31
The rain had shifted from a gentle drizzle to a steady downpour by the time they stepped out of the café.
The streets of Inverness gleamed dark and wet, cobblestones slick with rain, the lamps casting soft halos through the mist. People hurried past with umbrellas, coats drawn tightly around them, while cars splashed water across the narrow roads.
Dhruv popped open the umbrella he'd carried, its black canopy cutting a neat circle above him.
His jacket was thick, layered, keeping him dry and warm, while Vaani's was thinner, a cozy cardigan beneath a lighter trench.
At first, she didn't mind, pulling the fabric close, but the rain was sharp, almost sideways in its insistence, and soon droplets began seeping into her sleeves, her hair dampening along the edges.
They walked quietly, her boots clicking against the stones, his strides measured beside her.
She tried to keep to his side but the umbrella wasn't fully covering her—half her shoulder was exposed, and she tugged her jacket tighter, hiding her slight shiver.
Dhruv noticed, of course. His gaze flickered toward her once, twice, and then without a word, he shifted his hand, tilting the umbrella closer toward her.
Suddenly, the rain stopped pelting against her shoulder, and she realized he had angled it so she was entirely shielded. In the process, however, half of him was left uncovered—the rain pattering steadily against his jacket sleeve, dampening the fabric.
She looked at him immediately, her brows pulling together. "You'll get drenched."
His eyes stayed ahead, his face calm, almost unmoved by the rain lashing at his arm. "It's fine."
Her lips parted in protest, her voice insistent this time. "No, it's not fine. You'll catch a cold. Come."
He finally turned his head, meeting her eyes, that steady gaze he carried everywhere. For a moment, he didn't move, didn't react, almost as if considering whether to argue. Then, at the quiet determination on her face, he gave in wordlessly, shifting his step closer.
Now, they were both fully under the umbrella.
The shift was subtle, but everything about it felt amplified—the narrowing of space between them, the sound of rain drumming steadily above, the shared circle of warmth.
Her shoulder brushed faintly against his arm every few steps, the scent of his cologne—a clean, understated note—mixing with the petrichor that rose from the streets.
Neither spoke, as though the rain had stolen their words.
Vaani lowered her gaze briefly, noticing how close their steps had become, how his hand gripped the umbrella firmly just above her shoulder, the veins along his wrist faintly visible.
She thought of how casually he'd just done it, without ceremony, without saying you look cold or you'll get sick.
Just action. Quiet, unspoken consideration.
She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to hide the small smile threatening her lips.
Dhruv, on the other hand, kept his focus forward, but he was acutely aware of her beside him.
The faint warmth radiating from her despite the chill, the way her damp hair brushed against the edge of her trench coat, the occasional shift of her fingers as she tucked them into her pockets.
He didn't let his expression change, didn't allow himself the indulgence of smiling—but he felt it nonetheless, a strange warmth that had nothing to do with the umbrella.
The world around them blurred—the old stone buildings, the shopfronts with their rain-streaked windows, the locals rushing past. For those few minutes, it felt as though the two of them existed in a quiet little bubble carved out beneath the umbrella, sealed by the rhythm of raindrops overhead.
Vaani risked a glance at him, trying not to be obvious. He looked completely at ease despite the weather, his stride steady, his jawline sharper under the dim streetlights. She quickly looked away, embarrassed at herself, but the image lingered anyway.
Her voice came softer this time, almost tentative. "Thanks."
He glanced at her briefly. "For what?"
She gestured faintly upward at the umbrella. "For... this. For not letting me get soaked."
There was the faintest tug at his mouth, the kind that wasn't quite a smile but wasn't indifference either. "You would've done the same."
She chuckled quietly, shaking her head. "I don't even own a proper umbrella half the time. I just run for cover."
That earned the faintest chuckle out of him, the sound low but genuine, blending with the rain.
They continued walking, closer now, their steps syncing without effort.
For Vaani, it felt strangely intimate—not the grand, cinematic kind of intimacy, but the quiet one.
The kind that sat in the way two people adjusted for each other without asking, the kind that hid in shared silences and umbrellas tilted just right.
And though she wouldn't have admitted it aloud, she found herself hoping the rain lasted just a little longer.
