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Author's POV
The night inside the Raghuvanshi Palace was silent… painfully silent.
Even the air felt heavy — as if the walls were holding their breath, afraid to witness another storm.
Inside the bedroom… injustice and memories sat together.
Isha came out of the washroom slowly, wiping her wet hair with a towel.
The soft fragrance of sandalwood surrounded her, but it gave her no peace.
She was wearing a loose pastel-pink night suit — simple, comfortable — nothing like the heavy red anarkali she had worn the whole day.
Shivansh was sitting on the right side of the bed, elbows on his knees, head lowered, as if he was fighting with his own thoughts.
She stopped near the door, staring at him blankly.
Isha: "What are you doing here?"
Her voice was flat, emotionless, but sharp enough to cut.
He looked up, eyes slightly tired, but soft.
Shivansh: "Sitting."
A humorless laugh slipped from her lips.
Isha: "I didn't ask WHAT you're doing. I meant WHY. I told you clearly — I am not sharing a bed with you. Whether this marriage is forced or normal or whatever the world thinks — I won't sleep beside you."
She was trembling… not out of fear, but out of pain she no longer had space to store.
Shivansh swallowed hard — he didn't argue, didn't defend himself.
Shivansh: "You don't have to. I'll take the couch."
Her eyes narrowed — she expected him to fight, shout, get angry, defend his rights as a husband… but he didn't.
He simply stood up, walked to the bed, picked up a pillow and the throw blanket, and moved to the couch without a single complaint.
The couch was big — but for a man of 6'1", it was definitely too small.
His legs couldn't stretch fully, his shoulders barely fit, but he quietly adjusted himself.
Isha switched off the lamp, leaving only the dim balcony night-light in the room.
She lay on the bed, eyes open, watching him.
She watched him silently struggle to fit.
How his body folded uncomfortably just to make space.
How he put a hand under his head because the small pillow wasn't enough.
And still — not a single complaint.
She finally closed her eyes with a deep breath.
Isha (thought): "Good. Let him suffer. Let him feel something. I will make his life hell before I leave."
Minutes passed… she fell asleep.
The broken lamp-light still touched his face — eyes wide open, staring at the balcony ceiling in silence.
A long breath escaped him… like a confession he couldn't say out loud.
And very softly — almost whispering — he spoke to the sleeping Isha.
Shivansh:
"What do you want from me, Isha?"
"Your pain is killing you… I can see it. But… watching you hate me is killing me too."
He rubbed his face, frustrated.
Shivansh:
"I know I deserve your anger. I know I shattered your life… but why does it hurt this much when YOU push me away?"
He turned to look at her sleeping quietly, her eyelashes still wet from leftover tears.
Shivansh (whispering):
"You don't let me close… you don't let me explain… and I can't force you anymore."
The couch creaked as he adjusted again, trying and failing to get comfortable.
Shivansh:
"You want to punish me? Fine. Do it. I won't stop you. Just don't walk away again… don't leave. I can take your anger. I can't take losing you."
A tear silently slipped down the side of his temple.
But he wiped it before it could fall any further — because he had no right to cry when she had already cried oceans.
He looked at her again… with the kind of love that hurts.
Shivansh (broken whisper):
"I missed you for years… and now when you're finally here — you're still not mine."
He pulled the blanket halfway on his body and closed his eyes.
He didn't sleep even for a minute.
But he didn't make a sound.
Because for the first time in his life —
his comfort mattered less than her peace.
But then
He frozen for a minute, like something inside him just snapped.
Without another thought, he stood up and walked back toward the bed.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice low and uneven. "I'm not listening to you… but I can't… I seriously can't stay away from you."
Before Isha could react, he gently but firmly swung her back down on the bed, slipping into the blanket and taking her in his arms — tight, protective, desperate.
He buried his face in her shoulder, holding her as if letting go would kill him.
"I know I should listen to you," he breathed out, still hugging her. "I really do. But… I need this. I need you. I'm not sleeping on you. I just— I really need this. So… sorry."
There was no further explanation. No space for arguments.
He just held her like that — as if she was the only peace he ever had — and within seconds, he fell asleep. And strangely… he slept peacefully.
Maybe five minutes later, Isha followed him into close too.
Whether concern or not, whether complicated or not… both of them, tangled in each other's arms, slept.
Like two restless souls who finally felt home.
The sun peeked through the curtains, but Isha's eyes refused to open.
Something warm… something safe… something too peaceful was holding her down, not letting her wake up.
Eventually, slowly, she blinked her eyes open.
Warmth.
An arm wrapped firmly around her waist.
Another under her head — she was literally sleeping on someone's hand like it was a pillow.
Her breath paused.
She turned her head slowly… and there he was.
Shivansh.
Sleeping right beside her — peaceful, calm, expression soft like never before.
Her mind went blank for a second.
"He… he slept on the couch last night… then how—?"
Memory clicked.
He came here. After I slept… he came here.
She exhaled softly, overwhelmed and speechless.
And before she even realized it… she turned back into his chest, still half-asleep, and let sleep pull her again — wrapped in his arms.
She froze.
He slept on the couch last night.
He—
Her jaw dropped.
"What the—?" she whispered internally.
And then reality hit her like a storm.
SHE SLEPT LIKE THIS.
ALL NIGHT.
IN HIS ARMS.
She jerked awake like someone hit her with thunder.
"WHAT THE— HOW DID I SLEEP EVEN IN THIS—" she thought, mentally screaming.
She sat up immediately, hair flying everywhere, heartbeat blasting in her ears.
