than a handful of thriller and murder mystery books, and she might just do the job better than most serial killers.
She is feisty like that.
“I can’t risk that,” I say, getting up and following behind her. “I still have to win my wife back.”
She hurries towards the kitchen, and I bite back my smirk. I let her win everything, be it a race, a competition we were both taking part in, or a board game. Anything she wanted, I made sure she got it. The only place I won’t let her win is this three-month challenge.
After all the conversations we have had today, I am confident that she will be mine once again.
By hook or by crook.
“Mom made butter chicken,” she says, and my mouth instantly waters. “She stole Maa’s recipe and put her own twist on it.”
“It will be good then,” I say, as she puts the bowl of chicken in the microwave. She uncovers the pot of rice, and steam comes out of it.
“I made this fresh,” she clarifies.
I help her take out the dishes and reheat the naan on the pan, and we work together in a silent rhythm that is oddly comforting.
“How was work?” I ask her.
“Good,” she replies. “Working from home with both of our mothers at home was chaotic as hell. But it was nice. At least, I didn’t get bored of the silence like usual.”
I smiled. It was good to know that she had some company.
“That’s nice. My day at the office got significantly better after your call.”
She passes me a smile before taking out the bowl from the microwave and settling it down on the table. I follow hot on her heels and arrange everything neatly before taking a seat close to her.
She notices me pulling my seat closer to her and shifts it a little, but does that stop me? Not a chance in hell.
So instead of pushing my chair closer to her, I simply drag her chair closer to mine, causing a screeching sound in the dead hall. She slaps me on the shoulder lightly.
“Are you crazy? Both of our mothers are sleeping?” she glares at me.
“They won’t wake up,” I say, planting a kiss on her temple because I can’t simply help myself.
“They are old, not deaf, so they will hear,” she taunts.
“I promise you, Aisha, that I can make you scream my name right now, right here, and they still won’t hear a single thing.”
She opens her mouth to argue but shuts it real quick when my words register in that pretty mind of hers, and she throws the deadliest of looks in my way, and I just smile.
I love rattling her so much.
“You are gross.”
“I think ‘sexy’ would be a better word, but sure. Whatever my wife says.”
She shakes her head, refusing to give in to my antics, and starts plating her food.
“If you are waiting for me to serve you, then you are going to bed hungry.”
I laugh lowly before plating my own plate.
“Too bad I would serve you in whatever way you wanted me to.”
She chokes on her food, starting to cough, and I pass her a glass of water while rubbing her back slowly.
She is going to kill me.
“Did someone give something to you at work?” She complains, her eyes red from all the coughing.
“No,” I say, choosing my words carefully. There’s a thin line between flirting with Aisha and preparing your own deathbed, and I always dangle on the wrong side of it. “I just can’t resist myself when you look this good.”
She looks at herself from head to toe, and I shake my head.
I can already guess what she is about to say.
“I am wearing sweatpants and a rugged sweater that can easily pass for a dirty rag.”
She takes a spoonful of her food, some of the gravy slipping down her chin.
“You can wear anything, and you would still look pretty to me, baby.”
I wipe her chin with my thumb before licking it, and she just keeps staring at me before focusing on her food.
I don’t tease her so much after that, letting her eat in peace.
* * *
Even when I urge her to go to bed and wait for me so that I can load the dishwasher, she doesn’t let me, actually pushing me towards the room, and I wonder where she is getting the strength from.
Honestly, I don’t know what I would do without her. I know I wouldn’t be able to survive the stress of adulthood without her.
No matter how much I say it, I will forever be indebted and grateful to her for loving me.
Once I am done with my shower, I wrap a towel around my torso and step out, and what follows is a loud “what the fuck” that startles me enough that I grip my towel in horror.
“What the hell, Aisha?” I ask, my heart calming down when I see that it was just her overreaction.
“You tell me,” she says, angrily, covering her face with the blanket. “Why are you coming out like this?”
I roll my eyes, strolling towards her. “You are acting as if you have never seen me naked before.”
“That was willingly.”
“You willingly want to see me naked?” I tease.
