I lead her to the couch, setting the tray down on the coffee table. Gesturing for her to sit, I hand her one of the cups before taking my own.
The first sip burns my tongue lightly, but what shocks me is not the heat—it’s the taste.
Exactly right.
My head jerks up to look at her. “It’s exactly how I like it. Two—”
She interrupts, almost shyly. “Two spoon coffee, half spoon sugar, two spoon milk, and one cup warm water.”
I blink at her, stunned. “How did you—”
Again, she cuts me off, looking away quickly. “I asked the staff.”
For a moment, I don’t know what to say. And then, unexpectedly, I grin. The kind of grin I haven’t felt in days, maybe weeks. “Thank you. This is… perfect.”
She ducks her head again, as though embarrassed by the compliment, but I can see the corner of her lips twitch upward.
I lean back against the couch, watching her cradle the cup carefully in both hands. The steam curls against her cheeks, tinting them pinker than usual. For a long moment, I don’t even bother with the documents piled on my desk. All I want is to keep looking at her.
“How are your classes going?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“They’re good,” she replies softly. “I’m not… very good at making friends. But I managed to talk to a few people.”
I smile at that, the warmth rising unbidden in my chest. “I’m proud of you,” I say. And I mean it. More than I thought I would.
She blinks at me, startled, and the tiniest blush colors her face. Her eyes drop to her cup again, almost as though she doesn’t know how to hold the weight of those words.
Her hair slips loose from her braid, falling into her face, and before I can think better of it, I reach forward and tuck the strand behind her ear. My fingers linger for the briefest secondon her cheek. She inhales sharply, and I pull back slowly, as though not to frighten her.
We finish our coffee in silence that isn’t uncomfortable, just… new. Different.
When we both stand, she holds the tray, looking up at me with that same hesitant expression. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I frown slightly. “For what?”
“For yesterday,” she adds, her eyes flicking away. “For helping me with the blouse.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “You don’t have to thank me for anything, Poorvi. You’re my wife.”
She freezes. Something shifts in her eyes at those words, but before I can decipher it, she takes a deep breath. “Could you… close your eyes?” she whispers suddenly.
“Please.” Her voice is urgent, nervous.
I obey. “All right. They’re closed.”
“Don’t open them!” she exclaims quickly, and I laugh softly.
“I won’t, Poorvi.”
Her scent hits me first. Warm, floral, uniquely hers. Then her nearness—the air shifts, charged. My shirt tugs slightly under her fingers, and before I can process what’s happening, something soft brushes my cheek.
Her lips.
My eyes flutter open, startled, but all I catch is her retreating—her dupatta flying behind her as she practically runs toward the door.
I raise a hand to the spot on my cheek where her lips had been seconds ago, the warmth lingering, searing into my skin. My heart stutters, then races wildly, louder than it has in years.
At the door, she pauses, looks back at me with her cheeks flushed scarlet, her smile shy yet radiant. “Good night, Vihaan.”
