COLORING IN
ANAMIKA
I step into our room expecting the usual chaos that follows Sara wherever she goes. What I don't expect is to stop dead in the doorway.
Sara is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed with a neat row of washable markers spread out in front of her, arranged with the seriousness of a surgeon preparing for an operation.
And Yuvaan . . . Yuvaan is standing beside the bed with nothing on but a pair of lounge trousers, absentmindedly rubbing a towel through his damp hair after his shower, completely unaware of the effect he's having on the woman who has apparently forgotten how to blink.
For one ridiculous second, my brain simply . . . stops. I've seen him shirtless before. Little glimpses. Early mornings when Sara insisted on sleeping between us. A hurried change of clothes after polo. Moments that disappeared before I could actually look. This isn't one of those moments.
Sunlight spills through the windows, falling across broad shoulders still glistening faintly with water.
His hair is damp and unruly, stubborn strands refusing to lie flat no matter how hard he rubs the towel through them.
Tiny droplets slide lazily down the planes of his chest before disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers.
And my traitorous eyes decide this is the perfect time to notice absolutely everything. I already know about the tattoos on his right arm.
I remember sitting beside him in a tiny tattoo studio years ago, clutching his hand while he pretended the needle didn't hurt nearly as much as it clearly did. He'd laughed the entire time just because I looked more nervous than he did.
But these . . . These are new.
A delicate wave curling beneath a rising sun wraps around his left forearm. Two swallows stretch across the inside of the other arm, frozen mid-flight, every feather so carefully inked they almost look alive.
And then my gaze drifts higher. Right above his heart. Daisy.
The air catches somewhere in my throat. I can't look away. It's almost unfair, how something so tiny manages to steal every bit of attention from the rest of him.
"Mumma!" Sara's delighted voice pulls me back to earth. "I want to colour Mister's tattoos." She proudly holds up a yellow marker. "They're only black. They need colours." She tilts her head critically. "I think the birds should be blue."
I blink. "Sara, sweetheart . . . I don't think tattoos are really meant to—"
Before I can finish, Yuvaan crosses the room. In one easy movement he scoops Sara into his arms, settling her comfortably against his hip. "Anything for my Princess."
Sara squeals loud enough to shake the windows. "I knew you'd say yes!"
"I usually do." He kisses the top of her head. "I've accepted my fate."
She wraps both arms around his neck dramatically. "I love when you accept your fate."
"I've noticed." His eyes lift to mine. "So has your mother."
The corner of his mouth twitches. He knows exactly how flustered I am. I hate that he knows. I hate even more that I love that he knows. He settles onto the edge of the bed with Sara still perched on his lap and stretches one arm out obediently.
"There. I am officially your canvas."
Sara gasps in delight. "Mumma!" She waves another marker enthusiastically. "You have to help."
"I think you've got this covered."
"No." She shakes her head with tremendous authority. "It'll look prettier if both of us do it."
I look helplessly at Yuvaan. He doesn't rescue me. Of course he doesn't. Instead, he picks up the marker lying beside him and holds it out toward me. "You heard the artist." His voice is warm with barely restrained amusement. "Participation is compulsory."
I narrow my eyes at him. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely." He doesn't even try denying it.
I sigh with all the dignity I can manage, which isn't much considering my face is burning. "Fine."
I sit beside him. Far too close. Close enough that the warmth radiating from his skin brushes against mine. Close enough to catch the clean scent of sandalwood soap lingering after his shower. Close enough that I can see the tiny imperfections in the ink of the daisy above his heart.
My hand lifts almost on instinct. My fingertips stop just above the flower. "This . . . " My voice comes out much quieter than I intend. "When did you get this?"
His eyes don't leave my face. "A few years ago."
I look back at the tattoo. "A few years . . . "
The words barely come out. "For who?"
A smile touches his lips. "You." He says it as simply as breathing. "In case you were planning to pretend otherwise."
Something squeezes painfully around my heart. I look up at him again. "You tattooed a daisy . . . " My breath stills. "For me?"
"I did." His voice lowers. "I wanted something that reminded me of home." A pause. "Then I realised you were home." The room suddenly feels much smaller. Much quieter. Even Sara seems to fade into the background for a heartbeat.
