But he leans forward, dropping his voice to a grave whisper. “No. You don’t understand. She’s too busy for me. Sometimes she even brings her clients’ notes into our bed.” He shakes his head dramatically. “Isn’t that wrong? Shouldn’t there be laws against such cruelty?”
A bubble of laughter rises in my throat, but I swallow it down and put on a sympathetic frown. “Hmm. Yes, it is wrong,” I murmur, pretending to jot notes on my pad. “I suppose such a wife is a disgrace. She doesn’t seem to care about you. Perhaps…” I let my tone go thoughtful, careful. “… you should leave her.”
His head snaps up. “What?”
I can’t stop it this time; I grin at him, wicked.
His eyes narrow, and then he scolds in his real voice, sharp and familiar. “Poorvi.”
I gasp theatrically. “You went from calling me Ma’am to Poorvi in five seconds.”
“Well,” he shoots back, lips twitching, “if you talk about me leaving you, I have to. You broke my character.”
And that’s it. I laugh, my head falling back against the chair, the sound echoing in the quiet little room that has held more tears than laughter in the past year. It feels good. Too good.
When I finally meet his eyes again, he’s smiling too, though softer, his gaze lingering on me like I’m the only thing worth looking at. My heart stumbles in my chest. How does he do that? How does he switch from absurd, wig-wearing dramatics to looking at me like I’m the center of his universe in a blink?
He leans forward, closing the small space between us. His hand finds mine, warm and steady, thumb brushing the inside of my wrist like he knows exactly where my pulse is racing. “I think,” he murmurs, “that maybe I just need to steal my wife away from her notes sometimes.”
I swallow hard, lips parting. The air shifts, thick and intimate, and my professional mask slips completely away. It’s just us now. Just him.
His other hand rises, hesitates for a second as if giving me the chance to pull back, and then cups my cheek. “Can I?” he whispers, his forehead lowering toward mine.
I nod before I can think, before logic or the clock or the imaginary boundaries of this office can interfere.
And then his lips are on mine. Warm, familiar, yet always startling. I sigh into the kiss, my hand finding his collar, clutching the fabric like I’ll fall without it. He takes off ourglasses and, as I am about to comment on how funny he looks in those, the weight of his mouth silences everything except the thundering of my heart.
When we part, breathless and flushed, he smirks faintly. “So, Ma’am. How was my session today?”
I shake my head, trying not to giggle, trying to be stern. “Terrible. You interrupted me, broke character, and kissed your therapist.”
“Hmm.” He leans in again, lips brushing mine with feather-light mischief. “Sounds like five stars to me.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks hurt from smiling. He’ll never stop doing this—showing up in silly disguises, inventing problems that all lead back to us, reminding me in a hundred playful ways that no matter how much weight this work carries, I’ll never carry it alone.
And honestly? I hope he never stops.
EPILOGUE 2
The Beginning Within an Ending
5 YEARS LATER
VIHAAN
I don’t usually come back to our room this early. Most days, Poorvi has a habit of slipping in before me, fussing over little things, arranging pillows in ways that make no difference to me but clearly matter to her, setting aside my kurta neatly folded on the chair like I wouldn’t find it myself. It’s her way of putting her fingerprints all over our life, and truth be told, I love it.
But tonight… it’s different. The corridor is quiet when I push the door open, and the first thing that hits me is the soft glow of fairy lights. My brows draw together before my feet even step inside. Fairy lights—delicate, golden, strung across our headboard and the window frame like threads of warmth—casting the whole room in this surreal, almost dreamlike haze.
For a moment, I just stand there.
The scent of fresh flowers lingers in the air—roses, marigolds, daisies twined together. The bedspread is new; cream with embroidered borders, neatly tucked in. On the side table, twocandles flicker nervously like they’re waiting for approval. And in the middle of it all—her.
Poorvi.
She’s kneeling on the floor, trying to tape down the end of a string of lights, her hair falling over her cheek as she bites her lip in concentration. She doesn’t even hear me come in at first. My chest tightens at the sight because this—her, fussing, decorating, pouring so much of herself into little details—it’s so her. She could’ve asked for help, but no, she’s here, balancing on her toes, stretching her arm, trying to make the room something it already is—ours.
I clear my throat softly.
