[39]have to go
The phone had been vibrating non-stop for the last twelve minutes.
Abhiraj finally picked up the fourth call, listened for thirty seconds, ended it with a clipped “Main aa raha hoon” and tossed the phone on the bed.
Amisha was already sitting up, rubbing her eyes.
“Kya hua?”
“120 crore ka fraud. Customs, income tax, shareholders – sab peeche pad gaye.
Mujhe jaana padega.”
She raised a brow. “Kitne din?”
“Das din minimum.”
He folded his arms, leaned against the wardrobe, and gave her that stubborn look.
“Par mujhe nahi jaana. Tum dono yahan akeli rahogi.”
Amisha rolled her eyes.
“Akeli? Puri haveli bhari padi hai.
Aur das din hain, Abhiraj. Mahina nahi.”
He walked over, sat on the edge of the bed, and placed his palm flat on her belly like it belonged there (because it did).
“Das din bahut hote hain.
Main roz tere pet pe haath rakh ke sota hoon. Wahaan kaise sounga?
”
She flicked his forehead lightly.
“Hotel mein bhi toh bed hoga. Pillow rakh lena.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Pillow se kaam nahi chalega.
Tera pet chahiye mujhe.”
Amisha snorted.
“Drama mat karo. Kaam bada hai, jao.”
He didn’t move.
“Tum bolegi toh nahi jaunga.”
She gave him a flat look.
“Jao.
Main bol rahi hoon.
Ghar mein sab hain, baby theek hai, main theek hoon.
Das din mein mar nahi jaungi.”
He leaned in, nose brushing hers.
“Tum miss nahi karegi mujhe?”
“Karungi,” she said honestly,
“par yeh bhi jaanti hoon ki company jalegi toh tum roz mujhe jalaaoge.
Dono mein se better option choose kar liya.”
Abhiraj exhaled through his nose, defeated.
“Theek hai. Subah paanch baje ki flight hai.
Main Papa, Shatish aur Mihir se baat kar aaya hoon – tere upar nazar rahegi 24 ghante.”
Amisha nodded, already getting up.
“Main bag pack kar deti hoon.”
He pulled her back by the wrist.
“Nahi. Tu so ja. Main kar lunga.”
She shrugged, lay back down, and turned on her side (facing him).
He packed in ten minutes – four kurtas, two jeans, chargers, files (everything mechanical).
When he zipped the bag, she was still awake, watching him.
He climbed into bed, slid behind her, arm automatically going around her belly, palm spread wide.
Silence for a few seconds.
“Das din,” he muttered against her neck.
“Bahut zyada hain.”
Amisha patted his hand.
“Phone pe roz video call computer pe.
Baby ki kick dikhaya karungi.”
He grunted, pulled her tighter.
“Roz raat ko pet pe haath rakh ke sona padega mujhe… video mein bhi.”
She smirked in the dark.
“Hotel ka pillow garam kar lena, hukum.”
He bit her shoulder lightly.
“Pillow nahi, tu chahiye.
Bas das din jaldi khatam kar dena.”
She closed her eyes, already half-asleep.
“Jaldi aana.
Warana bachhe ko bol dungi papa bure hain.”
He huffed a laugh, kissed the back of her neck, and settled in (obsessed, grumpy, but going anyway).
Ten days.
He would count every hour.
And she would wait (not dramatically, just quietly) because that’s what they did:
he fixed the world, she kept their little one safe, and they met again on the eleventh morning like nothing had changed.
Except everything always did, just a little, every time he came back to her.
(Bag packed, lights dim, both lying facing each other under the blanket)
Abhiraj traced lazy circles on her belly with his thumb.
“Subah nahi uthaunga tumhe.
Flight 5 baje ki hai, tu soyi rehna.”
Amisha frowned.
“Kyun?”
“Thodi der ke liye neend kharab ho jaayegi.
Das din baad poori neend le lena mujhe dekh ke.”
She poked his chest.
“Par mujhe bye bolna hai.”
He smirked, leaned in, and pecked her lips softly.
“Abhi kar do bye.
Subah kyun uthogi?”
She instantly wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him close, and gave him a proper, lingering kiss.
“Bye-bye.
Jaldi aana.”
He chuckled against her mouth.
“Tumhe kuchh laana hai wahan se?
Kapde, makeup, kuchh bhi?”
Amisha pretended to think.
“Nahi… bas kuchh khane ko leke aana.
Aur haan, wahan lip balm mile toh bohot saare leke aana.
Mujhe woh strawberry wala bahut pasand hai.”
Abhiraj raised a brow.
“Itni saari toh pehle se hain tere paas.”
He brushed his thumb across her lower lip.
“Aur abhi bhi hai tere lips pe taste.”
She grinned, nipped his thumb lightly.
“Phir bhi leke aana.
Mujhe bohot pasand hai.”
He kissed the tip of her nose.
“Okay.
Aur baby ke liye kapde launga.”
Amisha’s eyes lit up.
“Haan! Lete aana.”
He gave her a teasing look.
“Par tumhe pasand aayenge?”
She rolled her eyes, laughing softly.
“Koi baat nahi.
Mujhe pata hai aapki pasand kafi achhi hai.”
Then she narrowed her eyes playfully.
“Par laaoge kiske kapde? Ladki ke ya ladke ke?”
Abhiraj didn’t even blink.
“Dono ke.”
Amisha hit his chest lightly.
“Koi zarurat nahi!
Aap dono gender pehen sake aise wale laana (unisex).”
He laughed, pulled her closer, and kissed her forehead.
“Okay okay, madam ji.
Neutral colours, soft cotton, aur lip balm bohot saare.
Noted.”
She snuggled into his chest, satisfied.
“Jaldi aana.”
He tightened his arm around her, voice dropping to that low, possessive tone.
“Das din mein har roz video call.
Aur ek bhi din late hua toh flight chhod ke khud gaadi chala ke aa jaunga.”
She smiled against his skin, already half-asleep.
“Theek hai, hukum.”
And just like that, with a few kisses and a shopping list,
the goodbye was sealed (simple, soft, and perfectly theirs).