The rain had softened by the time they turned down a narrower street, its cobblestones uneven and glistening in the grey light.
The drizzle lingered, misting the air like a veil, but the heavy downpour had passed.
Shops lined the lane, their windows glowing warm with amber lights that reflected on the wet street.
The scent of rain mixed with the faint aroma of roasted coffee beans drifting from a café at the corner.
Vaani's eyes lit up suddenly, her steps slowing.
"Oh, look!" she said, pointing toward a charming little store with a hand-painted sign that read McLeod's Bookshop.
The windows were stacked high with books, old and new, spines facing outward like a mosaic of colors.
A bell above the door jingled softly every time someone stepped in.
Dhruv followed her gaze, then glanced at her face—her excitement was unmistakable, even if she didn't voice it loudly. Without comment, he adjusted his stride and walked toward the store, holding the door open for her.
The warmth hit immediately. The smell of aged paper and wood polish, the low hum of a heater somewhere at the back, and the quiet rustle of pages as a few patrons browsed.
Shelves stretched all around, tall and crowded, and ladders leaned against them invitingly.
It was the kind of store that looked endless despite being compact, every corner a treasure trove.
Vaani's eyes widened as she stepped in, a soft exhale slipping out. "This is beautiful..." she whispered, more to herself than to him.
She moved slowly, her fingers brushing spines, her gaze darting from one section to the next.
She bent down to read titles on the lower shelves, stood on her toes for higher ones, her movements unconsciously fluid, almost reverent.
Dhruv walked behind her at first, then drifted off toward a different shelf, letting her explore in peace.
At one point, she stopped in front of a neatly displayed set. A collection of hardbound novels, each in muted colors with elegant golden lettering across the spines. She bent closer, her fingertips trailing along the embossed letters.
"These are gorgeous," she murmured under her breath, carefully pulling one out to glance inside. The pages were thick, creamy, the typeface clean. She smiled faintly, flipping through, her mind already picturing them lined neatly on her shelf back home.
But then the thought arrived unbidden: When will I even get to read them?
She imagined the work waiting for her once she returned—the endless meetings, the deadlines, the late nights.
Books had always been her escape, but lately, they had become decorations more than companions.
She sighed softly, sliding the volume back into its place.
Her hand lingered for a second, almost reluctant, before she stepped back.
She smiled faintly, covering the quiet pang of disappointment, and turned toward Dhruv, who had wandered a few aisles away, glancing at a section of Scottish history books. "Shall we?" she asked gently.
He looked at her, noted the way her voice was light but her eyes betrayed a trace of wistfulness, and nodded without probing. Together, they headed toward the door, the bell chiming once again as they stepped out.
The air outside was crisp, thin, the drizzle now a fine mist that clung to the skin like breath.
Vaani closed her eyes briefly as she stepped onto the cobblestones, tilting her head upward to take it in.
The clouds above were low, heavy but luminous, the kind that made the whole world feel like it was wrapped in silver-grey silk.
She inhaled deeply, the coolness filling her lungs, and for a moment it felt like freedom—like her chest expanded a little more than usual, like she was truly alive in that breath. A smile tugged at her lips, unbidden, as she wrapped her arms loosely around herself and simply stood there.
The street was quieter now, the rain having driven most tourists into shops and cafés.
A busker across the lane strummed a soft melody on a guitar, the sound faint but beautiful in the mist. A few locals walked by with grocery bags, their steps unhurried.
The whole scene was painted in tones of calm.
"Vaani," Dhruv's voice came from beside her, pulling her back.
She turned, blinking, and he was holding his phone, glancing down at it. "One second," he said, his tone calm, his expression giving away little. "I need to get a book for Maa."
She nodded instantly. "Of course."
He gestured toward the bookshop they'd just left. "It'll only take a minute."
"Sure, go ahead," she replied, watching him as he turned and stepped back into the store.
And then she was alone again, standing on the cobblestones with the mist curling around her.
Her shoulders relaxed as she let herself soak it all in once more.
The drizzle clung to her hair, the cool air kissed her cheeks pink.
She turned slightly, looking down the lane where the rooftops sloped gently toward the horizon, their chimneys rising like old guardians of the town.
