Nimisha sat at the kitchen island, her hair loose around her shoulders, wearing one of those modest cotton nightgowns that somehow looked more sensual than lingerie. She had a plate in front of her with what appeared to be chocolate cake, and she was eating it with the kind of focused enjoyment that made his chest tighten.
A small smudge of chocolate marked the corner of her mouth.
She looked up, startled, her eyes widening when she saw him.
"Samarth. I didn't hear you come in."
"Clearly." He closed the door behind him, his eyes tracking the movement of her tongue as she licked chocolate from her lips. "You should be asleep."
"I was hungry."
"At two in the morning?"
"I have a fast metabolism." She set down her fork, suddenly self-conscious. "I couldn't sleep, so I came down for a snack. I hope that's okay."
Why was she asking permission to eat in her own home?
Because it's not her home,a voice whispered.It's yours. She's just living in it.
He moved closer, drawn by something he didn't want to examine too closely. "What are you eating?"
"Chocolate cake. The cook made it yesterday, and I've been thinking about it all day." She smiled slightly. "I'm weak when it comes to chocolate."
He could see that. Could see the genuine pleasure in her expression as she took another bite, the way her eyes closed in bliss.
When was the last time something so simple had brought him joy?
He couldn't remember.
"Want some?" She offered him a forkful, her expression open, guileless.
He should refuse. Maintain the distance. Keep the boundaries clear.
But there was chocolate on her lips, and she was looking at him with those honey-colored eyes, and something in his carefully constructed walls started to crack.
"No," he said, his voice rougher than intended.
Her smile faltered slightly. "Okay."
She set the fork down and started to stand. "I should probably get to bed anyway—"
"Stay."
She froze, looking at him in surprise. "What?"
"Stay. Finish your cake."
"But you said—"
"I know what I said." He pulled out the stool beside hers and sat, close enough that he could smell her—vanilla and something uniquely her. "Eat, Nimisha."
She hesitated, then slowly sat back down. She took another bite, but the easy enjoyment from before was gone, replaced by nervous awareness of his proximity.
He watched her. Catalogued the small things—the delicate movement of her throat as she swallowed, the way her fingers curled around the fork, the slight tremble in her hand.
She was nervous around him. Even after a year of marriage, even after everything they'd done in the darkness of their bedroom, she was still nervous.
"How was your day?" he asked, the words foreign on his tongue.
