It feels like something I get to build.
With her.
A Frame That Holds Us
DHRUV
It was her idea.
She said it so casually last night, like it was just another thought slipping out between sips of tea and the comfortable silence we’ve grown so fond of. We were curled together on the couch, her legs tucked under mine, her head resting against my shoulder as she scrolled aimlessly on her phone.
“Back at home,” she’d said, not looking up, “we get a painting made of every couple. Being an art lover, I always loved this tradition,” she’d whispered, awe audible in her voice. “It’s… a way of remembering. Knowing our ancestors, who we came from. At least, it made me feel grateful.”
I’d looked down at her then, really looked at her, at the way her lashes cast soft shadows on her cheeks, at how peaceful she looked when she talked about things that meant something to her.
“I’d always wanted to get one done. If you know…” She looked up expectantly, and I knew I would give in, anyways. I hadn’t even hesitated.
“Yes,” I’d said immediately, probably too quickly, because she laughed and teased me about sounding like an overeager child.
But the truth was simple—I was happy. Genuinely, stupidly happy.
The more time I get to spend with her, the more I feel like I’ve cheated fate somehow. Like life handed me something precious and saidhere, don’t mess this up.
And I don’t intend to.
I’ve been too clingy lately, according to her. Her exact words, actually.
“You’re hovering, Maharaj,” she’d said, pretending to scold me while smiling so softly it completely ruined her point.
But can anyone really blame me?
I have a beautiful wife who loves me back. There’s no fear holding me at arm’s length anymore. No rules about restraint. No reason to pretend I don’t want her near me every second of the day.
I cuddle with her every night. I don’t start my mornings without a kiss—sometimes two, sometimes three if she’s still half asleep and smiling against my lips. I sneak out of meetings, inventing excuses just to steal a few minutes with her, a kiss pressed into her hair, her forehead, her lips. So yes, I am clingy.
And I don’t mind the title one bit.
So today, when I walk into the sunroom—expecting just her, maybe already teasing me about how seriously I’m taking this—I stop short.
Because she isn’t alone.
Yagini is there, perched on the arm of one of the chairs, legs crossed, watching something on her phone. Maa-sa is seated near the window, sunlight catching the edge of her saree, her expression calm and observant.
And right in the middle of it all is Sitara.
She’s standing near the easel that’s been set up, her back to me, talking animatedly to someone I assume is the artist. Her hands move as she speaks, expressive as always, and even before she turns, my chest warms at the sight of her.
I walk up behind her quietly, leaning down just enough so only she can hear me.
“So this is how it is,” I murmur near her ear. “I get all dressed up thinking I’ll steal you away for myself, and instead I find you surrounded.”
She shudders—just a little—and I smirk.
“You did that on purpose,” she whispers without turning, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Obviously,” I reply softly. “You react every time.”
She finally looks at me then, eyes narrowing in mock accusation, cheeks already warm. “Behave,” she mouths, glancing pointedly toward Maa-sa.