She grumbles under the blanket, sinking further into the bed.
“If you don’t wear clothes right now, I will call your mom.”
“She might start celebrating, thinking she is going to be a grandmother.”
She throws a pillow at me, and her foul aim lands it directly at my crotch.
“Oh fuck.” I sit down, clutching myself. Fuck me.
“What?”
“Aisha, you could have just said no to having babies with me. You didn’t need to permanently damage me.”
She lowers the blanket from her face, and the agony on mine makes her laugh. She actually rolls over in a laughing fit, and while I would have loved nothing more than to bask in the warmth that brings me, my balls were hurting explicitly.
“I would love to know what’s so funny,” I glower.
“Oh, I am sorry,” she says, wiping the tears from under her eyes. “Just the look on your face.”
I glare at her, getting up when I find the courage to and when it doesn’t hurt to move an inch and grab my pajamas from the closet.
I don’t say a word, and she purses her lips shut, her face red, and when I have finally come back to my senses, I can’t help but smile. For the first time, she laughed like her old self. The carefree one.
I keep a stern face when I come out, and she bats her eyes at me innocently.
“I am sorry,” she says seriously this time.
“You hurt me,” I say, faking it, and she sees right through me.
“So,” she tilts her head. “Did I hurt you enough to make you not have sex anymore?”
I narrow my eyes, taking slow steps towards her, and I see the courage falter from her eyes, but she puts on a good show of keeping it together.
“Really?” I say, towering over her, and she sinks further into bed, her big brown eyes staring right up at me innocently, patiently. “You want me to show you what I can still do?”
I grip her waist, bringing her closer to me, and she gasps. I lower my face to her level, my lips just inches away from hers, and she gulps hard, her eyelashes fluttering.
“You want to check yourself?”
My breath hits her lips, and she opens her mouth to say something—probably to defy me—and I move away from her, giving her space to breathe.
She glares at me, and I grin.
Tit for tat.
“You know,” she says, crossing her arms at her chest. “I sometimes wonder how you convinced me to be with you, with that cocky attitude of yours.”
“Oh, please,” I say, lying down beside her with my hand supporting my head. “You love my cocky attitude. You love so many things about me.”
She lies down beside me, and I can’t express in words how much I missed this. Our fun conversations, our banter, the closeness between us. It has always been so natural.
Why the fuck did I ignore my wife for so long?
“Enlighten me,” she says. “What all do you think I loved about you?”
“My face,” I say, and she chuckles. “I have a pretty face. Perfect balance of Indian and British. A rare combo. Then you have my personality.”
“Oh, your personality, how awesome.”
I pinch her cheek, and she swats my hand away. “My personality is strong, and you are attracted towards people who have a strong personality, who aren’t afraid to lay out their opinions, and you love that about me.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I know I am right.
“Then,” I think for a second. “You love my physique. I am hot; no one can deny that. I have manners, and I respect all women—things you like. You love my humor.”
“I tolerate your humor, but go on.”
I narrow my eyes. “You like my touch.”
“Touch?”
“Yes,” I add. “You can only allow a few people to touch you. Your love language is physical touch, but you can’t let everyone get close to you. The fact that you blush every time I get close to you is enough to let me know that you love my touch.”
As if right on cue, her cheeks turn pink and I smile. I trace her face with my finger, smoothly going over the curve of her nose to the slit of her lips, and she stops breathing.
“You love it when I admire you—I love it too. It is my favorite thing to do. You love it when I kiss you.”
I press a kiss to her cheeks, and her eyes close.
“You love it when I hold your neck like this.” My hand latches onto the hollow of her throat, and I can feel her pulse there.
“You love everything about me, Aisha,” I whisper over her lips, and she finally opens her eyes. I know if I pressed my lips against hers, she would let me do it.
Even if she can’t stand me at the moment, even if she wants to give me a divorce, she can’t betray the feelings that come in her heart. I don’t doubt for a second that she will kiss me back.
But I want her to say the words to me. I want her to ask me to kiss her.
And I will wait for that day, no matter how painful the journey might be.
“Still in doubt that you love me?” I ask.
“I never was.”