Without thinking — she grabbed the pillow underneath her and started beating him. Hard. On his face.
"Ufff— WHAT— WAIT— STOP— ARE YOU INSANE—" he woke up with a shock, shielding his face.
"What is happening?? WHY ARE YOU HITTING ME??" he shouted.
"WHY ARE YOU ON MY BED?!" she threw the pillow again.
"I TOLD YOU I DON'T WANT TO SLEEP WITH YOU!"
He sat up, hair messed, eyes half-open, looking like a guilty cat caught stealing.
"You had the couch! You had the option! Why are you here?!" she raged.
"I— I was feeling cold!" he defended immediately.
She crossed her arms and gave him a death glare:
"Ha! HAAN! Perfect excuse. Muh pe likh ke laaye the kya?"
"I REALLY was!" he insisted.
"Good! Next time freeze! Don't come near me!"
He threw his hands up, "Fine! I'm sorry I slept next to my own WIFE!"
Her jaw clenched. "Don't call me that. Not again."
She stood up in a storm, grabbed her clothes, and marched to the bathroom without waiting for another word.
He sat there on the bed, rubbing his face, confused and speechless.
Then sighed… "First morning as husband… aur pehla gift — pillow se murder."
She came out wearing a beautiful orange suit.
Simple. Elegant. Glowing.
He was buttoning the cuffs of his shirt when he saw her — and paused.
She was stunning.
Her skincare was done.
Her hair was neat.
But she didn't wear her mangalsutra.
It was kept on the dressing table.
Neither does she apply the sindur.
And even though it stung somewhere… deep…
He didn't say anything.
It's her choice.
If she wants to wear it, good. If she doesn't… I won't force her.
He decided that silently.
She walked past him without a glance.
"You're… looking beautiful," he said softly.
She ignored him.
Took her phone… and walked downstairs.
He exhaled and followed her.
The living room was bright and full of people — all pretending they weren't waiting for the newly married couple.
Everyone knew the tension between them…
But still, when Isha came down, they greeted her warmly.
His grandmother held her hand, "Isha beta… you're okay, right?"
"Yes, Dadi sa. I'm fine," she smiled politely.
Then Dadi continued, "There's a tradition today — Pehli Rasoi. You only need to make a sweet. Everything else the cook and staff will handle."
Isha shook her head gently.
"No… I want to make something for everyone. Not just sweet. I'll cook."
They tried to stop her — "Beta, no need, you just rest—"
"I said I want to make something."
Her tone was firm but respectful.
So they agreed.
She stood there thinking, scanning the shelves.
Then her eyes brightened.
"Why not Italian…?"
And then another memory hit.
Her lips twitched — just a tiny bit.
"For him… I'll make that too."
For him.
She started cooking — chopping, sautéing, mixing — completely focused.
One hour passed.
Shivansh tried to go in multiple times, but his mother blocked him like a security guard.
"If you go in, she'll get irritated and stop cooking. And I really want to eat the food cooked by her. Stay OUT."
He sulked.
Then Aviyansh walked in.
"Need help?" he asked.
"No, thank you—" she started.
He laughed. "Haan haan, but I'm helping anyway."
"Fine, then cut these vegetables," she sighed.
Soon the kitchen was full of delicious aromas — Italian dishes on one side.
She made Italian dishes — creamy pasta, lasagna, risotto, and cheesy garlic bread — and for sweet dish Tiramisu.
The kitchen smelled like melting cheese, oregano, sautéed vegetables, and the faint aroma of freshly brewed black coffee. Isha had been moving around nonstop for the last hour, her dupatta tucked neatly at her waist, her brows knit in concentration while she prepared dish after dish.
Aviyansh, who initially walked in just to "check," ended up standing beside her slicing vegetables like a disciplined sous chef.
"You know you're making half of Rome here, right?" he teased while chopping.
"Good," she muttered without looking up. "At least the Italians will be proud of me, unlike someone."
Aviyansh chuckled. " 'Someone' meaning your beloved pati-dev who is waiting outside like a frozen popsicle?"
"Don't remind me," she said, rolling her eyes so hard it almost hurt. "And cut those smaller… no, smaller… Avi! Are these vegetables or bricks?"
"Oh hello madam chef, you asked for help," he said raising his hands dramatically. "You didn't specify the Michelin-star level."
But she smiled a little. Just a little.
When everything was done—pasta, garlic bread, creamy risotto, tiramisu, and even a beautifully plated salad—Isha wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.
And then she looked at the one tray on the side.
Not the colorful tray.
Not the beautiful one.
But the dull one.
On it sat a plain bowl of salad.
And a cup of black coffee.
Shivansh's tray.
The one she purposely kept separate.
The one she purposely made was boring.
The one that screamed, You get nothing made with love. Nothing by my hands.
And then for Shivansh, she prepared a bowl of salad and black coffee, exactly the way he liked — strong, no sugar.
She also made his black coffee and a salad — specially for him.
Aviyansh teased, "Why are you decorating salad WITH HEELS ON?"
She smirked, "Because it's for my hubby. Obviously it has to be perfect."
Aviyansh smirked, "Oh, so he's hubby when you're sarcastic?"
She threw a napkin at him, "Shut up."
But somewhere deep inside, the words "my hubby" stung her too — a mixture of anger, disappointment… and something she wouldn't name yet.
Aviyansh burst out laughing.
And in that moment — she wasn't stone.
She wasn't angry.
She wasn't hurting.
She was… Isha.
Soft. Warm. Loving — even when she didn't want to be.
Except…
Even she knew the salad was cut by Avyansh. She only arranged it. The coffee was brewed by her—but not the creamy cappuccino he secretly loves… just plain black.
