SHIVAM'S POV

The first rays of morning sunlight slipped quietly into the room, finding their way through the thin curtains and across my face. At first, I shifted slightly, irritated at the brightness, but then another sensation caught my attention. My palm was resting on something soft-softer than any pillow I'd ever known. I frowned inwardly, half-asleep. Since when did pillows become this soft?

And then it hit me.

Not a pillow. Not a blanket. Nothing inanimate at all.

It was her.

My heart skipped, and my eyes shot open in panic. There she was-my wife, my Isha-curled against me, her breathing even, her face half-hidden beneath a curtain of hair. And my hand-God help me-was on her waist. Not just on top of her kurti, but inside the folds of it, warm against her skin.

Shit. Damn. Hell.

If she woke up now, she would kill me. Without hesitation. And the worst part? I wouldn't even blame her. What excuse could I possibly give? That my hand had just wandered there in the middle of the night? That I was sleepwalking?

I swallowed hard, my pulse thudding in my ears. Very carefully, as though defusing a bomb, I slid my hand away from her waist. The movement was slow, measured, deliberate, and I exhaled once the contact broke. Relief, however, was only half of what I felt. Because the truth was, even as I pulled back, another, far more dangerous thought whispered in my mind.

Just because I moved my hand away doesn't mean I won't ever want to put it back there again.

My chest tightened with the realization. I turned my head slightly, watching her in the golden spill of morning light. Sunlight kissed her face, softening every feature, turning her into something almost ethereal. Her closed eyelids fluttered faintly, her lips parted slightly with each breath. In that moment she looked less like a person and more like a vision-untouchable, impossibly radiant.

She was mine. Beside me. In my arms.

The promise I had made-the one that had felt so far away, so impossible once upon a time-was real now. It had come true. She wasn't just someone in my life anymore; she was my life.

I sat up abruptly, heart pounding, and headed into the bathroom to freshen up. Cold water splashed across my face, shocking me awake, but my thoughts refused to quiet. When I came out again, my eyes went to the bed instantly. She was still there, curled in the sheets, and a ridiculous smile tugged at my lips.

I sat on the edge of the bed once more, staring at her. Is it wrong to be this attracted to your own wife? The question rose unbidden, half-guilty, half-proud. My rational mind muttered that maybe I should keep my distance, show restraint. But another voice, louder, cockier, dismissed it instantly. Who cares?

My gaze lingered. A loose strand of her hair had fallen across her cheek, and before I could stop myself, I reached out. Gently, almost reverently, I brushed it aside, letting my fingertips graze her skin for just a second.

And then-movement. Her eyelids flickered. The lashes trembled as if she were on the verge of waking up. Panic jolted through me. Instantly, I pulled back and dropped down , pressing my eyes shut and arranging my face into a mask of sleep.

Great, Shivam, I scolded myself. Now you're pretending to be asleep like some guilty schoolboy. What has life come to?

The mattress shifted slightly. There was a small sound-the creak of the bed as she stirred. She was waking up. My body went rigid, my breathing measured, every muscle pretending calm while my insides twisted in anticipation.

I felt the blanket shift. She was moving closer. My heart hammered louder. And then-her voice, soft, sleepy, and impossibly sweet.

"When you're asleep, you look so cute... so impossibly gentle. But who knows why, the moment you open your eyes, you turn so... shameless?"

Her words landed like arrows, straight into my chest. I wanted to laugh, to smirk, to tease her back immediately, but I kept my eyes shut. A smirk did escape though, tugging at my lips despite myself. How could I hold it in when she said something like that?

Then she murmured again, her tone even softer, intimate in a way that made every hair on my body stand alert.

"Shivam ji, how long will you sleep like this, hmm? Who knows how many hours you can just lie here peacefully while I keep staring at you like a fool..."

Her words nearly broke me. I bit back a chuckle, keeping still, but my heart-it was a mess. She had no idea what she was doing to me. She thought I was asleep, thought her words were secret, but every syllable was carving itself into my memory.

I wanted to open my eyes, grab her hand, and tell her not to call herself a fool. That if anyone was the fool, it was me-because here I was, hopelessly captivated by her every glance, every word, every breath.

Instead, I stayed still. I listened.

After a pause, I heard her sigh softly. Then, her voice came once more, carrying a note of gentle resignation.

"Fine... stay here and sleep. I'm going to get ready for the day."

The mattress shifted as she moved away. I cracked my eyes open just in time to see her slim figure crossing the room. The bathroom door clicked shut behind her.

And that was it. I was done for.

Oh, my sweetheart... you don't even know. You don't know what you do to me, what madness you set loose inside me. With every small word, every glance, every careless gesture-you are driving me insane.

I dropped back onto the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, fighting the ridiculous grin threatening to spread across my face. My chest was tight, but not with fear this time. With something else entirely.

Last night had already shaken me, rewritten everything I thought I knew. And now this morning-this little act of hers, her unguarded words-it felt like confirmation. The promise was real. The bond was real.

