AUTHOR POV ~

The soft rustle of the curtain brushed against the edge of the window, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked earth from outside. The sky was grey, almost sleepy, the kind of morning that wrapped the world in silence. Inside the bedroom, only the hum of the ceiling fan filled the air, mixing with the faint sound of running water from the bathroom.

Shivam stepped out, adjusting the cuff of his fresh shirt, a faint trail of steam following behind him. His hair was damp, a few drops sliding down the side of his neck. His eyes moved around the room almost instinctively — searching for something. Or rather, someone.

Isha.

But she wasn’t there.

A flicker of unease crossed his face. He knew her too well by now — the way she hesitated before taking even the smallest steps outside her comfort zone. The way her silence often said more than her words ever could. Isha wasn’t the kind of woman who would wander off alone, especially not in a place still new to her.

His eyes scanned the space again. “Strange,” he murmured under his breath. He moved toward the door, fingers brushing through his still-wet hair, his steps quickening as a quiet sense of concern crept in.

And then — it happened.

Just as he stepped out of the room, something — or rather someone — bumped into him.

The soft impact was enough to make Isha let out a startled gasp.

Shivam’s hand instinctively reached forward to steady her before she could fall back, his palm brushing lightly against her arm.

For a moment, time froze.

There she was — Isha — standing right before him, looking almost unreal in her simplicity. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulder, strands slightly messy, the morning light kissing the edges of her face. She looked like a small doll caught off guard — delicate, flustered, and breathtakingly human.

And standing before her, tall and broad-shouldered, Shivam looked like the exact opposite — confident, composed, the kind of man who didn’t lose control easily.

Yet somehow, in that small collision, the air between them turned electric.

Isha raised a hand to her forehead, her brows furrowed. “Can’t you see where you’re going?” she snapped, irritation breaking through her usual softness.

Her tone — sharp, unguarded — caught Shivam slightly off guard. For a heartbeat, he just looked at her, surprised but amused.

Then, his lips curved into a teasing smile.

“Well,” he said, his voice warm and low, “if one’s wife happens to be this beautiful, how exactly is he supposed to look anywhere else, Madam?”

Isha froze. Her eyes lifted, startled, meeting his.

Her breath caught somewhere in her throat — half from surprise, half from the way he said it so easily, so confidently.

Her husband — this man — was utterly impossible.

She had never known how to respond to the way Shivam spoke. His words weren’t overly romantic or rehearsed; they were natural, almost effortless — but they carried a weight that somehow melted through her defenses every time.

Isha blinked, her lashes trembling slightly. “You—” she started, but her voice faltered. She ended up just staring at him.

And that was all the invitation he needed.

Shivam tilted his head, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, slowly, he bent down — closing the space between them until his eyes were directly in line with hers.

For a second, neither spoke.

The silence stretched, rich and charged.

Isha’s eyes widened; her lips parted slightly as her heartbeat began to pick up. She could feel his breath — warm, steady — brushing lightly against her cheek. The world seemed to fade around them — no sound, no movement — just the two of them standing in that fragile, dangerous distance where a whisper could shatter everything.

Shivam’s gaze softened. “No,” he murmured quietly.

Isha blinked again, confused. “Huh?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper. “No what?”

Shivam’s lips curved again, but this time, there was a faint seriousness beneath the teasing tone. “No, I was just thinking… if my wife becomes any more beautiful than this, I honestly don’t know what I’ll do.”

Her cheeks flushed instantly.

He didn’t stop there.

“And Madam,” he continued, stepping just a little closer, voice dipping into something playfully sincere, “these little collisions — this ‘oops, sorry’ — they’re how every love story begins. Maybe ours already has.”

Isha’s mind went blank.

He said it so openly — so shamelessly — that she didn’t even know how to respond.

Was this man serious?

Did people even say things like that out loud?

Her heart was fluttering wildly, but she forced herself to recover, crossing her arms over her chest. “You… you really need to get your head checked, you know that?” she managed, her voice laced with mock irritation.

He laughed — a low, genuine laugh that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Maybe,” he admitted easily, “but I think the only person who could fix me is standing right in front of me.”

That earned him a glare — and a quick step to the side as Isha brushed past him toward the washroom.

“Excuse me,” she muttered, doing her best to sound composed even as her pulse refused to calm down.

Just before entering, she paused and turned slightly. “Where’s my saree?” she asked curtly, not looking at him.

Shivam didn’t miss a beat.

“Changing room, ready and waiting for you, Mohatarma,” he replied, his tone dripping with mock formality.