He doesn't deserve to eat something I made with my heart.
She repeated that in her mind like a shield.
She picked up the trays—one big, colorful, filled with delicious food—and one small, dull, lonely tray meant for the man she didn't want to acknowledge.
"Let's go," she said.
Aviyansh nodded and followed her out.
The moment she and Aviyansh stepped into the hall, conversations dropped. Heads turned. Smiles brightened.
Everyone had been waiting for her.
For the bride.
Shivansh, who was sitting silently beside his father, lifted his gaze the moment he sensed her presence.
His eyes softened.
Just a little.
Just enough.
She didn't look at him. Not even once.
She went straight to the center table and began serving everyone.
"Arre wah, Isha!" Dadu exclaimed. "Italian food? First rasoi mein?"
"She is full of surprises," Ranveer said with a proud smile.
Shivansh watched quietly, his eyes lingering on every movement she made—how she tucked her hair behind her ear, how carefully she placed each dish, how her bangles jingled lightly.
And then his eyes fell on the tray Aviyansh was holding.
His tray.
Salad… and black coffee.
His jaw tightened.
But he stayed silent.
He didn't complain.
He didn't demand it.
He simply watched her serve everyone else with warmth… and him with indifference.
When Isha finally placed the plain salad and black coffee in front of him, she did not look up.
Not even for a second.
Not even to fake politeness.
She placed it and moved on.
Shivansh stared at the plate.
Everyone else had colorful pasta, creamy dishes, and bursting flavors.
He had… leaves.
Plain leaves.
And black liquid.
Aviyansh whispered from behind, barely holding his laughter, "Enjoy your five-star meal, bhai sa."
Shivansh glared, but again… silent.
He knew why she did this.
And yet… it hurts.
More than he expected.
He whispered to himself, At least… at least she made the coffee. Even if it was plain… she touched it.
And he ate his salad quietly.
When everyone began eating, the reactions were instant.
"Oh my God, Isha, this is amazing!"
"Beta, this risotto tastes better than a restaurant!"
"Perfectly cooked pasta!"
Even the staff peeked from the kitchen door, whispering how good it smelled.
Isha's cheeks warmed slightly at all the praise.
Shivansh kept his head low, quietly sipping his bitter coffee while listening to everyone talk about how wonderful her cooking was.
His heart twisted.
Why couldn't she make something for me? Just one dish…?
But he stayed still.
Expressionless.
As always.
After the meal, the gifts began.
Grand parents blessed her with a gold-and-diamond sets.
Shivansh's chose papa and maa gifted her a penthouse property.
His father handed her keys to a new car.
His mother gave her beautiful gold kangan.
Ranveer gifted her a personalized limited-edition journal.
And Aviyansh gave her a collection of watches she loved.
Every gift made her smile—but politely. Softly. Entirely within manners.
But Shivansh saw every smile she gave others… and compared it to the cold wall she kept for him.
When everyone dispersed, Shivansh stayed seated.
He had finished his salad hours ago.
Everyone assumed he wasn't hungry.
But Ranveer… he knew.
Ranveer had noticed how Shivansh's throat bobbed every time someone praised the food. How his eyes flickered to the empty serving bowls again and again, pretending not to care.
That's why Ranveer had secretly saved a plate.
Hidden behind a cloth.
Waiting.
When the hall finally emptied, Ranveer walked up to him.
"shiv," he whispered.
Shivansh looked up. "Hmm?"
Ranveer glanced around, then quietly pulled out the hidden plate from behind him.
"Yeh lo."
Shivansh blinked. "What is this?"
"The food she made."
Shivansh's breath hitched. "Everything was finished…"
"I saved it."
"Why?"
Ranveer smiled softly. "Because I know you wanted to eat it."
Shivansh didn't speak.
His throat tightened.
Ranveer pushed the plate into his hands. "Eat, shiv. At least taste what she made."
Shivansh hesitated for a second.
Then he took a bite.
Just one.
His eyes widened.
The flavors—unexpected, warm, comforting—hit him like a punch of emotion.
He ate again.
And again.
Quietly.
Carefully.
As if scared someone would snatch it.
Ranveer watched him.
A little sad.
A little proud.
A little heartbroken.
"You really like her food that much?" Ranveer asked softly.
Shivansh didn't look up, still eating the hidden tiramisu.
He whispered, almost to himself—
"Not the food… Ranveer."
Then swallowed.
"It's her."
He stopped chewing.
Lowered his gaze.
"And I'm eating it hiding like a thief… because I'm the one who broke her."
Ranveer exhaled.
There was nothing to say.
Only silence…
And Shivansh's quiet chewing…
The taste of her cooking mixing with the ache of regret.
The hallway outside the dining area was quiet now. Everyone had left to rest, talk, or admire the gifts Isha received… but Shiva stood there alone, still holding that tiny empty bowl of tiramisu Ranveer had saved for him. His fingers tightened around it as if it were something precious, something forbidden.
He had tasted it—her food—every bite filled with flavours he didn't expect, and a sharp ache he didn't want to feel.
It was ridiculous that the one thing he wanted the most today had to be eaten like a thief.
He heard footsteps.
Slow, soft, familiar.
Isha.
She came back to take her phone that she had forgotten on the console table. She didn't notice him at first. Her dupatta slid down her shoulder as she bent, her bangles giving the smallest clink. Her orange suit caught the warm light, glowing.
Shivansh's throat tightened for reasons he would never admit.
When she straightened and saw him, she froze—just for a second.
Her eyes flickered to the small empty bowl in his hand.