I turned onto my side, eyes fixed on the closed bathroom door. For a moment, I let myself imagine the days ahead. Waking up like this again, hearing her voice tease me awake, watching her walk around the room with that sleepy, distracted grace. Coming back from work to her scolding me for being careless, or laughing at my silly jokes. Sharing the smallest, most ordinary routines-and finding them extraordinary just because they were ours.

A part of me still whispered doubts, told me to be careful, to hold myself back. But another part-louder, stronger, utterly reckless-told me to shut up and dive in. Because this was it. This was what I had wanted, even if I hadn't always admitted it.

She was mine. And I was hers.

I closed my eyes again, this time not pretending, but sinking into the strange, intoxicating warmth of the morning. My wife was driving me crazy, yes. But maybe madness was exactly what I wanted.

ISHA'S POV

Steam clung faintly to my skin as I stepped out of the washroom, fresh from the shower. Droplets of water clung stubbornly to strands of my damp hair, sliding down to the edge of my red saree. I had already draped it around myself carefully, every pleat in place, though the fabric still felt new against my skin. With one hand, I pressed the towel lightly against my wet hair, blotting it dry, while the other adjusted the pallu over my shoulder.

When my eyes lifted, I froze for a moment. Shivam ji was there. Awake. Fresh. Already sitting casually, as though he had been up long before me. His hair was neatly combed, his face washed, his posture so relaxed that it almost startled me.

When did he wake up? How?

For a brief second, I felt oddly... out of place. As though I were the one late, clumsy, unprepared. My reflection in the mirror across the room showed me-a woman in a red saree with half-dry hair sticking here and there, still toweling at the ends, while he sat perfectly ready. I almost laughed at myself.

To him, I must look strange, ghostly even-half put together, half undone. My throat tightened with self-consciousness, and I had to clear it gently to steady my voice before speaking.

"You should change your clothes... we'll have to leave soon."

My tone came out softer than intended, as if I were reminding him instead of commanding him. But he didn't answer right away. Instead, his gaze stayed locked on me, unwavering. His eyes held a kind of quiet intensity, like he was caught between surprise and something else he wasn't ready to say aloud.

Why is he staring at me like that?

Anxious, I reached up, touching my cheek instinctively. Do I have something on my face? Did my kajal smudge? Is my hair sticking oddly? The panic flickered, but then another thought crossed me uninvited. Or maybe... maybe he just sees beauty I cannot see myself.

I swallowed, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, and said again, this time a little firmer, "I'm telling you to change."

That seemed to pull him from his thoughts. He blinked once and then replied casually, "Hm. I heard you. Could you please take out a shirt for me? The red one."

I tilted my head in confusion. Red? My brows furrowed. "Wait... but your luggage isn't even here. How can I-"

Before I could finish, he answered, almost reading my mind. "Rishi brought it yesterday."

Oh.

I nodded faintly, muttering a small, "Oh," as if that explained everything. My hands moved automatically, opening the closet where his clothes had been neatly placed. I pulled out the red shirt he had asked for, laid it on the counter, and turned away quickly, telling myself to focus on the towel still wrapped in my hands.

A few minutes later, he reappeared from the corner of the room-now wearing that very shirt.

And my heart stopped.

The world tilted, and I felt heat crawl up my face. The realization struck instantly-we were twinning. He in his red shirt, me in my red saree. It wasn't intentional, not planned, but the sight of us together in matching colors made something flutter violently inside me. My reflection in the mirror confirmed it. We looked... like a pair. A couple. A statement.

What is happening to me? My cheeks burned, and I had to bite down on my lip to stop the smile threatening to escape. I turned toward the mirror again, pretending to check the pleats of my saree and adjust my hair, anything to distract myself from the way his presence unsettled me.

Just breathe, Isha. Act normal. He probably doesn't even notice...

I smoothed my pallu once more, tugging at the fabric nervously. My hand reached for the jewelry box on the side table, as though busying myself with earrings would steady me. I was just about to step away when a voice cut through the air-sharp, commanding, impossible to ignore.

"Wait!"

I froze instantly.

It wasn't just the word. It was the way he said it. His tone was firm, low, almost possessive. Not a request, not a suggestion-an instruction. A command wrapped in an edge of something more primal, something that made my heart thunder against my ribs.

My hands stilled where they were, halfway to my ear. I turned slowly, my breath caught, my pulse racing.

He stood there, eyes locked on me, expression unreadable. For a moment, I couldn't find my voice. The air between us grew heavy, charged with something unspoken.

Why does his one word have the power to stop me in my tracks? Why do I feel as though my entire body is answering him, even without permission?

I swallowed hard, lowering my gaze for a second to escape the intensity of his stare. But even then, I felt it-the weight of his attention, the unflinching focus of his eyes on me.

And in that moment, I realized something frightening and beautiful all at once. Shivam ji didn't even have to touch me to make me feel claimed.

The silence stretched, and I tried to mask my nervousness by fussing with my towel again, pretending to wring the ends of my damp hair. But inside, my mind was a whirlwind. My cheeks still burned from our unintentional twinning. My heart still raced from the sudden command. And though I tried desperately to appear composed, my reflection in the mirror betrayed me-red cheeks, wide eyes, a smile tugging dangerously at the corner of my lips.

I bit down on it agai

n, but it didn't matter. Because the truth was simple.

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