[44]HUG
Abhiraj stopped one step away from her.
Their eyes locked.
He saw it instantly: the desperate, wordless plea in her gaze,
Please don’t touch me here, not in front of everyone,
but also,
Take me away right now.
He understood perfectly.
A tiny, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Gulabo…”
That one word (soft, possessive, only for her) was enough.
Amisha turned immediately, pallu fluttering, and started climbing the grand staircase.
Abhiraj followed half a step behind.
Her long pallu trailed over the marble steps.
He reached down, gathered the silk gently in his hand so it wouldn’t brush the floor, and held it like a lifeline connecting them.
The entire family watched in perfect silence.
Minakshi Ma pressed a hand to her heart, eyes misty.
Dadi actually wiped a tear and muttered, “Hayee… mera pota aur bahu…”
Megha bit her lip to stop herself from squealing.
Rajveer Papa gave a proud, approving nod.
No one said a word.
No one needed to.
They all understood:
This was their moment.
Ten days of separation deserved privacy.
Amisha climbed slowly (partly because of the bump, mostly because she was shaking with excitement).
Abhiraj stayed right behind her, pallu still in his fist, free hand hovering at her lower back in case she wobbled.
They reached the landing.
Turned the corner.
Disappeared from view.
The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind them,
Amisha spun around and launched herself at him.
Full force.
Abhiraj stumbled back one step, hit the edge of the bed, and sat down hard (her in his lap, arms around his neck, legs already trying to wrap around his waist).
She hugged him like she was trying to climb inside his skin.
Face buried in his neck, she inhaled him (deep, desperate breaths), fingers clutching his shirt so tightly the fabric wrinkled.
He laughed, low and breathless, arms locking around her, one hand sliding up to cradle her head, the other pressing her bump gently against him.
“Arre meri jaan… itna miss kiya?”
Then he felt it:
the tiny, wet drops on his collar.
She was crying.
Soft, silent sobs shaking her shoulders.
He pulled back just enough to see her face (eyes red, nose pink, tears sliding down flushed cheeks).
“Arre… ro kyun rahi ho?”
His voice instantly gentle, worried.
She tried to speak, but it came out broken.
“Pta nahi… khushi ki baat hai ki aap aa gaye…
par bas… rona aa raha hai…”
Mood swings.
Pregnancy.
Ten days of missing him exploding all at once.
He smiled, tender, wiped her tears with his thumbs.
“Acha thodi der ro lena…
phir hasna shuru kar dena, warna baby ko lagega papa aate hi mummy roti hai.”
She laughed through the tears, then hugged him even tighter (if that was possible).
“Aaj main aapko chhodungi nahi.
Poore das din aise hi rahenge (chipke-chipke).”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling against her chest.
“Tum mujhse chipki hui ho waise bhi.”
She pulled back an inch, eyes fierce through the tears.
“Haan, aise hi rahungi!”
And to prove it, she climbed fully into his lap, knees on either side of his hips, arms locked around his neck, legs wrapping around his torso like a koala.
He fell back onto the bed with her on top, laughing softly.
“Poora das din?”
he teased, hands sliding down to support her bump and her thighs.
“Poora saal bhi chahiye toh kar lungi,” she declared, nose in his neck again.
He kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth (slow, soothing).
“Thik hai, meri chipkali.
Ab chup.
Main kahin nahi ja raha.”
And just like that, ten days of distance dissolved in the space of one tear-soaked, laughing, clinging hug on their bed.
Outside, the family smiled and went back to the celebration.
Inside, the king and queen were finally, perfectly,
home.
Abhiraj lay sprawled across the bed, one arm behind his head, vest riding up just enough to show the hard lines of his abs, pyjama bottoms slung low.
He looked lazy, dangerous, and entirely too pleased with himself.
Amisha sat cross-legged in the centre of the bed like a little queen surrounded by her treasure:
twenty-three brand-new lip balms lined up in perfect rows (every flavour imaginable, from strawberry to chocolate-mint to some weird “rose-gulkand” he had found in Kolkata).
Her pink saree was a lost cause: pallu hanging off one shoulder, pleats half-undone, hair a wild, beautiful mess from his hands earlier.
She was glowing, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with pure, greedy happiness.
She twisted open the first tube (strawberry), rolled it across her lips, and smiled like a child.
She applied first and then second which didn't taste good macking her like vomiting.
Abhiraj watched her, eyes dark.
“Sab laga-legaa ke mood kharab karogi?”
She blinked at him, innocent.
“Par taste karke dekhna hai na…”
He reached out, caught her wrist, and tugged her closer until she was half-sprawled across his chest.
“Lagao mujhpe.
Jo bhi bura lagega, usko side kar dena.
Tumhara mood kharab nahi hoga.”
Amisha’s eyes went wide.
Then wicked.
She didn’t need to be told twice.
First lip balm: strawberry.