He panicked and hid it behind him.
Too late.
Her brows lifted.
Her jaw tightened.
Her eyes—those stormy, tired eyes—locked on his face.
"You ate that?" her voice was calm… painfully calm.
That calmness hurts more than anger.
Shivansh swallowed.
"Ranveer… saved it for me."
Isha laughed once—sharp, humorless, unbelievable.
"Right. Because you can't even ask me directly."
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
She shook her head and turned to leave.
Before he could stop himself, he reached out and caught her wrist—not hard, not commanding… just desperate.
"Isha…"
She didn't turn.
Her breath hitched, but she didn't turn.
He stepped closer, slowly, like he was afraid to breathe wrong.
Her back was inches from his chest.
He could hear the slight tremble in her breathing.
"I didn't eat because I wanted to disobey you," he said quietly.
"I ate because… I missed you."
Her fingers curled.
She still didn't turn.
Shivansh took a slow breath.
His voice dropped lower, weaker—something she had never heard from him before.
"I missed your food today."
"I missed your voice."
"I missed you sitting beside me."
She finally pulled her wrist free—but she didn't walk away.
She stood there.
Still.
Breathing.
Listening.
So he continued.
"You made something for everyone except me," he whispered.
"I know I deserved it. I know you wanted to show me that I mean nothing to you now."
Silence.
His next words broke without him meaning them too.
"But it still hurts."
Isha closed her eyes tightly.
He gently, carefully, turned her around.
She didn't resist this time.
They stood face-to-face… close enough that their breaths mingled, close enough to feel each other's warmth.
Her eyes were glossy—not crying, but dangerously close.
His were tired—carrying guilt, longing, and something soft he kept locked away.
"Why did you make coffee and salad for me?" he asked, voice almost a whisper.
"If you hate me so much?"
She looked away.
"Because…" she muttered,
"…I don't hate you."
That one sentence hit him harder than any slap, any insult.
He lifted his hand—slowly—giving her time to push him away.
She didn't.
His fingers brushed her cheek, feather-light.
She closed her eyes again, not pulling back.
He leaned in, forehead gently touching hers.
"Isha…" his voice cracked,
"I don't know how to do this with you. I don't know how to stay away or how to stay close without hurting you."
Her breath is still.
Her lashes fluttered.
Her lips parted just slightly.
Shiva's thumb traced the corner of her mouth, slow and trembling.
"But I'm trying," he whispered.
"For the first time in my life… I'm actually trying."
She finally met his eyes—really met them—and he felt punched in the chest by the force of it.
The tension between them was silent but loud, suffocating but magnetic.
His fingers slid down to her jaw.
Her hand, unconsciously, rose to hold his wrist.
Their pulse matched.
Their breathing synced.
For a second—one fragile, dangerous second—it felt like the world outside didn't exist.
Just him.
Just her.
Just this closeness.
Her lips brushed his thumb as she spoke softly:
"Then try harder."
And she stepped back.
Leaving him breathless.
Leaving him wanting.
Leaving him burning.
But for the first time…
he wasn't angry.
He was hopeful.
The dining area is slowly emptier. The moment she reached the dinning area, Isha exhaled—long, tired, and heavy.
She didn't look at Shivansh. Not even for a second.
She just wiped her eyes and reached for her phone lying near the kitchen counter. The screen lit up with a notification, but she didn't even see it. Her fingers trembled—not because of fear, not anymore—but because of the storm twisting inside her chest.
She turned toward the staircase—ready to run, escape, breathe.
Except she couldn't breathe.
She paused at the first step. Her heart was hammering like someone was pounding on a locked door.
Her door.
Her heart.
Her five-year-old wounds.
Her voice inside her mind whispered, "Why am I still feeling this? Why am I still angry? Why am I still not able to forgive?"
Isha closed her eyes.
She knew the truth now.
She knew Shivansh never cheated.
She knew he was innocent.
She knew he was broken too.
But pain doesn't understand logic.
Pain remembers what the mind wants to forget.
She climbed a few steps, her eyes burning, her breath short. The phone in her hand felt heavier with every second, like it knew her secrets, her tears, her nights of crying into the pillow, her days of forcing herself to smile so no one asked "Are you okay?"
She pushed her room door open.
She walked inside like a ghost—slow, hollow, numb. Her phone felt heavy in her hand, so she threw it on the bed without even looking.
And then… everything inside her broke.
The moment it clicked shut behind her, her shoulders dropped as though she had been holding the weight of the world.
The silence inside the room felt too loud.
She sat on the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes.
It was all too much.
She slid down onto the floor near the sofa, back hitting the wooden edge, knees pulled tightly to her chest. The moment her arms wrapped around her knees—
She shattered.
Her sobs were silent at first… trembling… trapped in her throat.
But then the dam burst.
And the memories attacked her. Like they always did.
Five years.
Five years of swallowing pain like poison.
Five years of believing he betrayed her.
Five years of thinking she was "not enough."
Five years of hating herself more than she hated him.
Five long years where she rebuilt herself from ashes.
And now…
Now suddenly knowing the truth felt like someone threw her into cold water after burning her alive.
She whispered to herself, voice cracking,
"Why can't I forgive him? Why am I still hurting? Why does it still feel like… like he destroyed me?"
She remembered nights where she cried herself unconscious.
Nights where she stared at her phone hoping he would call.
Nights where she cursed him.
Nights where she wished she could forget his name.
Nights where her anger was the only thing that kept her standing.
Her voice broke again,
"People think truth heals everything… but how do I erase five years? How do I erase everything I felt? How do I erase the version of me who suffered alone?"
