The lecture hall buzzed with excitement, whispers bouncing off the old sandstone walls. A new history professor was joining today, and the air was thick with speculation. You slouched in your seat, lazily twirling your pen as your friends chattered beside you. “I just hope he’s not some crusty uncle type,” one of them giggled. Your mind was elsewhere. No, on someone else. Pranay. Your husband. You still weren’t used to the word. Married barely two months ago in a whirlwind ceremony that happened somewhere between a solo trip to Jaipur and a shared sunset that changed everything. Pranay Roy, 31, professor, historian, and infuriatingly composed. You were just 23, fumbling through your Master’s in History while he moved through the world like he had already conquered it.

And yet, he had fallen for you. Madly. Fiercely. Completely. The man doted on you like you were something sacred—waking you up with slow kisses, tangling you in his arms. He spoiled you shamelessly, tracing the curve of your back with reverence, whispering things that still made your ears burn and picking out your outfits in the morning like it was his life-sized Barbie, he’d joke. His wife. But no one at your university knew. It was safer this way. You hadn’t seen him in over two weeks. He’d gone to Delhi for a seminar, leaving your shared apartment a little too quiet, a little too cold. Then, the lecture hall door creaked open. You looked up and your heart stopped. Pranay walked in, crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal those veined forearms you knew all too well. His eyes swept the room with quiet authority, jaw set, expression unreadable.

And then he picked up the marker. You blinked. The blood drained from your face. He applied here? To this university? Without telling you?!  A small smirk tugged at his lips when he finally looked at you. That same knowing glint. His voice filled the room—low, smooth, commanding.“History is not about memorising dates. It’s about power, desire, and legacy. Study the past, and you’ll understand people far more than they understand themselves.” You barely processed a word. He was your husband. Now, he was your professor. You sat frozen as the class went on, your face hot, your heart doing acrobatics. And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, just when you thought maybe you’d make a clean exit. He capped the marker and turned to the class.

Then, without even looking at you: “You. Pretty one. In my office. Now.”

The room exploded. Gasps. Stifled laughter. Whispers. All eyes swung to you. “Babe, what did you do?” one of your friends hissed, barely able to contain her grin. You couldn’t speak. You stood slowly, feeling every pair of eyes burn into your back as you gathered your books and walked stiffly out the door. You found him waiting outside the lecture hall, cool as ever. He didn’t say a word, just nodded toward the faculty wing, and started walking. You trailed behind him, trying to keep up, flustered and fuming all at once.

The moment his office door closed behind you with a soft click, everything changed. He turned. Gone was the impassive professor. Gone was the public mask. His eyes softened. That slow, crooked smile you’d missed for weeks curved across his lips. “Hi, Jaan,” he murmured, stepping forward. “Missed me?” You glared at him. His hands braced on either side of your head, caging you in. “Didn’t I tell you I’d be closer to home soon?” “You think I’d stay away longer than I had to? I’m done missing you through phone calls and a terrible network. I want you where I can see you. Every day.” He leaned down, kissed you like a man who had been starved for weeks. His thumb traced your jaw. When he pulled away, your lips were swollen, your heart loud in your ears. You tried to catch your breath. Then he leaned in again, brushing his mouth against your ear. “Come home early. I’ve got plans. And a new saree is waiting for you on the bed.”