She arches one brow, still unconvinced. “Legendary, huh?”
“Yes. People write songs about my champis. Ballads, even.”
She shakes her head, laughing harder now, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard all day. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” I say, walking back toward her, “you married me.”
“I had to. I was not given a choice.” She fake pouts.
I narrow my eyes at her, “Not funny.”
Her lips curve again, softer this time. She sits up on the bed, folding her legs beneath her, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Fine then. Work your magic, Kunwar-sa.”
My heart warms up at how sweetly she calls meKunwar-sa. I unscrew the cap, pour a few drops of oil into my palm, rub my hands together, and then place them gently against her head.
She closes her eyes almost immediately, her shoulders relaxing as I begin to work my fingers into her scalp.
And just like that, the world quietens.
It’s just her soft breathing, the faint scent of almonds, and the way my fingers trace patterns against her hairline.
“Hmm,” she hums after a minute, voice drowsy. “You weren’t lying.”
“Told you,” I murmur. “I could start a business with this skill.”
She chuckles, eyes still closed. “I don’t think I’d share you.”
That does something to me—something sharp and tender all at once. I lean a little closer, lowering my voice. “Good. Because I don’t want to be shared.”
Her lips curve, and she lets out a soft sigh, tilting her head back into my hands. “Vihaan?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
I pause just long enough for the words to land, for my heart to stutter like it always does when she says them. Then I bend down, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “I love you too, meri jaan. More than you’ll ever know.”
She smiles at that, her face softened by sleepiness and trust, and I think—no viva, no failure, no doubt could ever touch the way she looks right now. Like I am her everything. Like I am everything she never knew she needed.
So I keep massaging, slow and steady, until her breathing evens out and her head lolls slightly forward. She’s dozed off in the middle of my “legendary” champi, and I can’t help but laugh softly against her hair.
I shift carefully, laying her down against the pillows, and pull the blanket over her. For a moment, I just sit there, watching her, feeling like the luckiest man alive.
Because yes, the world might test her. Professors might try to trip her up. Her own doubts might creep in. But as long as I’m here, I’ll keep reminding her.
That she’s brilliant.
That she’s strong.
That she’s mine.
Always mine.
CHAPTER 50
A Day in the Sun
POORVI