Her heart whispered back:
You can't.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But you can try.
Isha shook her head violently, angry at her own weakness.
"Why does he still affect me? After everything? Why does one look of his still break me? Why do I feel guilty? I shouldn't feel guilty! I suffered. I survived. I rebuilt myself from zero."
She hugged the pillow to her chest tightly, like a child protecting herself.
"I hate this feeling… this confusion… this closeness. I hate that he slept beside me. I hate how my body feels… safe. I hate that he looked at me like… like I mattered."
Her chest tightened painfully.
Tears finally spilled.
Slow. Warm. Unstoppable.
"Why did he come into my life again? Why now? Why when I finally learned how to stand alone?"
Another broken whisper slipped from her lips,
"Shivansh… you don't know what I went through. Even if you know the truth now, you don't know the scars inside me. You don't know how hard it was to wake up every day and pretend I was okay."
She wiped her tears harshly, refusing to break again.
"I'm not strong enough to forgive you. I'm not healed enough to love you. I'm not stable enough to let you in."
Her breathing became uneven.
"I know you didn't cheat… but that doesn't magically heal my pain."
She pressed her forehead to her knees.
"It still hurts. It still burns. It still feels real."
A soft knock came on the door.
She froze.
She knew it was him.
Her heartbeat ran like a terrified deer.
She tightened her grip on the pillow.
Shivansh's voice—soft, hesitant, almost breaking—came from the other side.
"Isha… can I come in?"
She shut her eyes.
Pain.
Fear.
Love.
Hate.
Guilt.
Longing.
Everything hit her at once.
Her voice barely escaped her throat,
"No. Please… not right now."
There was silence.
A few seconds passed.
Then he whispered back, the voice trembling in a way she had never heard before,
"Okay… I'll wait. Whenever you're ready… just open the door."
She know he is still outside.
His scent.
His warmth from last night.
His voice.
His touch.
His pain.
His sincerity.
His regret.
All of it wrapped around her like invisible chains she couldn't break and didn't know how to escape from.
She curled into herself again and whispered,
"I hate you… for coming back.
And I hate myself… for still wanting you."
Outside, Shivansh stood right at the door.
He could hear everything.
Every sob.
Every gasp.
Every broken whisper she thought was silent.
He wasn't breathing properly.
His fingers were trembling against the door frame.
He wanted to go inside and hold her so badly that it felt like someone was ripping his heart out.
But he didn't.
He waited.
He waited for her voice—
for her to call him,
to say "come inside",
to say anything that allowed him to reach her.
But she didn't.
She kept crying, alone, shaking, breaking.
And he kept waiting.
Seconds turned into minutes.
Minutes turned into suffocating silence.
And finally—
he couldn't wait anymore.
His finger hovered over the lock panel…
shaking…
hesitating…
pleading silently—
"Please don't hate me for this… please…"
The door is unlocked with a soft beep.
He entered the room quietly.
What he saw inside made his chest collapse.
Isha wasn't just crying.
She was falling apart.
She was on the floor, curled into herself, her whole body trembling. Her hands were cold. Her breathing is uneven. Her eyes are red and swollen. She looked like someone who forgot how to handle pain, someone who had been strong for too long.
And something inside him shattered.
He didn't think.
He didn't wait.
He didn't speak.
He ran to her.
The moment he knelt in front of her, she didn't even look up—she was too lost, too broken, too suffocated to notice.
He slowly—very slowly—placed a hand on her arm.
She flinched.
His heart stopped.
He immediately removed his hand.
"Sorry… sorry… I won't touch… I promise…" he whispered, voice trembling.
He sat in front of her without touching, breath shaky.
"Isha… please look at me…" he whispered.
She didn't.
She kept crying, hugging her knees tighter, shaking like she was freezing.
He watched her—
the woman he loved more than himself—
breaking right in front of him and still trying to stay silent.
He couldn't handle it.
With trembling hands, he reached again—but this time not to touch her skin.
He gently held her wrists over the fabric of her sleeves, carefully, with a hesitation that showed fear—fear of hurting her, fear of being rejected.
"Isha… please… please let me help you… don't do this alone… not again… not anymore…"
His words fell apart halfway through.
Finally, she looked up.
One glance.
One broken, swollen, trembling glance.
That was all it took.
He pulled her into his arms immediately—
not forcefully,
not aggressively,
but the way someone holds shattered glass—carefully, protectively, terrified of hurting it more.
She didn't resist.
She didn't push him away.
She simply collapsed into him like her body had given up fighting.
She sobbed into his shoulder, hands clinging to his kurta, fingers trembling and curling into the fabric like she was holding onto something before she drowned.
His arms wrapped around her waist and back slowly—giving her time to push him away if she wanted.
She didn't.
She kept crying, her forehead against his chest, tears soaking his clothes.
He rested his cheek on her hair, one hand rubbing slowly circles on her back, the other holding her head gently.
"I'm here…"
His voice cracked.
"I'm here, Ishi… breathe… you're not alone… not anymore… not again…"
Her sobs grew louder.
"Five years…" she whispered against his chest, barely audible, her voice broken like shattered glass.
"Five years… I lived through hell… five years I thought you… you left me… you cheated on me… you didn't want me…"
His arms tightened around her.
"I didn't… I never… not once… I swear…"
He whispered like a man begging for forgiveness.
"But I know… I know it doesn't erase your pain… I know you suffered… I know you were alone… I know."
She cried harder.