She applied it generously, leaned in, and pressed her lips to his (slow, teasing, tasting).
He kissed back, lazy and thorough, tongue brushing once, then pulled away just enough to murmur against her mouth:
“Perfect. 10/10. Yeh rakhna.”
Second: mixed berry.
Kiss (deeper this time).
He made a face.
“5/10. Thik-thak.”
Third: vanilla.
She kissed him longer, letting him taste properly.
He hummed, low in his throat.
“8/10. Safe.”
Fourth: chocolate-mint.
Kiss (messy, playful).
He wrinkled his nose.
“4/10. Bilkul nahi.”
She laughed, tossed it aside.
And so it went.
Twenty-three lip balms.
Twenty-three kisses (some soft, some hungry, some downright filthy).
He judged each one like a connoisseur:
Peach: “9/10, sweet but not sickening.”
Coffee: “2/10, taste like burnt regret.” (thrown across the room)
Watermelon: “7/10, fresh.”
Rose-gulkand: “What the fuck is this? 1/10.” (immediate discard)
Mango: “10/10, again.”
Butterscotch: “Too artificial, 3/10.”
Five ended up in the “reject” pile (destined for the dustbin tomorrow).
Eighteen were declared “approved” (some earned growls of approval, some slow, filthy smiles).
By the fifteenth kiss, she was fully on top of him, knees on either side of his hips, saree forgotten, hands in his hair, breathing hard.
By the twentieth, her lips were swollen, his stubble had left red marks on her chin, and both of them were laughing breathlessly between kisses.
The last one (some fancy French “fig and honey”) earned the deepest kiss yet (slow, dirty, tongue stroking hers until she whimpered).
When she finally pulled away, triumphant, twenty-three tasted tubes scattered like battlefield casualties, she flopped beside him, giggling.
“Bas? 23 kaafi the na?”
Abhiraj looked at the chaos of tubes, then at her flushed, satisfied face, and shook his head slowly.
“Nahi.
Aur laana chahiye the.”
Amisha laughed, breathless.
“23 bhi kam hain aapko?”
He rolled over her in one smooth move, caging her beneath him, eyes black with hunger.
“Never enough,” he growled.
And then he kissed her (no lip balm, no tasting, no teasing).
A real kiss.
Messy.
Deep.
Hungry.
Lips crashing, tongues sliding, teeth nipping, hands tangled in hair and saree and skin.
Saliva mixing, breaths stolen, her soft moans swallowed by his mouth.
He kissed her until her lips were red and slick, until she was arching beneath him, until the only flavour left was them.
When he finally let her breathe, her lips were swollen, eyes dazed, hair a wild halo around her head.
He looked down at her (his messy, glowing, pregnant wife) and smiled (dark, possessive, utterly ruined).
“Ab taste kar liya,” he rasped.
“Sirf mera.”
She could only nod, breathless, clinging to him.
And outside, the haveli slept.
Inside, twenty-three lip balms lay forgotten on the floor,
because nothing in the world tasted better than each other.
Abhiraj looked down at her (hair wild, cheeks flushed, lips trembling with a shy, eager smile).
He leaned in slowly, eyes never leaving hers.
The kiss started gentle (just the soft press of his lips against hers, warm and careful, like he was holding something infinitely precious).
His hand came up to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek in slow, soothing circles.
The other stayed low on her waist, palm spread wide over the curve of her bump, supporting, protecting, never pressing.
Amisha sighed into him, her own hands sliding up to rest lightly on his chest.
He deepened the kiss gradually (lips parting, tongue brushing hers in a slow, reverent stroke).
No rush.
No force.
Just warmth, and love, and ten days of missing poured into every tender movement.
She responded softly, sweetly, her tongue meeting his with the same quiet hunger, fingers curling into his vest.
He tasted her like she was the only thing that mattered (slow, deliberate, cherishing).
Every time she made the tiniest sound, he eased back just enough to check her eyes, to make sure she was comfortable, breathing easy.
Only when she pulled him closer did he let the kiss grow a little deeper, a little longer (still gentle, still careful, but laced with the quiet intensity of a man who had missed his wife more than air).
His hand on her bump never moved, thumb tracing soft arcs over the cotton, as if reminding both mother and child that he was here, that he would always be careful, always be theirs.
When they finally parted, it was slow (foreheads resting together, breaths mingling, hearts racing in perfect sync).
He brushed his nose against hers.
“Bas itna hi,” he whispered, voice rough with love.
“Aaj ke liye kaafi hai.”
Amisha smiled, eyes shining, and pressed one last soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Welcome home, Abhiraj.”
He kissed her forehead, long and lingering, then tucked her gently against his side, hand still on her belly.
And in that quiet, careful kiss (no teeth, no bruising, no rush),
he told her everything he couldn’t say in words:
I missed you.
I love you.
I’ll always keep you both safe.
Ten days were over.
And every kiss from now on would be exactly like this (soft, endless, and full of care).