Isha rolled her eyes and disappeared into the washroom, the sound of the door clicking behind her cutting through the quiet air.

Shivam stood there for a moment, still smiling to himself. There was something about the way she spoke, the way she carried herself — half fire, half innocence — that completely disarmed him every single time.

He finally sighed, shook his head, and walked back toward the bed. Sitting down, he opened his laptop, letting the soft glow of the screen illuminate his thoughtful face. His fingers began moving across the keyboard, files opening one after another — but his mind wasn’t really on work anymore.

Instead, it drifted back to her.

To the moment when she looked up at him, her eyes wide, her lips trembling with half-formed words. To the way her voice quivered when she said, “Can’t you see?” — as if she didn’t realize how much he already saw her, every single time.

He exhaled deeply and leaned back against the headboard.

“Love story starts like this, huh?” he muttered under his breath, his lips curving faintly. “Maybe it already has.”

Outside, the rain had started again — gentle and rhythmic, the kind that filled the silence with its quiet music.

Inside, Shivam kept typing, though his eyes occasionally drifted toward the closed washroom door. The steam from the bathroom soon began to escape through the small gap under it, curling softly into the room like the whisper of a secret neither of them were ready to admit aloud.

But deep down — he knew.

Something had shifted today. Something small, maybe. But real.

And on the other side of that door, as Isha adjusted her saree in front of the mirror, she too felt it — that same invisible pull she couldn’t quite name.

Her reflection stared back at her — confused, flushed, and strangely alive. Her fingers lingered on the edge of her pallu as she thought of his words.

“If my wife becomes any more beautiful…”

She shook her head, trying to brush away the thought, but her lips betrayed her — curving into the faintest smile.

And that was how it began.

Not with grand gestures. Not with declarations.

Just a quiet bump in the hallway.

A teasing remark.

A heartbeat that went unnoticed by the world — but not by them.

A beginning that neither of them saw coming, yet one that both would remember long after.

_________________________________

Steam still hung in the air like a thin veil when Isha stepped out of the shower. The soft scent of rose-scented soap lingered on her skin, mingling with the cool fragrance of freshly washed tiles. She reached for her towel, wiping droplets from her shoulders as she looked toward the dressing table.

And that’s when she noticed it.

Neatly folded on the chair by the mirror lay a red saree — bright, elegant, and rich like liquid vermilion under sunlight. Its fabric shimmered faintly, every fold whispering of something delicate and sacred.

But what caught Isha’s attention wasn’t just its beauty — it was the fact that it wasn’t hers.

Her brows knitted in confusion. She hadn’t packed anything like that. The saree was far more ornate than the ones she owned, clearly chosen with care — and beside it lay a small set of gold bangles, a vermilion box, and a pair of earrings that looked newly polished.

Her heart skipped.

Who kept all this here? she thought.

She stepped closer, fingers grazing the soft fabric. The silk was cool to the touch, smooth as water, and smelled faintly of sandalwood — that distinct fragrance that clung to newly gifted clothes. Isha glanced around the room instinctively, half expecting someone to appear and explain.

“Maybe... maybe Maa sent it,” she whispered to herself. “Or Baba. A gift, perhaps?”

It would make sense — it wasn’t unusual for parents or in-laws to send small tokens for a new bride. Still, something about the way the saree was arranged, so perfectly ready, made her pulse quicken. It felt... personal.

Too personal.

She glanced again at the other things placed beside it — a tiny round mirror, a comb, and a small red box. Out of curiosity, she opened it — and her breath caught.

Inside, a pinch of sindoor gleamed crimson against the white surface.

Isha’s hand trembled slightly. For a long moment, she just stared at it — that small, simple mark that held the weight of a lifetime. It was beautiful, yet heavy with meaning. And someone had thought to place it here — for her. Along with everything else a woman might need to step into her role as a new bride.

Her face flushed. Her reflection in the mirror looked different — cheeks pink, eyes wide, lips parted as if caught in an unspoken question.

Who did this?

Why does this feel so… intimate?

Her mind spun with possibilities. Maybe it was her mother-in-law, perhaps wanting to welcome her into the family properly. Or maybe it was Shivam — though she quickly brushed the thought aside, biting her lip.

No… he wouldn’t… would he?

Still, something in her chest fluttered at the thought.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm the strange mix of emotions swirling inside her. Then, without thinking too much, she reached for the saree. The silk slid through her hands like flowing fire, wrapping around her gracefully as she draped it. The red clung to her skin, complementing the soft glow of her complexion. When she finally pinned the pallu and stood straight, she turned toward the mirror.