She cried like she hadn't cried in years—raw, broken, wounded. Tears kept flowing endlessly, soaking her suit, her hair sticking to her face. Her chest hurts with each breath. Her vision blurred. The pain she had buried for five years crawled up her throat like fire.
"Why…" she whispered into her knees, voice shaking.
"Why does it still hurt… why can't it stop…"
She didn't even know if she was talking to herself, or to the walls, or to him—even though he wasn't there.
"You know today," she whispered.
"But where were you when I was breaking? Where were you when I was nothing? Where were you when I cried myself to sleep every night?"
Her voice cracked painfully.
He closed his eyes, pain slicing through him.
"I was looking for you… every day… every moment… and still… I failed you."
His voice was low, trembling.
"I failed to find you… and you suffered because of me."
She clutched his kurta tighter.
"I know the truth now… but my heart… my heart still remembers those five years… the fear… the betrayal… the loneliness… the anger… the wounds…"
Her breath hitched.
"How do I forget, Shiva…? How do I forget what broke me…?"
He leaned his forehead against hers softly.
"You don't have to forget."
His voice was soft.
"You don't have to forgive me today… or tomorrow… or anytime soon. I'll wait. I'll wait until your heart heals. Even if it takes forever… I'll wait."
It hurt," she whispered between sobs. "It hurt so much… I thought you chose someone else… I thought I wasn't worth it… I thought I was nothing…"
He closed his eyes tightly, pain ripping through him.
"You were everything," he breathed. "You are everything. I never chose anyone. I never cheated. I never stopped loving you."
She stared at him through tears.
"Why…?"
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"After everything… why do you still… love me…?"
He cupped her face gently, his thumbs wiping her tears.
"Because even when you hate me… you're still the only piece I've ever known."
His words were raw, exposed.
"And I'm not leaving again. I'll stay… even if all you can give me today is your anger… your pain… your silence. I'll take it. I'll take everything… as long as it's you."
More tears spilled down her cheeks.
She didn't say anything.
She just leaned her forehead into his chest again and cried—
but this time, she wasn't crying alone.
This time… someone was holding her together.
He stayed there, letting her tears soak him, letting her grip his clothes, letting her break in his arms without judgement.
Not asking for forgiveness.
Not asking her to stop crying.
Not asking her to calm down.
Just being there.
Just loving her silently.
And for the first time in five years…
Isha finally allowed herself to fall apart—
because someone was finally there to catch her.
He only gave her the one thing she had been robbed of for five years—
A safe place to fall apart.
Minutes turned into more minutes.
Her breathing began to slow slightly.
Her sobs softened.
Her body leaned into his fully, her forehead resting on his shoulder, her fingers still gripping his shirt.
He moved one hand up to her back, rubbing slow circles to calm her.
"It's okay," he whispered softly. "Cry if you need to. I'm here."
She didn't speak.
She didn't push him away.
She just let herself break in his arms.
Isha was already curled into Shivansh's chest, trembling, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing stopping her from shattering completely.
Her sobs weren't loud anymore, but those silent, broken ones — the type that hurt more because they came from a place of exhaustion could not numb.
Shivansh held her tighter.
Not possessively.
Not forcefully.
Just… protectively.
Like he was afraid that if he loosened even a little, she would slip away again.
"Isha…" he whispered, but the name cracked in the middle. His throat burned. His eyes stung. He swallowed hard and forced himself to breathe steadily for her. "Bas… enough. Please… don't cry like this."
His fingers cupped the back of her head gently, so gently as if she were made of glass. He didn't dare move her. Didn't dare break whatever fragile moment this was. Her tears were wetting his chest, her breaths uneven, her shoulders shaking like each memory that hit her was a fresh wound reopening.
And Shivansh…
He felt each tremor as if it were happening inside him.
He shifted slightly, one hand sliding to her cheek. Her face was burning, wet, exhausted. He brushed his thumb across her skin — slow, tender, hesitant — and whispered, "Look at me, sweetheart… please…"
She didn't look. She couldn't.
Her eyes were too swollen, too heavy.
But he kept wiping her tears anyway.
"I know," he whispered, voice trembling, "I know those years broke you. I know I'm the reason you lived in that hell alone. I know I can't erase it… but—"
His voice stopped.
Tears — just one, then another — slipped down his own cheek. He didn't even realize until they dropped near her temple.
He quickly wiped them away before they fell on her again, embarrassed that even his pain might add weight to her already sinking chest.
He cupped her face with both hands now, lifted it gently — so gently she could have pulled away if she wanted — but she didn't.
Because she was too tired to move.
Too tired to fight.
Too tired to even hate.
Shivansh breathed out shakily and whispered, "Please stop crying, Isha… it's hurting me. It's—"
His voice cracked again, "—it's killing me."
Her breaths were still uneven. Her nose was blocked. She tried speaking but only air came out.
So he helped her sit up a little, still holding her.
Still not letting go.
He reached the side table with one hand, picked up a tissue, wiped her cheeks, wiped her eyes, wiped the corners of her mouth.
Gently. Respectfully. Carefully.
Like she was sacred.
Then he whispered, "Let's wash your face, baby. Come…"
She didn't respond.
She didn't move.
So he slowly got up, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder automatically, like it was instinct at this point. He took her to the washbasin and stood with her because she couldn't stand by herself.
He turned on the tap, splashed water into his hand, and brought it to her face.
She flinched slightly at the cold, and he whispered, "I'm sorry… I'll be gentle."
He wiped her face again and again, patiently, until her tears weren't staining her anymore.
"Isha… bas," he whispered again when she tried hiding her face in her palms.
He lowered her hands slowly and kissed her knuckles.
Just once.
