Page 63 of Scars and Crowns

Sara throws both hands into the air. "Yay!"

She flops dramatically backwards onto the pillows, looking deeply pleased with herself. "I fixed it."

Of course she thinks she fixed it.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.

Beside me . . . Silence. I still don't look. I don't need to. I can feel his eyes on me. Warm. Gentle. Far too aware.

I sit there with burning cheeks, my daughter humming happily beside me, and wonder how many more moments like this life intends to give me.

How many ordinary little miracles I'm allowed before the world remembers it has never been particularly generous with me.

For now . . . Just this morning . . . I decide not to ask. Some happiness is too precious to question while you're still living inside it.

WHAT THE BUZZ CUT LEFT BEHIND

YUVAAN

I've attended five meetings today. Signed eight files. Approved two contracts. Rejected one proposal. Spent nearly an hour discussing textile margins with people who seemed deeply convinced that percentages are the most fascinating things in the world.

I couldn't tell you a single thing anyone said. My mind has been somewhere else since morning. Every time the conversation drifted into numbers, my thoughts wandered right back to our bedroom. To waking up with Anamika asleep against me. To the quiet weight of my arm wrapped around them without me ever consciously choosing to put it there.

I don't remember moving closer during the night. Some unconscious part of me simply . . . did. As though my body had decided long before my mind ever caught up that this was where it belonged. And then . . . that kiss. God. It lasted barely a second. A quick brush of her lips against my cheek. Nothing dramatic. Nothing anyone else would think twice about. Yet somehow it's remained lodged stubbornly beneath my ribs ever since. I can still see her face afterwards.

The way colour rushed into her cheeks so quickly it almost made me laugh. The way she refused to look at me. The way she suddenly found the bedsheet impossibly fascinating. I've thought about that blush more times today than any respectable thirty-year-old man probably should. Which is precisely why I've found myself outside the bookshop instead of going straight home.

I tell myself I'm here to check on business. To see how things are progressing. To ask whether she needs more shelves or stock. The lie barely survives five seconds inside my own head. I'm here because I wanted to see her. It's really that simple. I leave the driver in the car and walk quietly toward the front window. She hasn't noticed me yet. She's standing on a small wooden stool, stretching onto her toes to rearrange a shelf of children's books.

Every few seconds she steps back, tilts her head thoughtfully, then moves one book slightly to the left before smiling in satisfaction.

I find myself smiling too. There it is. That expression. The one I've missed for years without fully realising it. She's completely absorbed. Tongue caught lightly between her teeth. Brows drawn together in concentration. Exactly the way she looked when we were children. Back then she'd spend entire afternoons arranging borrowed books into imaginary libraries.

Nothing else existed while she worked. Not the palace. Not homework. Certainly not me. Unless she suddenly decided I was needed to hold something. Or climb somewhere. Or listen while she read three chapters aloud.

I never minded. Not once. If she wanted company . . . I was there. If she wanted to read . . . I listened. Even when the story bored me senseless. I honestly don't remember caring what the book was about. I only cared that she wanted me sitting beside her while she read it. If she'd asked me to listen to Hindi grammar textbooks for two hours straight, I probably would've agreed without complaint.

That's the ridiculous thing about loving her. It never felt like sacrifice. Being wherever she was . . . Doing whatever she wanted to do . . . Simply felt like the most natural place in the world to exist. Watching her now through the shop window, carefully building the life she'd once only dared sketch into the back of my economics notebook, I realise that feeling never really disappeared.

It simply waited. She's still adjusting the same shelf when the bell above the entrance rings. A man walks inside. Ordinary enough. Middle-aged. Well dressed. He pauses near the front display and begins looking through the books. Nothing unusual. Anamika turns toward him automatically, already wearing the warm, welcoming smile I've watched her give every customer who's entered this shop since opening day.

Then . . . Everything changes. It happens so quickly I almost think I've imagined it. The smile disappears before it's fully formed. Her shoulders stiffen. Her fingers stop moving altogether. She doesn't blink. She simply stares. Her face drains of colour so fast it sends something cold shooting straight through my chest.

Fear.

Not discomfort.

Not surprise.

Fear.

Raw.

Immediate.

The kind that doesn't belong in a bookshop. I don't think. I'm moving before I've consciously made the decision. The door swings open harder than I intended. Both of them look up. I walk straight past the display shelves until I'm standing between the man and Anamika.

Not aggressively. Just enough. Just close enough. "Can I help you?" My voice stays perfectly calm. The sort of calm that usually makes people immediately realise they should reconsider whatever they were planning. The customer blinks. Looks from me . . . To Anamika . . . Back to me.