[9]SORRY
After dinner,
The door shut with a soft click.
One lamp burned low, casting long shadows that danced across the teak walls.
The air was thick: sandalwood, jasmine, the faint heat of the day still trapped in the room.
Abhiraj sat at the study table, laptop open,
but his fingers had stilled the moment she entered.
Hazel eyes followed her, unblinking.
Amisha’s heart thump-thump-thumped against her ribs.
She stole one glance,
then darted to the almirah.
Pink kurta.
White gagra.
White dupatta folded neatly on the side table, for later.
She reached back,
unpinned her bun.
Black silk cascaded down her back,
brushing her hips like warm water.
She felt his stare.
Hot.
Heavy.
Her ears burned crimson.
She turned, voice small but steady:
“Kuch chahiye kya aapko?”
He nodded, slow.
She walked over,
gagra rustling,
anklets chiming.
Stopped a foot from the table.
“Kya chahiye?”
He stood.
6'4" of quiet storm.
One step,
his hand closed around her wrist,
warm, firm,
thumb pressing her pulse.
A tug.
Her hips hit the table’s edge.
Thud.
He caged her.
Both palms slammed down on either side of her,
fingers splayed.
Her gaze climbed:
his torso,
broad, breathing,
then his chest,
neck,
finally,
face.
Kutub Minar.
She opened her mouth,
He bent.
Both hands on the table,
arms locking her in.
Eyes on hers.
Hazel to grey.
“Why are you avoiding me?”
Voice low, rough.
“Subah time pe nahi aayi.”
“Kaam tha.”
He tilted his head.
“Kaam tha… ya naraz ho?”
She looked up,
stubbornness flaring.
“Naraz toh hoon.”
His brow lifted.
“Miss kiya mujhe?”
Her cheeks flamed.
“Aapne kaha mujhe miss kiya, toh main kyun karoon?”
He bent closer.
Eyes to eyes.
Nose to nose.
Lips to lips,
a breath apart.
Her head tilted back slightly.
A smirk ghosted his mouth.
“Kisne kaha maine miss nahi kiya?”
Voice velvet and gravel.
“Har waqt kiya.”
She blinked.
“Par… kabhi phone toh nahi kiya.”
He closed the gap,
breath mingling,
warm, sandalwood and mint.
“Haan. Ho gayi galti.”
His voice dropped,
raw.
“Kar leni chahiye thi us waqt baat. Kar li hoti… toh main itna tadap nahi raha hota tumhari awaaz ke liye.”
Silence.
Her lips parted.
No words.
His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist,
once,
twice,
a silent apology.
The lamp flickered.
The room shrank to just them:
his heat,
her heartbeat,
and nine years
melting in the breath between their lips.
The lamp’s flame trembled, throwing gold across their faces.
One inch.
That was all that separated them.
Abhiraj’s gaze dropped,
slow, deliberate,
to her lips.
Still glossy with cherry balm,
soft,
pouty,
pink,
small,
parted just enough to show a sliver of white teeth.
His throat went dry.
A swallow,
audible in the hush.
He lifted his eyes back to hers,
grey storms meeting hazel fire.
“Sorry.”
The word was a whisper,
rough,
raw,
carried on the breath that brushed her mouth.
She blinked.
“Thik hai…”
The last syllable never finished.
His lips found her cheek,
just below her eye,
soft,
warm,
a kiss like velvet.
Sorry.
Down,
to the apple of her cheek,
lingering,
tasting the faint salt of her skin.
Sorry.
Near her jaw,
where her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
Sorry.
At her chin,
a gentle press,
his stubble grazing her softness.
Sorry.
Then,
her dimple,
the one that flashed when she laughed.
He kissed it,
slow,
reverent,
like sealing a vow.
Sorry.
Each kiss was an apology,
a confession,
a promise.
Amisha stood frozen,
shock blooming into shyness.
Her hands trembled at her sides,
fingers curling into the gagra’s fabric.
Her breath hitched,
gulped,
shivering.
She was melting,
slowly,
like ghee under flame,
but holding,
just barely,
to the last thread of composure.
His hands stayed on the table,
caging her,
but his mouth,
his mouth was everywhere,
soft,
insistent,
nine years of regret poured into every touch.
The lamp flickered again.
The room spun.
And she stood,
trembling,
between his arms,
his lips,
and the apology
she had waited a decade to hear.
The kisses stopped.
Abhiraj drew back an inch,
eyes searching hers,
hazel dark with question.
Did she accept?
Amisha’s chest rose and fell in quick, shallow waves.
Cherry balm smudged faintly on her cheek.
Her lashes fluttered,
grey eyes wide,
still reeling.
What just happened?
A beat.
Two.
Then,
she moved.
On tiptoe,
gagra rustling,
she leaned in.
Her lips brushed his neck,
just above the collarbone,
soft,
warm,
a shy press against the pulse that thundered there.
She couldn’t reach his cheek,
Kutub Minar,
so she chose the closest spot.
Her voice,
small,
trembling.
but sure:
“Mujhe bhi sorry…
baat nahi ki aap se.
Aur… maine bhi miss kiya.
Bahut zyada.”