Soft.
Reassuring.
Not romantic.
Not lustful.
Just… a promise.
When her breathing finally steadied enough to stand, he lifted her again — without asking, without hesitating — because she was too weak to walk.
He carried her back to the bed.
Place her down carefully.
Then sat beside her and pulled her onto his chest once more, letting her rest her head above his heart.
His fingers stroked her hair.
Slow. Rhythmic. Calming.
"Sleep…" he whispered into her hair. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving you again. Ever."
Her eyelashes fluttered.
Her grip on his shirt tightened.
Her breathing matched his — slow, steady, safe.
And slowly, slowly, she drifted into sleep, still pressed against him.
Shivansh watched her.
Every second.
Every breath.
Every little twitch of pain or calmness that crossed her face.
It felt unreal.
This girl — the same one who flinched when he came near, who couldn't even look at him without anger — was now asleep in his arms like it was the only place she could finally breathe again.
He didn't move.
Didn't blink too long.
Didn't dare disturb her.
He just held her.
And let his tears fall silently into her hair — not out of pain this time, but out of relief…
Because for the first time in five years,
Isha was not crying alone.
And he was not watching her from a distance.
They were here.
In each other's arms.
Broken, yes.
Bleeding inside, yes.
But together.
And for Shivansh…
It felt like the first step toward a life he had dreamed of for far too long.
Isha woke up slowly, the heaviness behind her eyes gone but her body was still warm—too warm.
For a second, she didn't understand why something felt different. Why the pillow under her cheek felt… firm. Why a heartbeat echoed faintly beneath her ear.
And then she realised.
Her eyes snapped open.
She was sleeping in his arms.
Like actually—in his arms, wrapped like he was scared she would disappear the moment he loosened his grip.
Her first instinct wasn't panic or anger.
It was an embarrassment.
Then anger.
Then embarrassment again.
"Yeh kya…" she whispered, trying to wriggle free.
His arms tightened instantly—sleepy but protective.
"Don't," he murmured half-asleep, his voice rough, deep, warm. "You'll fall."
"…Fall? From your arms?" she grumbled.
"Yes." He finally opened his eyes, still half-dazed, and looked down at her. A soft, reluctant smile touched his lips. "And I'm not ready to let that happen."
She pushed his chest lightly.
"Leave me, Shiva. Why are you holding me like this? How did you even come to the bed—"
Before she could finish, he sat up, dragging her up with him because he hadn't let go.
"You cried yourself to sleep," he said softly. "And I couldn't… I just couldn't let you cry alone."
Her throat tightened.
Her heart betrayed her.
But her mouth?
Her mouth was always ready for war.
"You married me without my consert and married me forcefully!" she snapped suddenly, anger rising and giving her courage. "And now you're acting like some caring, romantic hero? Kitna drama karte ho!"
He blinked at her.
Then exhaled a tired, amused huff.
"Kitna bolti ho, jaana…" he muttered.
Her jaw dropped.
"Don't call me that!"
"I will," he leaned closer, voice dropping, teasing, "especially when you talk non-stop like this."
She glared.
He smirked.
She tried to get up.
He pulled her back by her wrist.
"Shivansh!" she snapped, "Leave me!"
"No."
"Why?!"
"Because you still didn't answer me."
"Answer what?"
"Why were you crying like that?" His voice softened instantly. "Why does the thought of me still hurt you so much?"
The question punched her in the chest.
Her eyes burned—and she hated that he noticed.
"Don't cry again," he whispered, brushing her cheek gently. "Please. I can't handle it twice in a day."
She pushed his hand away, flustered.
"I'm not crying! And stop touching me like—like—"
"Like what?" he leaned in shamelessly.
"Like that!" she whispered, cheeks turning red.
He grinned—slow, dangerous, playful.
"Okay," he nodded innocently. "Then I'll touch you like this instead."
He flicked her forehead.
"AH! Shivansh!!" she yelled.
He laughed. Actually laughed. And she stared in disbelief.
"Kya hai? Tum hi toh keh rahi thi 'don't touch me like that'," he said.
She grabbed a cushion and smacked him.
"Idiot!"
"Ow—stop hitting your husband!" he complained dramatically.
"You married me forcefully! I want divorces" she argued sharply, standing up on the bed.
He looked up at her, unimpressed.
"Tumne kitni baar bolna hai yeh line? And about divorce agar yeh word Dubai bola na."
She gasped.
He smirked again.
"Say it again," he warned softly, eyes narrowing, "and I swear—"
She crossed her arms. "WHAT?"
"I swear, if that word comes out of your mouth one more time…"
He moved closer, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper:
"…then I'll make sure you won't be able to walk for at least a month."
Isha's entire face went crimson.
Her eyes widened.
Her breath stopped.
Her brain malfunctioned.
"SHAMELESS!" she squeaked, throwing the cushion at him again.
He dodged easily.
"And tum?" he said casually, stretching his arms behind his head, "You look cute when you blush like that."
"Shivansh!" she screamed in frustration.
"Yes, jaana?" he replied sweetly, enjoying every second of her burning embarrassment.
"I'm going to kill you."
"Kill me after dinner," he shrugged. "First eat."
"I'm not eating with you!"
"Great," he said, standing up and approaching her slowly, "then I'll feed you."
She backed away instantly.
"Don't you dare!"
"Oh, I dare," he said, eyes glinting wickedly. "You think crying in my arms gives you permission to ignore me?"
"That was a weak moment!"
"That was our moment," he corrected softly.
He reached her but didn't touch—just stood close enough that she felt cornered.
"And I'm not letting you run away from it."