In the distance, faint hills loomed, softened by the veil of rain.
She pulled out her phone, instinctively wanting to capture it. The frame on her screen never did justice—the air, the smell, the quiet—so she lowered the device again and simply stood there, committing it to memory instead.
It felt like a moment outside of time. No emails, no office, no demands. Just Inverness, rain, and the rare luxury of stillness.
For the first time in a long while, Vaani allowed herself to do nothing but breathe.
Dhruv stepped out of the bookstore a few minutes later, holding a small brown paper bag in one hand, the drizzle speckling his jacket. He found her exactly where he'd left her—standing still, face slightly lifted toward the cloudy sky, her arms folded loosely as if holding the moment close.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low, cutting through the quiet.
She blinked, turning to him, her lips curved into an easy smile. "Yeah. Just... loving it." Her tone was soft but certain, as though the word loving carried the entire weight of her heart right now.
Dhruv's gaze lingered on her for half a second longer than usual before he gave a small nod. "Mhmm."
And just like that, the pause between them dissolved into movement.
They fell into step beside each other, their shoes tapping against wet stone as they wandered back through the winding streets.
The town seemed quieter now, with fewer voices, just the muted symphony of drizzle, distant laughter, and the occasional car splashing through puddles.
Neither of them said much, and yet it wasn't uncomfortable.
Vaani was humming lightly under her breath, some tune she probably didn't even realize had escaped her, while Dhruv adjusted the umbrella so that it angled more toward her side than his.
The simplicity of it—two people walking together in silence—carried its own intimacy.
Before long, the rooftops gave way to a wider street, and soon enough, the familiar structure of the train station loomed ahead.
The large glass windows gleamed with droplets, reflecting the soft grey of the sky.
Travelers bustled about with their coats and suitcases, voices overlapping in a muddle of English, Scottish brogue, and other accents.
Inside, the air buzzed with movement but also carried the faint smell of coffee from a kiosk tucked near the platform entrance. Vaani stole one last glance at the streets outside before following Dhruv toward their platform.
The train pulled in with its usual screech and hiss, and they climbed aboard, weaving through narrow aisles until they found their reserved seats.
Vaani slid into her spot near the window immediately, her bag tucked neatly under her feet, her face already turning toward the glass.
The view beyond was alive: raindrops trickling down, the horizon fading into pale green hills dotted with sheep, the sky heavy with mist.
"Beautiful," she murmured, pressing her chin into her palm as her eyes traced the blur of rain over the glass.
Dhruv settled into his seat beside her, pulling off his jacket and folding it onto his lap. He glanced at her briefly—at the way her eyes softened when she looked at landscapes—and then looked away, resting an elbow against the armrest.
Her voice broke the soft lull of the train's rumbling start. "We're in Scotland for... how many more days?"
Dhruv reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. His fingers scrolled through the itinerary they'd saved. "Just tomorrow. We're going to Isle of Skye."
Her head turned sharply, eyes wide. "Isle of Skye?" The way she said it was almost a gasp, half disbelief, half delight. "Wow..."
But as soon as she saw him just sitting there, calm as ever, not mirroring her excitement, her smile faltered a little. She straightened in her seat, pressing her lips together. "Sorry."
His brows drew faintly together, and when she finally glanced at him, she caught the subtle flicker of amusement in his gaze. "It does sound exciting," he said quietly, the corner of his mouth tipping ever so slightly.
And that was enough to bring her smile back, softer this time. She turned back to the window, hiding her grin as her chest warmed.
The ride stretched on, the rhythmic sway of the train punctuated by soft announcements overhead.
Vaani pulled out her phone again, instinctively opening Instagram.
Her fingers danced as she uploaded snippets from the day: a video of the rain over Inverness, a photo of the cobbled streets, a shot of the bookstore's window with the glowing light inside.
Each post felt like a way of sealing the moment forever, making it last.
She was so absorbed that she almost missed the notification bubble popping up on her screen.
Ria: Where are your pictures with Dhruv! Are you two even taking a picture together??
Vaani froze.
