CHAPTER 49
A Head Full of Worries
VIHAAN
The first thing I hear when I step into our room isn’t a greeting, not even the sound of her anklets brushing the floor.
It’s a groan. A very dramatic one at that.
Poorvi is sprawled across the bed like a defeated warrior, her dupatta half sliding off her shoulder, hair tumbling in every direction as though it too has given up on life. Her arms are thrown over her face, and she’s mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like, “I’ve ruined everything.”
I pause at the threshold, torn between amusement and concern. She’s never subtle when she’s upset—it leaks out of her in sighs and sulks and little frowns that crease her forehead until I want to smooth them all away.
“What happened?” I ask, though I already have a hunch. Today was her viva.
Her arm drops, and her eyes—wide, exasperated, almost glassy—lock onto mine.
“It was a disaster,” she announces like it’s the final decree of the universe.
“I completely screwed up, Vihaan. I forgot half the things I’d revised last night.
I—I was stammering. They must think I’m the dumbest person alive. ”
I bite back a smile, because if I let it slip, she’ll definitely throw the nearest pillow at me. Instead, I cross the room and sit beside her. “That bad?”
She nods vigorously, then winces, pressing her fingers to her temples. “My head is literally throbbing from all the overthinking. Do you think I’ll even pass?”
That’s when I gasp—loud, exaggerated, scandalized enough to make her blink at me. “Pass?” I repeat, clutching my chest like she just stabbed me. “Poorvi, don’t you dare doubt yourself like that. Don’t you know how smart my wife is?”
Her lips twitch, fighting a smile, but she shakes her head, pretending to stay annoyed. “Stop exaggerating.”
“I’m not exaggerating,” I insist, leaning closer until I can see the faint shimmer of irritation still clinging to her eyes. “If anyone in this world should be afraid of failing, it’s the professors. Because how could they possibly measure up to you?”
This time, the smile wins. She chuckles, low and reluctant, before swatting my arm. “You’re ridiculous.”
I grin. “Ridiculously in love with you, yes.”
Her cheeks flush, and for a second, I feel like I’ve conquered something bigger than any viva—pulling her from that dark spiral of doubt into this quiet moment where she glows even in her frustration.
“Okay,” I say, tapping her temple gently. “Enough self-bashing. Headache, right?”
She nods, rubbing at her forehead again.
“Then sit up. I’ve got the cure.”
She frowns suspiciously. “What cure?”
“A champi,” I announce proudly, already standing and heading toward the drawer where I know the little bottle of almond oil is kept.
Her laughter follows me. “What? You’re joking.”
I turn, bottle in hand, and raise an eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m joking? Trust me, Poorvi—I give amazing head massages. Legendary.”
She arches one brow, still unconvinced. “Legendary, huh?”
“Yes. People write songs about my champis. Ballads, even.”
She shakes her head, laughing harder now, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard all day. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” I say, walking back toward her, “you married me.”
“I had to. I was not given a choice.” She fake pouts.
I narrow my eyes at her, “Not funny.”
Her lips curve again, softer this time. She sits up on the bed, folding her legs beneath her, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Fine then. Work your magic, Kunwar-sa.”
My heart warms up at how sweetly she calls me Kunwar-sa. I unscrew the cap, pour a few drops of oil into my palm, rub my hands together, and then place them gently against her head.
She closes her eyes almost immediately, her shoulders relaxing as I begin to work my fingers into her scalp.
And just like that, the world quietens.
It’s just her soft breathing, the faint scent of almonds, and the way my fingers trace patterns against her hairline.
“Hmm,” she hums after a minute, voice drowsy. “You weren’t lying.”
“Told you,” I murmur. “I could start a business with this skill.”
She chuckles, eyes still closed. “I don’t think I’d share you.”
That does something to me—something sharp and tender all at once. I lean a little closer, lowering my voice. “Good. Because I don’t want to be shared.”
Her lips curve, and she lets out a soft sigh, tilting her head back into my hands. “Vihaan?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
I pause just long enough for the words to land, for my heart to stutter like it always does when she says them. Then I bend down, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “I love you too, meri jaan. More than you’ll ever know.”
She smiles at that, her face softened by sleepiness and trust, and I think—no viva, no failure, no doubt could ever touch the way she looks right now. Like I am her everything. Like I am everything she never knew she needed.
So I keep massaging, slow and steady, until her breathing evens out and her head lolls slightly forward. She’s dozed off in the middle of my “legendary” champi, and I can’t help but laugh softly against her hair.
I shift carefully, laying her down against the pillows, and pull the blanket over her. For a moment, I just sit there, watching her, feeling like the luckiest man alive.
Because yes, the world might test her. Professors might try to trip her up. Her own doubts might creep in. But as long as I’m here, I’ll keep reminding her.
That she’s brilliant.
That she’s strong.
That she’s mine.
Always mine.