She swallowed hard.p
"Stop… looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"LIKE THAT!"
"What?" he teased again, leaning down slightly. "Like my wife?"
Her heart skipped.
Her anger exploded.
"Shut up!"
He chuckled, stepping back to release the tension he had intentionally created.
"Come on," he said lightly, offering his hand. "Dinner?"
She slapped his hand away—
—but her steps followed him anyway.
He noticed.
He smirked.
"You're still angry?" he asked as they walked out.
"VERY."
"Good," he said proudly. "You look cute when you're angry."
She groaned dramatically.
"God, why did I wake up today?"
"Because your husband carried you to bed like a princess," he replied smoothly.
She stopped.
He stopped too.
She narrowed her eyes.
"You came to the bed without my permission."
He leaned down, whispered near her ear:
"You cried my name in your sleep."
She froze.
He smiled softly—not teasing this time, but fond.
"Next time," he said quietly, "I won't wait outside the door. I'll just come to you."
Her heartbeat stuttered.
"Shut up," she whispered again, but her voice lacked any real anger now.
He opened the dining room door with a playful bow.
"After you, Mrs. Shivansh."
She walked past him—
—but her cheeks were still red.
And his smirk?
Absolutely victorious.
Isha brushed her fingers through her hair one last time, ready to step out of the room for dinner, when she heard his voice behind her—low, confident, annoyingly steady.
"Abhi Bhag lo magar one day will come when you yourself will come and run in my arms." Shivansh said, folding his arms as he leaned against the doorframe.
She stopped mid-step.
Turned around slowly.
Gave him the most sarcastic smile she had in her entire collection.
"That day will never come. Never. And if it ever does… then I'll accept you as my husband."
Her voice was sweet like poison.
His smile faltered for half a second.
Just half.
Then he regained his posture, stepping forward with that smirk that meant he had already decided he would win.
"Then be ready, janna. That day is going to come very soon. Very soon."
She scoffed, turned, and marched out.
He followed—like her shadow, like her echo, like the chaos she couldn't get rid of.
Everyone welcomed them with warm smiles.
They sat down.
Isha tried to behave normally.
Shivansh did not.
Not even for a minute.
He kept nudging her foot under the table.
She glared.
He smirked.
He purposely shifted her bowl closer.
She glared harder.
He leaned closer and whispered,
"Today I'm behaving very decently. You should thank me."
"You look decent right now?" she whispered back furiously.
"If I were a boy, I would've thrown you across the table to fix you."
He bit back a laugh.
"You talk so much, sweetheart…"
She immediately kicked his leg.
He winced but laughed silently.
Everyone at the table kept eating peacefully, unaware that under the table a full India-Pakistan match was happening between their newly married couple.
At one point, he took the serving spoon and put some paneer on her plate.
She slapped his hand away.
"I don't need you to feed me."
He leaned closer, voice teasing,
"If I don't, you'll cry?"
"Better to starve than eat from you."
He raised a brow.
"Don't say later I didn't warn you…"
She ignored him, but her cheeks heated.
He saw it.
He enjoyed it.
Everyone complimented Isha again for her rasoi, and she tried her best not to look at Shivansh.
Because she knew exactly how proudly he was staring at her.
Isha walked inside first, letting out a heavy breath.
Shivansh entered after her, shutting the door softly.
She suddenly turned and said,
"You… can sleep on the bed. Yesterday I saw how you were struggling on that cot. How does a giant like you even fit on that?"
She didn't mean to be kind.
But kindness slipped out.
She hated when that happened.
Shivansh froze.
Then smiled—soft, slow, warm.
"I'll take it."
"Don't take it seriously. It just slipped out of my mouth."
"Even then… thank you." he said gently.
She rolled her eyes, grabbed her towel, muttered something like "I hate everything," and went to change.
By the time she came out, she found Shivansh arranging the pillows and switching off the brighter lights, leaving only the dim lamp on.
She narrowed her eyes.
"Since when did you become so… domestic?"
"Since my wife started scolding me for everything."
She clicked her tongue.
"Drama king."
She climbed into bed.
He went to drink some water, washed his face, and came back quietly.
She was already lying down—a bit curled, her back towards him, pretending she didn't care whether he slept on the bed or on Mars.
Shivansh switched off the lamp.
And then—
Slowly.
Gently.
He pulled her into his arms.
Not tightly.
Just enough.
Just so she wouldn't run.
Just so she'd know… he was there.
She stiffened.
"You—what are you doing?"
"Trying to sleep."
"I'm not sleeping with you."
"But you are sleeping in my arms. Big difference."
She hit his chest lightly, almost embarrassed.
"You're shameless."
"And you're very cute."
She gasped,
"Shut up!"
He chuckled softly near her ear, making her shiver.
"One more thing, Isha…"
She didn't respond.
His voice deepened, teasingly dangerous.
"If you use the word divorce again… I'll make sure you won't be able to walk for at least a month."
Her entire face exploded in red.
"SHIVANSH!!!"
He laughed properly this time.
"I'm teasing… have some shame."
"You should be ashamed!" she threw a pillow at him.
He caught it.
"With you in front of me? How would I ever feel ashamed?"
She turned completely red now, hiding half her face in the blanket.
He softened.
Pulled the blanket slightly so he could see her eyes.
"Good night, Isha."
She whispered, still burning,
"You're insane."
"And you love irritating me."
"I DO NOT!"
He smirked.
"That's satisfaction, though."
She groaned loudly and hit him again.
He laughed again.
And gently pulled her closer — because she didn't pull away this time.
Not even once.
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