CHAPTER 53
ABHIMAAN
I don’t know what’s happening to me.
I should feel weird. Or at least uncomfortable with how okay I feel. But instead… I’m just lying here, blinking at the ceiling, with the weight of her arm slung across my chest and her leg thrown over mine like she’s trying to pin me down in some ancient martial arts move.
Her hair is a mess, strands clinging to my jaw, tickling my skin every time she exhales.
And still, I don’t move.
I’ve been lying here for—what?—twenty minutes, maybe more, with a stupid grin stretched across my face. And not because anything particularly funny happened. Just... because she’s here.
On me. Next to me. With me.
Last night keeps playing in loops in my head. The way she looked at me. The way she held me like I was something worth holding. The way she didn’t rush or pull or expect anything. It wasn't just sex. It wasn’t even just intimacy.
It felt like… being chosen.
Her breath is soft now, mouth parted slightly, and if I close my eyes and focus hard enough, I can feel the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest against my side. She’s warm. Heavy with sleep. Still so damn beautiful.
God, what has she done to me?
I lift my head a little to look at her, and there it is again—that flutter in my chest I’ve never had before. Not even close. I’m not supposed to feel like this. I’m not wired for it. And yet, one look at her, and I feel like someone’s rearranged the entire blueprint of me overnight.
Somehow, she’s fast asleep in a half-Taekwondo, half-koala pose, and even though it’s mildly suffocating and borderline ridiculous, I wouldn’t change a thing.
But if I want to surprise her with breakfast, I need to get out of bed… without waking the sleeping bear.
I carefully try to slide her arm off my chest. Big mistake.
She groans in protest and tightens her grip, her leg pressing down harder across my thigh. I bite back a laugh.
“Of course you’re a blanket thief,” I murmur quietly.
After some maneuvering—which involves more strategic planning than a military op—I finally manage to sneak out from under her without causing a major earthquake. She mumbles something in her sleep, frowns, turns, and then immediately hogs the rest of the blanket.
I shake my head, grinning like a lunatic.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I pull on a T-shirt, still smiling like I just got away with something illegal, and pad quietly into the kitchen.
She deserves the best. Always. But especially today.
She was exhausted last night, and she still made space for me. Emotionally. Physically. In ways I never knew I needed. So, if she wakes up to pancakes, waffles, and the smell of good coffee, it still won’t be enough—but it’s a start.
I pull out the ingredients and get to work, the motions surprisingly calming. Eggs crack. Butter sizzles. Coffee brews, warm and rich, curling into the quiet corners of the house. It feels peaceful in a way I’m not used to. Domestic, even.
I’m not the domestic type.
Or… I wasn’t. Until now.
Damn it, did she break me?
Because I’m not supposed to feel like this. I’ve never been this guy. This soft, giddy, smile-like-an-idiot guy.
I burnt the first batch of pancakes because I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she whispered my name last night. The way her fingers trembled before they didn’t. The way I didn’t feel ashamed for once.
I flip the pancake, humming under my breath, and glance over at the bedroom door like an idiot. It’s still closed. She’s still asleep.
Good.
Because if she sees me smiling at the batter like a fool, I’ll never hear the end of it.
I make waffles too—crispy on the outside, soft inside—and arrange them on a tray.
Pancakes stacked beside them, a generous drizzle of maple syrup on the side.
I even cut some fruit and place it neatly in a bowl.
Coffee goes into our mugs— hers with just the right amount of sugar—and I stand there for a second, looking at the tray like I’ve just painted the Mona Lisa.
It’s not perfect. But it’s made with something I’m still learning how to name.
Maybe care. Maybe love.
God.
I’ve got it bad.
I push open the bedroom door with my foot and walk in, the smell of breakfast drifting in with me. She’s still asleep, sprawled diagonally now, hair in her face, the sheet slipping off one shoulder. My eyes sweep over her bare back, the soft curve of her waist.
My heart does that stupid fluttering thing again.
“Morning,” I whisper, placing the tray on the bedside table.
She stirs but doesn’t open her eyes. So I sit beside her and brush the hair from her cheek. Lean down and press a soft kiss to her temple.
“Mmm…” she mumbles.
“Wake up, darling,” I murmur, letting my nose nuzzle against hers.
She blinks groggily, and when she finally opens her eyes, the smile she gives me is pure sunshine. Sleepy. Soft. Trusting.
“Did you make coffee?” she asks, yawning.
“Coffee, waffles, pancakes…” I reply, leaning in for a proper kiss.
She hums, kissing me back slowly, like the morning isn’t moving at all. Like we have all the time in the world.
“You’re ridiculous,” she whispers, pulling me closer.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I chuckle, burying my face into her neck.
And we stay like that for a minute. Or five. Arms tangled, soft kisses, lazy smiles.
She feeds me a bite of pancake right from the tray, grinning like she just won something. “Too sweet.”
“You like it sweet.”
“You’re in a weird mood today.”
I pause. “I’m trying not to be.”
She gives me a look. “Don’t.”
I nod. No words needed.
The truth is, I don’t know what’s happening to me. But I know she’s the reason I want to figure it out. I wrap my arms around her again and lie back against the headboard.
Maybe this is what peace feels like. Messy, sugar-coated, heart-thumping peace. And if she’s the one who broke me…Then maybe I don’t want to be fixed.