Her thumb hovered above the message, her breath catching slightly as if the words had pressed against a nerve she hadn't even realized was there. Her stories were full of views, food, rain, and the edges of her smile—but not a single photo with him.
Her eyes flicked sideways. Dhruv was sitting quietly, gaze fixed out the window, the faint reflection of his profile sharp against the glass. He looked almost like he belonged there, part of the landscape itself—calm, steady, grounded. Completely unaware of her small storm.
We haven't taken one picture together... she realized, her mind spinning. Not one. Not even by accident.
Her stomach twisted in sudden awkwardness. How do I even justify this? she thought, her fingers tightening around her phone. People are going to ask. Ria already did...
For a second, she pictured asking him outright—"let's take a photo together"—and immediately felt her ears burn at the idea. Too forward. Too... something.
Instead, she quickly typed back to Ria, fingers flying nervously.
We'll take a few!
The exclamation mark was doing a lot of heavy lifting, masking her uncertainty. She pressed send, let out a slow breath, and shut the chat, retreating to the comfort of posting more stories.
She adjusted her hair in the faint reflection of the window, angled her phone for another shot of the raindrops streaking down against the blur of green hills. From the corner of her vision, Dhruv hadn't moved. Still watching the world roll by, expression unreadable.
And for the first time since they'd boarded, she found herself staring—not at the view outside, but at him. Wondering, quietly, what it would be like to have a memory captured together.
The train rattled softly along the tracks, cutting through misty valleys and lush stretches of emerald-green hills. Sheep dotted the slopes like scattered pearls, streams ran silver down the ridges, and the clouds hung low as if the sky itself had bent down to kiss the earth.
Vaani should have been smiling. She should have been lost in awe, as she always was when traveling—posting, laughing, talking endlessly about the view.
Yet, instead, she sat with her phone resting face down on her lap, her chin tucked into her palm, her eyes unfocused on the glass pane in front of her.
There was a weight in her chest. A dull ache she couldn't quite shake.
She glanced sideways at Dhruv. He hadn't said much since they boarded, just watching the view, occasionally adjusting his jacket or stretching his hand across the armrest. His silence wasn't new—he'd always been like this, quiet, reserved—but today, it gnawed at her more than usual.
It wasn't that he was unkind. No. He was... present. He did little things—handing her the umbrella without a word, shifting seats so she got the better view, remembering the itinerary, even buying that extra dessert yesterday without fuss. But she couldn't read him. Couldn't reach him.
Does he even care that I'm here?
The thought hit her harder than she expected.
Her eyes dropped to her lap, fingers fiddling with the hem of her sweater.
He didn't look annoyed or distant, not even cold.
He was just... quiet. Too quiet. And here she was, babbling on about castles, desserts, rain, books—sometimes making a fool of herself—and he barely gave more than a small smile or a short "hmm. "
And that was when the guilt began creeping in.
Ever since their wedding, she hadn't really given him much.
No long conversations. No shared evenings.
Not even the comfort of companionship. She had drowned herself in work the way she always did—clients, deadlines, projects stacked endlessly one after the other.
Even when she got home, her head was still in emails, presentations, and calls.
She remembered their first week of marriage—the way she'd rushed through dinner because she had to send one last deck.
The way she'd brushed him off when he asked if she wanted to watch something together.
The way she'd fallen asleep at her desk some nights, leaving him to switch off the lights and make sure she was okay.
And now... now, here they were. Married a month, and she felt as though she was a stranger to her own husband.
Her throat tightened as she thought of Vihaan and Vedant.
Her little brothers' faces flashed in her mind—Vihaan with his shy smile, Vedant with his endless chatter.
The two of them depending on her in ways they didn't even fully realize.
The tuition fees, the rent, the little expenses that piled up—she had been the one holding it all together.
That was why she had thrown herself into work so ruthlessly.
Not out of ambition alone, but out of necessity.
Because every extra project meant a little more security for them.
And yet, that meant she had less and less left to give to the man sitting beside her now.
Maybe this is the result of that, she thought, her chest sinking further. Maybe this distance between us is my doing.
He had married someone who was never really there. Who always had her head buried in something else. Who couldn't even tell him the simple things—like how beautiful she thought this trip was, or how much she wanted him to open up, or how badly she wanted to bridge this silence.