"I told you before," he says softly. "I never let you become my past." His fingers brush mine for the briefest second. "So eventually my skin stopped pretending it could either." I can't answer.
Anything I say will probably come out as a sob.
Instead, I uncap the yellow marker. Very carefully .
. . I begin filling in the tiny petals. Slow strokes.
Gentle. The marker glides over warm skin.
Every now and then my fingers brush lightly against his chest. Each accidental touch sends something ridiculous fluttering through my stomach.
He's watching me. Not the tattoo. Me. With so much quiet affection that it's almost impossible to concentrate on staying inside the lines. "You missed a petal." His voice is barely above a whisper.
"I know."
My hand freezes as he guides my hand to the exact place, his thumb stroking the inside of my palm.
I look up.
He's smiling. Completely unashamed of flirting with me while a five-year-old sits six inches away colouring birds. Heat floods straight into my cheeks.
"Yuvaan."
"Hm?"
"Behave."
"I am behaving." His eyes sparkle. "I've been remarkably well behaved."
"Mumma." Sara glances over critically. "You coloured outside." She points with great seriousness. "Right there."
"There." I obediently fix my terrible artistic crime. "Better?"
Sara studies it like an art professor. " . . . Acceptable."
Yuvaan laughs. "I see perfectionism runs in the family."
"It does not."
"It absolutely does."
He tilts his head slightly toward me. "You've reorganised the same bookshelf three times."
"That was different."
"It was alphabetical, Daisy."
"It needed . . . " I search desperately. " . . . better alphabetising."
He chuckles under his breath. "I stand corrected."
Sara is now entirely absorbed in colouring the swallows. "They need adventures."
"What colour is adventure?" Yuvaan asks solemnly.
"Blue." She answers without hesitation. "And sparkly."
"I don't think markers come in sparkly."
"They should."
"I'll write a formal complaint."
She nods approvingly. "I think that's wise.
" I have to bite my lip to stop laughing.
For the next half hour the room fills with easy conversation.
Sara explains, in exhausting detail, why the ocean should always be turquoise.
Yuvaan agrees with every artistic decision she makes as though she's the country's foremost tattoo expert.
Every so often his gaze finds mine. Every single time my pulse stumbles.
When I finish colouring the daisy, I sit back. Against the black ink, the soft yellow petals look strangely alive.
"Perfect." Sara caps the final marker with tremendous satisfaction. "Mister . . . " She beams proudly. "Now you're colourful."
He lifts his arm, inspecting the cheerful chaos covering every tattoo. "My goodness." He nods gravely. "I've never looked more distinguished."
"You look happy."
"I do, don't I?"
"You do."
She throws her arms around his neck. "I made you prettier."
"You always do." He kisses her forehead.
She grins and hops off the bed. "I'm going to wash my hands!
" She disappears into the bathroom, humming happily to herself.
The door swings shut behind her. Silence settles over the room.
I look back at the daisy. Still slightly damp with yellow ink.
Still sitting exactly where his heart beats beneath it.
He follows my gaze. "Thank you." His voice is quiet.
I look up. "For what?"
"For finishing it." His fingers lightly brush the back of my hand. "I'd started wondering if it would stay an outline forever."
A helpless smile escapes me. "You could've coloured it yourself years ago."
"I could have." He reaches up and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "But it would've been incomplete."
His thumb lingers briefly against my cheek. "I wanted the woman it belonged to be the one who brought it to life." My heart doesn't flutter anymore.
It simply melts. Without thinking, I lean closer. Close enough to hear his breathing slow. Close enough to see the tiny hitch in his chest. I press the gentlest kiss beside the daisy.
Not on the ink. Just beside it. His breath catches beneath my lips. His hand rises instinctively to cradle the back of my head, fingers sliding carefully into my hair. He doesn't pull me closer. He simply holds me there like he's afraid the moment might disappear if he lets go too quickly.
I can hear his heartbeat. Steady.Strong. Right beneath the flower. "There," I whisper against his skin, smiling despite myself. "Now it's complete."
He closes his eyes for a brief second. "I don't think it was the tattoo waiting all these years." His fingers stroke gently through my hair. "I think it was me."