I roll my eyes, but my silence gives me away, and his chuckle follows us into the hallway.
As the painter begins to clean his brushes, Vihaan leans in one last time. “You know what this portrait will show?”
I sigh. “Us, sitting here stiff and uncomfortable.”
He shakes his head. His eyes soften in that way that makes my heart stumble. “It’ll show that you’re mine. That for once in their lives, when people look up at these walls, they’ll see you. Not hidden, not ignored. You.”
Something inside me goes quiet at that, too full to respond.
And as we rise, walking side by side out of that suffocating gallery, I realize maybe I don’t mind being framed in paint—if it means being framed in his eyes first.
CHAPTER 49
A Head Full of Worries
VIHAAN
The first thing I hear when I step into our room isn’t a greeting, not even the sound of her anklets brushing the floor.
It’s a groan. A very dramatic one at that.
Poorvi is sprawled across the bed like a defeated warrior, her dupatta half sliding off her shoulder, hair tumbling in every direction as though it too has given up on life. Her arms are thrown over her face, and she’s mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like, “I’ve ruined everything.”
I pause at the threshold, torn between amusement and concern. She’s never subtle when she’s upset—it leaks out of her in sighs and sulks and little frowns that crease her forehead until I want to smooth them all away.
“What happened?” I ask, though I already have a hunch. Today was her viva.
Her arm drops, and her eyes—wide, exasperated, almost glassy—lock onto mine. “It was a disaster,” she announces like it’s the final decree of the universe. “I completely screwed up, Vihaan. Iforgot half the things I’d revised last night. I—I was stammering. They must think I’m the dumbest person alive.”
I bite back a smile, because if I let it slip, she’ll definitely throw the nearest pillow at me. Instead, I cross the room and sit beside her. “That bad?”
She nods vigorously, then winces, pressing her fingers to her temples. “My head is literally throbbing from all the overthinking. Do you think I’ll even pass?”
That’s when I gasp—loud, exaggerated, scandalized enough to make her blink at me. “Pass?” I repeat, clutching my chest like she just stabbed me. “Poorvi, don’t you dare doubt yourself like that. Don’t you know how smart my wife is?”
Her lips twitch, fighting a smile, but she shakes her head, pretending to stay annoyed. “Stop exaggerating.”
“I’m not exaggerating,” I insist, leaning closer until I can see the faint shimmer of irritation still clinging to her eyes. “If anyone in this world should be afraid of failing, it’s the professors. Because how could they possibly measure up to you?”
This time, the smile wins. She chuckles, low and reluctant, before swatting my arm. “You’re ridiculous.”
I grin. “Ridiculously in love with you, yes.”
Her cheeks flush, and for a second, I feel like I’ve conquered something bigger than any viva—pulling her from that dark spiral of doubt into this quiet moment where she glows even in her frustration.
“Okay,” I say, tapping her temple gently. “Enough self-bashing. Headache, right?”
She nods, rubbing at her forehead again.
“Then sit up. I’ve got the cure.”
She frowns suspiciously. “What cure?”
“A champi,” I announce proudly, already standing and heading toward the drawer where I know the little bottle of almond oil is kept.
Her laughter follows me. “What? You’re joking.”
I turn, bottle in hand, and raise an eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m joking? Trust me, Poorvi—I give amazing head massages. Legendary.”