But she couldn't change it either. Because the truth was harsh and unyielding: she needed that money. For Vihaan. For Vedant. For the home that had only stayed afloat because she had taken responsibility.
She was split down the middle. One side aching to make room for him, to reach out, to soften the walls he had around him. The other chained to her duty, to the reality that she could never slow down if she wanted her family safe.
The train curved gently, pulling them through a stretch of highland where the mist rolled in heavy, blurring the world outside into shades of grey and green. The hum of wheels against the track lulled her into her own thoughts.
She exhaled, long and quiet, the sound almost lost under the train's rumble. Then another breath. And another. As though sighing could untangle the knot inside her.
Her head leaned back against the seat, her lashes fluttering shut. She didn't want him to see her face, didn't want him to catch the faint crease between her brows, the tightness in her lips.
It's just how he is, she told herself. Quiet. Reserved. Not everyone has to be like me. I shouldn't expect him to be someone he's not.
But still, the ache lingered.
She felt small, almost foolish. Foolish for expecting him to fill silences she had helped create by being absent all this while. Foolish for letting her heart want more when she wasn't even sure if she had given enough herself.
Her fingers curled lightly over her lap as if holding onto an invisible thread.
Maybe I'm not doing enough for him.
The thought pressed down like a stone.
Her chest rose with another deep sigh, softer this time, and then she stilled. The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels soothed her ears, the misted hills rolling endlessly outside her window.
Her eyes remained closed, and slowly, her body relaxed against the seat. The weight didn't leave her, but it softened into a quiet resignation.
She wasn't going to say anything. Not now. Not here. Not when she couldn't even untangle her own thoughts.
She would sit quietly. Let him be. Let the world roll by in its mist and rain.
Because sometimes, silence was all she had left.
Dhruv shifted slightly in his seat, resting his arm on the edge of the window. The rhythmic sway of the train was steady, almost soothing, but something else drew his attention—a small, almost imperceptible sigh from beside him.
His eyes flickered to Vaani.
She was leaned back against the seat, her head turned faintly toward the window, lashes lowered, lips pressed together in a way that didn't quite look like sleep. She had sighed more than once now. The sound wasn't loud, but it was heavy—carrying something unspoken.
He studied her quietly.
For the last few days, he had watched her chatter, her endless excitement bubbling over small things—the rain, a dessert, a book cover in a store window. She had a way of noticing everything, framing it in her lens and in her words as though the world itself was worth treasuring.
But now... she looked different.
Her shoulders were not bouncing with energy. Her hands, usually busy tapping photos or gesturing mid-conversation, rested still on her lap. And that sigh—that faint sound—made him wonder.
Why does she look worried now?
He leaned back slightly, not wanting her to catch him staring, but his eyes kept drifting back.
She hadn't said anything all through this stretch of the journey, which in itself was unusual. With Vaani, silence wasn't her natural state. Even when she was busy taking photos or texting her brothers, there was always some hum in her presence, some little spark. But now, it was muted.
And Dhruv, though he didn't say it aloud, noticed.
He wasn't good with words—at least not the kind that filled silences. He never had been. He preferred listening, observing, giving space rather than crowding someone's thoughts. But with her, sometimes he wondered if that quietness built walls instead of comfort.
She sighed again, barely audible over the train's hum.
His brow furrowed ever so slightly. Was she tired? Was something bothering her? Did she regret coming on this trip?
That last thought lingered longer than he liked.
They hadn't known each other deeply before marriage, not the way some couples did.
Their lives had collided quickly, stitched together by family and circumstance, and now here they were, trying to find their rhythm in foreign places and shared silences.
He knew she worked hard—too hard, perhaps.
Always buried in something, always carrying the weight of people he didn't yet fully understand.
And maybe that work had built habits of distance, of exhaustion.
But sitting here, watching her chest rise and fall with a quiet heaviness, he couldn't help but wonder if he was part of that weight.
His hand twitched slightly, as though debating whether to shift closer, to say something—anything. But the words never came easily. He didn't want to push, didn't want to pry.
Still... he couldn't shake the question circling in his head.
What's troubling you now, Vaani?