And for a second — she didn’t recognize herself.

The reflection staring back looked like someone out of a dream — a young woman with shy eyes and a quiet glow. The sindoor that she hesitantly placed on her forehead caught the light, and the thin red line against her hairline looked both strange and beautiful.

A new bride.

She swallowed hard. For the first time, she looked like one — like someone’s wife. Like his wife.

The thought alone made her cheeks burn again.

Isha took a step back from the mirror, still staring, trying to find the right words for the feeling twisting inside her. Pride? Fear? Wonder? She couldn’t tell. All she knew was that something within her had shifted — quietly, softly, but deeply.

Gathering herself, she turned toward the door. Maybe she could ask Shivam about it. Maybe he knew where the saree came from.

But when she stepped out of the washroom, the room was empty.

Her eyes swept around. The bed was neatly made, the laptop gone from its place. She frowned. “Where did he go?” she murmured under her breath.

A small part of her felt oddly disappointed. After all, she’d just spent the last few minutes preparing — whether for herself or for him, she wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe she’d wanted to see his reaction — just a glance, maybe a smile. But now, with him gone, the room felt suddenly too quiet.

She walked over to the mirror and began adjusting her hair, running her fingers through the soft strands that had curled slightly from the steam. The red pallu slid off her shoulder, and she tucked it back carefully, lost in her own reflection.

Then — she felt it.

A soft change in the air. A presence behind her.

Not sound. Not movement. Just… him.

Before she could turn, she saw it in the mirror — a tall figure standing just behind her, calm and steady, eyes fixed on her through the reflection.

Her heart gave a small jolt.

“Shivam…” she breathed softly, turning around.

He stood only a few steps away, a quiet smile playing on his lips. There was something unreadable in his eyes — admiration, maybe, or amusement — but also a kind of tenderness that made her pulse quicken.

He didn’t speak at first. Instead, he reached for something on the side table — a small, velvet box. Opening it gently, he took out a delicate gold necklace, its simple design gleaming under the light.

Then he stepped closer.

Isha froze, her breath hitching as he moved within inches of her. The faint scent of his cologne wrapped around her — clean, warm, familiar. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat as he reached behind her neck, brushing her skin lightly as he fastened the clasp.

The cool touch of metal against her collarbone sent a shiver down her spine.

“There,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Perfect.”

Isha blinked, unsure what to say. Her voice felt caught somewhere between surprise and something deeper she didn’t want to name.

Shivam stepped back slightly, eyes tracing her from head to toe — not with hunger, but with quiet awe.

“You look…” he began, then stopped, searching for the right word.

“…like you were meant to wear that.”

Isha’s lips parted, but before she could respond, he smiled faintly and added, “Maa called you. She wants to see you downstairs — to take her blessings.”

The words snapped her back to the present. She quickly lowered her gaze, her fingers brushing the necklace he’d just placed. “O-Oh,” she stammered, trying to hide her fluster. “Okay… I’ll come.”

But her reflection betrayed her calm — the blush that refused to fade, the way her eyes kept darting toward him even as she tried not to look.

Shivam watched her for another moment, that small, knowing smile still lingering. “Don’t worry,” he said softly, “everyone’s waiting.”

She nodded, adjusting her saree once more before walking toward the door. As she passed him, her shoulder brushed his lightly — a fleeting touch, yet it sent a ripple through both of them.

For a heartbeat, they stood still — neither looking back, neither moving — caught in that invisible thread of awareness that bound them tighter with every passing day.

And as Isha stepped out of the room, her fingers unconsciously rose to touch the gold necklace at her throat. It felt warm now — not from the metal, but from the memory of his hands, his closeness, his quiet gaze that had said what words didn’t need to.

Behind her, Shivam exhaled slowly and looked toward the doorway she had just walked through. The faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air, the same scent that always seemed to follow her. He smiled to himself.

“She really does look like a bride,” he whispered under his breath, half in awe, half in disbelief. Then, shaking his head slightly, he turned back toward his desk — though his mind stayed with her long after she’d gone.

Downstairs, Isha’s footsteps echoed softly along the marble floor as she made her way toward the living room. Each step made the anklets on her feet chime faintly — delicate, hesitant, like the rhythm of a new beginning.

And though she tried to keep her heart steady, she couldn’t shake one thought from her mind:

If this is what it feels like to belong somewhere… maybe I’m

already home.

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Muahhhh 💋 💋

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