The words vibrated against his skin.
His arms, still caging the table,
tightened.
Not trapping.
Holding.
A low sound escaped him,
half groan,
half prayer.
He dipped his head,
forehead resting against hers,
breath mingling.
“Moti…”
The childhood name slipped out,
rough with nine years of longing.
She smiled,
tiny,
dimples flashing.
The lamp glowed steady now.
The room held its breath.
And for the first time in twelve years,
they were
home.
They stayed locked in the embrace,
her cheek against his chest,
his chin atop her head.
The lamp’s glow painted them gold.
Amisha pulled back just enough,
tilting her chin up,
stubborn spark in her grey eyes.
“Ab nahi hoon main moti.”
Abhiraj’s lips curved.
His finger rose,
poked the soft round of her cheek,
dimples flashing.
“Haan, thodi ho… par utni zyada bhi nahi.”
She swatted his hand,
half-laugh, half-glare.
“Chhoti bhi ho?”
He grinned,
eyes dancing.
She crossed her arms,
gagra swirling.
“Main theek hoon. Aap hi Kutub Minar ho.”
He lifted a brow.
“Sirf 6'4" hi toh hoon.”
Her eyes widened,
mock horror.
“Yeh ‘sirf’ hai? Meri gardan dukh gayi upar dekhte-dekhte!”
Next heartbeat,
He bent,
hands sliding to her waist,
palms spanning all of it,
fingers overlapping at her spine.
Lifted.
She rose,
weightless,
anklets chiming mid-air.
Her hands flew to his shoulders,
gripping T-shirt fabric.
“Yeh kya kar rahe ho?!”
His voice rumbled against her palms,
smirking.
“Ab nahi dukhega gardan.”
She stared,
eye-level now,
his hazel gaze inches away.
“ap itne bade kaise ho gaye?”
He chuckled,
low,
warm.
“Main toh theek hi hoon. Tum chhoti reh gayi ho.”
She glared,
fiery,
cheeks puffed.
“Mujhe chhoti mat bolo.”
He tightened his hold,
just enough for her to feel the steel in his arms.
“Phir kya boloon… meri moti?”
Her glare melted into a reluctant smile,
dimples betraying her.
The lamp flickered.
And she stayed suspended,
in his hands,
in his gaze,
exactly where she belonged.
She dangled in his arms,
anklets chiming like tiny protests.
Amisha wriggled,
gagra swishing,
hands pushing at his shoulders.
“Khabar mujhe boloon ya moti kaho toh?”
Abhiraj’s grip only tightened,
palms firm around her waist.
“Aur kaho toh?”
She huffed,
cheeks puffed.
“Baat nahi karungi.”
He scrunched his hands,
pulling her flush against him,
her softness to his steel.
His lips found her chubby cheek,
kiss,
then a playful bite,
just enough to make her squeak.
“Main toh kahunga hi ‘moti’.
Tum ho jo.
Aur baat bhi karni padegi.”
She narrowed her eyes,
fiery.
“Yeh toh dadagiri hai.”
He smirked,
dark,
dangerous.
“Dadagiri nahi… pati-giri hai.”
Her chin lifted.
“Par aapne toh kaha tha na… aap pati nahi ho.”
His gaze darkened,
voice dropping to velvet thunder.
“Main pati hoon… aur yeh sabit bhi kar sakta hoon.”
She blinked,
innocent,
not catching the heat.
“Kaise?”
He leaned in,
nose brushing hers.
“Jaldi hi kar dunga sabit.”
She challenged,
stubborn.
“Nahi… abhi hi karo.”
His smirk widened,
slow,
wicked.
“I will. But after some time.
Phir har raat sabit karunga.”
She tilted her head,
confused,
cheeks pink.
“Okay… okay.”
He chuckled,
low,
the sound rumbling through her.
Abhiraj carried her,
arms steady,
her weight nothing in his hold.
Each step slow, deliberate,
gagra brushing his thighs.
He reached the bed,
ivory sheets crisp under the moon’s silver spill from the balcony.
Lowered her,
gentle,
like placing something precious.
She sank into the mattress,
pink kurta fanning around her,
anklets chiming once as her feet settled.
He circled to the other side,
slipped off his watch,
placed it on the nightstand with a soft clink.
The bed dipped as he lay down,
a careful distance between them,
two hand-spans of cool sheet.
Amisha’s heart fluttered,
nervous,
Will he touch me?
Now?
He turned his head on the pillow,
voice low, calm.
“So ja. Kal school jana hai na?”
She nodded,
small.
“Haan.”
Silence settled,
thick,
but not heavy.
The lamp clicked off.
Room plunged into darkness,
save for the moon’s pale fingers stretching across the floor,
painting silver on her kamarband,
on his bare forearm.
Air stirred from the balcony,
cool,
carrying night-blooming jasmine.
She lay on her back,
hands clasped over her stomach,
listening to his steady breathing.
He stayed on his side,
facing her,
eyes open in the dark,
watching the rise and fall of her chest.
No touch.
Just space,
and the quiet promise of tomorrow.
They slept,
peacefully,
moonlight guarding the gap between them,
nine years finally resting
in the same bed.