He looked away finally, fixing his gaze on the rolling mist outside, though the crease in his brow lingered. He told himself he'd give her time, give her space. That was what he was good at—quiet patience.
But a small part of him, hidden and unspoken, wished she'd just turn, look at him, and tell him herself.
~·~
The lobby of the hotel smelled faintly of polished wood and rain-soaked coats, people trailing in and out from the damp streets.
Vaani followed Dhruv inside, her steps slower than his, the day's sights and her thoughts weighing equally on her.
They had walked for hours, through rain, bookstores, and the quiet hum of train stations, but it wasn't just the miles on her feet that left her tired—it was the silence she couldn't seem to bridge.
As they reached the elevators, Dhruv's phone buzzed sharply in his pocket. He pulled it out, his eyes scanning the screen with that familiar sharpness that told her even before he spoke: this was work.
"Vaani," he said, his voice calm but clipped. "I have to take this. It's important."
She stopped mid-step, her hand brushing the railing of the staircase beside them.
For a second, she wanted to say something, to ask him if they could talk first, or even just laugh off the timing of yet another work call.
But the look on his face—focused, already halfway into the conversation before even pressing accept—stilled her.
So she nodded. "Okay."
He gave her the faintest of acknowledgments before stepping away, phone pressed to his ear, his voice dropping into that firm, professional cadence.
She turned toward the elevator, pressing the button with more force than needed, the metallic ding echoing in the quiet lobby. As the doors slid open, she stepped inside alone, her reflection in the mirrored walls looking strangely smaller than she felt.
The ride up was silent, save for the hum of the lift.
In the room, the familiar comfort of soft lighting and the muted hum of the air conditioner greeted her.
Yet, instead of relief, she felt an odd hollowness settle in.
She dropped her bag by the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed, her eyes trailing over the television, the window, the neatly arranged tea set on the side table.
Everything seemed in its place. Everything seemed fine.
But she didn't feel fine.
Her hands twisted the hem of her sweater absently.
She thought of the day—the mountains, the bookstore, the rain under the umbrella.
There had been moments of closeness, or at least she thought there had been.
She had tried to share her excitement, her little bursts of joy, but each time she looked at him, she never really knew what he was feeling.
He listened, yes. He indulged her picture-taking, even teased her once or twice.
But beneath that, she couldn't read him.
He was like a locked book, one she wasn't sure she was allowed to open.
And maybe... maybe he didn't want her to.
She sighed, lying back against the bed, the ceiling blurring slightly above her. The thought was heavy: maybe he doesn't find me interesting.
She knew she was talkative. Everyone knew.
Her brothers often teased her about it, friends rolled their eyes with fond exasperation when she rambled too much.
She had always believed it was part of her charm, the way she filled silences, the way she could spin even the smallest thing into a story.
But with someone like Dhruv—quiet, reserved, steady—she began to wonder if her words were too much.
Silent people, she thought, valued their silences. Maybe they didn't want chatter running through every moment. Maybe she was breaking something he valued.
And maybe... maybe he didn't like it.
Her throat tightened faintly. She curled her knees up onto the bed and switched on the TV, letting the low chatter of a news channel fill the room. The glow of the screen painted soft shadows against the walls, but her eyes weren't really watching. Her mind was elsewhere—looping, circling.
She had tried, hadn't she? Tried to talk to him during the trip, to share things, to create memories. But he was always... just a step apart. Present, yet not. Caring in actions, but not in words. And what if... what if that wasn't distance? What if that was disinterest?
Her chest felt tight as she checked the clock. 9:30 p.m.
She blinked. He'd been on the call for almost thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes where she had sat here, waiting. Telling herself she'd stay awake for him, that maybe they could share something light once he came back—a laugh, a plan for tomorrow, even just a comment about the weather. Something.
But the longer she waited, the heavier her body felt.
Her eyes burned faintly from the day's travel. Her limbs ached in that way only long walks in unfamiliar cities could cause. And underneath it all, fatigue—the kind that wasn't just physical but emotional—was pulling her down.
She fought it at first. Straightening her back, blinking at the television, shifting positions on the bed. Each time her eyes closed, she forced them open again, determined. She would wait. She would be there when he came back.
