The morning light has softened, filtering through sheer curtains like a whispered secret. It brushes everything in the room with a hush of gold. Seated before the mirror, you're surrounded by the weightless rustle of silk. Your bangles catch the light—glinting like liquid fire every time you shift.
The air is still.
But your thoughts are anything but.
You look nice tonight.
That line plays on repeat. The quiet weight of it. The way he didn't stay to see how it landed. Now, you're left with the ripple it stirred in your chest—one that refuses to settle.
In the mirror, your reflection holds steady— silk the color of dusted pearls draped over you. The blouse, delicately embroidered, leaves your shoulders bare. Bangles shimmer down your arms. Earrings sway softly with each movement.
Still, you wonder… What will he say today?
Will he say anything at all?
Each moment spent getting ready was filled with him. Wondering if he would notice you. Wondering what his eyes might say, if words once again failed him.
Today will be busy, and that makes this silence feel all the more precious. The breeze carries in the faint scent of jasmine and lilies, mingling with your own perfume—saffron, rose, and vanilla.
You're nervous. This isn't what a blissfully married couple looks like.
Everyone will be there— at least everyone you know. And people have a habit of asking things they shouldn't.
How's married life treating you?
You don't know how to answer that.
You look nice tonight.
There it was again.
This time, the memory settles differently—less like a weight, more like an anchor.
Familiar.
Like it was an answer to those questions. Not a solution, but something that steadied you all the same.
Rising, you give yourself one final look in the mirror, then reach for the velvet box.
A knock interrupts.
Your eyes lift.
The door opens.
He steps inside—without waiting.
He's dressed in a dark-toned kurta that fits a little too well—tailored in all the right places, understated yet striking. The collar sits slightly open, the sleeves rolled just past his elbows with practiced ease. There's a quiet sharpness to him, a kind of effortlessness that still manages to look deliberate. His hair is freshly combed, but still damp at the temples—a trace of how recently he got ready, how close he still is to the moment before he stepped into your space.
You hadn't expected this. Put-together, sharp—but still undone just enough to feel real. Something twists in your stomach. It's stupid, the way just seeing him like this makes your pulse shift.
You steady yourself. Try not to let it matter.
He says nothing about your outfit.
But his eyes do.
They pause.
Travel.
Settle.
Then flick away.
"You're almost ready?" he asks, voice low.
You nod, already opening the velvet box. A pair of payal glints in your hand, the anklets chiming faintly as you move.
"Just this," you say, closing the lid.
Leaning forward, you try to reach your ankle—but the fabric is restrictive.
He sees it.
There's a beat.
A pause thick with something unspoken.
And then—without hurry, he moves across the room. No rush. No hesitation. Just a quiet decision, unfolding one step at a time.
He lowers himself to one knee in front of you.
You freeze.
The payal dangles from your fingers.
"May I?"
He holds out his hand.
You place it in his, your pulse flickering under your skin.
Silently, he lifts your foot and rests it on his knee. The warmth of his palm against your arch is startling. Through the satin of your outfit, you feel the solid strength of him beneath—muscle taut beneath fabric, firm and grounding.
You try not to react. But it's impossible not to notice.
Your eyes study him—closely.
A small, pale scar curves across his forearm. The kind that hints at a story never told.
His lashes are long, thick, framing eyes you've never quite learned to read.
His lips part slightly as he exhales—a breath so quiet, it feels like a thread passing between you.
He fastens the clasp slowly. Silver against silver—the only sound in the room.
The second anklet waits in your hand.
He looks up.
You don't move.
Without a word, you let him take that one too.
His fingers brush your skin—barely there. But it strikes like a spark in your blood. He lifts your foot again—slower this time, deliberate. As if the very air had thickened between you, and any sudden move might disturb it.
His palm supports your heel, warm and steady. His thumb slides just beneath the curve of your ankle bone—an unhurried pass over skin so sensitive it makes your breath catch. Whether he means to do it or not, he lingers there, the pressure subtle, almost reverent.
Neither of you speaks.
Your breath is caught in your chest.
His focus stays locked on the clasp— on the silver coiling around your skin like something sacred. His brows draw together, not just in concentration, but perhaps restraint.
You feel it—in the subtle tightening of his grip, in the stillness of his other hand against your skin.
You don't move. You don't dare.
The anklet slips into place with a quiet chime.
And then—
He lifts his gaze.
You're already looking at him.
You're already looking when he finally does.
And in that instant, the world narrows.
Your breath pauses.
His eyes don't shift—not to your mouth, not down your neck.
Only your eyes.
As though looking anywhere else would shatter whatever this is.
The air between you pulls taut.
Quiet.
Electric.
Unbearably still.
Neither of you speaks.
But there's a change—a flicker in his expression. A soft parting of his lips, like something inside him nearly came undone.
Your foot is still in his hand.
The anklet is fastened, but he hasn't let go.
And then—gently, almost reverently—he lowers your foot to the floor.
Slow.
Intentional.
As if setting down something holy.
His hand lingers against your skin. Just a second longer than necessary.
Then he releases you—and the absence of his touch feels like a sudden chill. Like emptiness.
He rises.
Adjusts the cuff of his sleeve.
"They suit you."
And just like last night—he walks away before you can say a word.