Too Warm, Too Close
SITARA
Waking up in Dhruv’s arms and sneaking away wasdefinitelynot on my list of hardships I might have to face this year.
I had imagined many things when I thought of marriage. Awkward breakfasts. Polite smiles. Maybe even silence heavy enough to choke on.
I hadnotimagined this.
His arm is draped loosely around my waist, heavy and warm, like it belongs there. My back is pressed to his chest, my head tucked just under his chin. His breathing is slow and steady, the kind that tells me he’s still deep asleep. The warmth of him seeps into me, through layers of fabric, straight into my bones.
Oh god.
This is bad.
This isverybad.
Because he smells good. Not in an overpowering way—just clean, faintly woody, like soap and something that reminds me of rain hitting dry earth. And he’s warm. Unfairly warm. Thekind of warmth that makes you want to burrow deeper instead of pulling away.
And it’s cozy.
Too cozy.
My brain starts screaming before my body does.Move. Sitara, move. You cannot be here when he wakes up. This is your husband, yes, but also Dhruv. Your friend. Bhai-sa’s best friend. The man you have never—never—looked at like this.
I try to inch forward, careful, painfully slow. His arm tightens slightly, instinctive, like his body has decided I am a very important pillow that must not escape.
I freeze.
My heart pounds so loudly I’m convinced it might wake him.
Okay. Breathe. Just… breathe.
I lift his arm gently, millimeter by millimeter, like I’m defusing a bomb. The second my waist slips free, I almost sigh in relief—but of course, the universe hates me.
He shifts.
His arm drops back onto the mattress, and I scramble just enough to sit up, my back to him, hair falling into my face in a mess. I’m halfway off the bed when I hear it.
A low, sleepy sound.
“Oh no,” I whisper to myself.
I turn just in time to see him blink awake, eyes unfocused, hair a complete disaster. He looks around once, confused, before his gaze lands on me.
“Good morning,” I squeak.
Isqueak.
He frowns slightly, rubbing a hand over his face, then through his hair in that absent-minded way that should be illegal this early in the morning.
“Morning, Sitara,” he says, voice rough with sleep.
Oh my god.
Why—why—have I never noticed how hot he is?
Probably because he was just Dhruv. Just my friend. Just Bhai-sa’s best friend who stole my fries and made stupid jokes with a straight face.