But her body betrayed her resolve.
She lay down "just for a second," telling herself she would sit up when the door clicked open.
Her head found the pillow, soft and cool, and the hum of the TV blurred into the background.
Her last conscious thought was that she wanted to tell him something tomorrow—that she hadn't given up, that she wasn't going to stop trying.
But then, the weight of two days—of planes, trains, walking, thinking, doubting—swept her under.
Vaani didn't even realize when her breathing evened out, when her lips parted slightly in sleep, when the tension left her brow. She had wanted to wait. She had wanted to be awake.
But sleep, relentless and tender, had claimed her first.
And in the silence of the hotel room, only the faint glow of the television kept her company, the news anchors' voices rising and falling over a woman too tired, too lost, and too tender to keep her eyes open any longer.
~·~
The soft carpet muted Dhruv's footsteps as he made his way down the corridor, phone still warm in his palm.
The call had ended only moments ago, leaving behind the faint hum of unfinished thoughts and his own exhaustion.
He slipped the device into his pocket, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the weight of the conversation.
Confidential deal. Sensitive timing. The kind of thing only he knew about, the kind of responsibility that didn't wait for convenience. He reminded himself of that fact as he walked toward their room, but the truth pressed at the edges of his conscience.
He unlocked the door quietly, pushing it open with a soft click.
"Vaani, sorry it took so long—" he began, his voice low.
But the rest of the sentence fell away as his eyes landed on her.
She was asleep, lying sideways on the bed, one hand curled loosely near her face, the other tucked beneath the pillow.
The television was still running, the volume low but steady, its light flickering across her features.
Her chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths, exhaustion having pulled her away long before he returned.
Dhruv froze in the doorway for a moment, the words he had carried back with him dissolving into silence.
A glance at his watch: 10:15 p.m. He exhaled quietly, rubbing a hand against his temple. An hour. He had been on that call for an hour.
He knew why he'd taken it—there had been no choice, not really. The deal was at a critical juncture, and his input was essential. He was the only one with the specifics, the only one who could address the concerns. If he had ignored it, the fallout would have been worse than just inconvenience.
And yet...
He looked at Vaani again, her figure curled into the blankets, the television still droning in the background. She must have been waiting for him. The thought lingered, uncomfortably sharp.
But she hadn't managed it. And now she was here, fast asleep, while he was left with the guilt of unintentionally leaving for too long that she had slept off.
He shut the door softly behind him.
Moving quietly, he crossed to the TV and pressed the button, letting the screen go dark. The room was plunged into stillness, the only sound the rain tapping faintly at the window and Vaani's gentle breathing.
He turned to her, pausing.
For the first time that day, he allowed himself to simply look at her without the need to respond, to fill the silence, to carry the weight of decisions.
Her face looked softer in sleep, the faintest trace of a smile lingering at the corners of her mouth as if her dreams were gentler than her waking thoughts.
The tension she sometimes carried in her eyes, the nervousness he had noticed but hadn't always addressed, was gone now. She looked... at peace.
And the guilt deepened.
He slipped out of his jacket with slow fingers, then changed into something more comfortable. Every movement was measured, careful not to disturb her. He dimmed the lights until only the faintest glow remained, then finally slipped into bed beside her.
The sheets were cool at first, then warmed as he settled in, lying on his side. He switched off the last light, letting the darkness fold around them, and yet his eyes stayed open.
For a while, he didn't move. He just listened—to her breathing, to the distant patter of rain against the glass, to the silence he had always thought he preferred. But tonight it felt heavier.
Part of him almost expected her to stir, to open her eyes and mumble something—perhaps a soft complaint, perhaps a question, perhaps even just his name. He found himself waiting for it, as though her waking would absolve him of the hour he'd lost to work.
But she slept on, undisturbed.
And Dhruv lay there, awake, his gaze drifting from the ceiling to the faint outline of her profile in the dark.
He told himself it was necessary, that call. That it couldn't have been avoided. And yet, as the minutes ticked by, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that something more important had slipped quietly past him—something he couldn't negotiate or reschedule.
Still, he remained there, silent and wakeful, as though by being present now he could make up for his absence earlier.
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