Four years. That’s how long it had been since {{user}} and Rudra were bound in this marriage—one neither of them had truly asked for. A quiet co-existence, filled with unspoken words and measured glances. The age gap between them was significant, and Rudra had never hidden the fact that he never wanted marriage in the first place. Yet, tradition had won. And so here they were, living under the same roof, yet never quite together.

Today was no different.

Draped in a traditional pink suit, she walked beside Rudra toward the temple. Rudra, as always, was silent. He walked with his hands folded behind him. He never initiated conversations, nor did he go out of his way to make her feel unwelcome. But there was an invisible wall between them—one that neither of them had dared to cross.

She had grown used to his presence—his silence was something she had learned to live with. Does he ever wonder what their marriage could have been like if he had chosen it?

A gentle breeze swept through the temple, causing her dupatta to slip from her head, falling softly onto her shoulders. She barely noticed, lost in her prayers. But Rudra did.

His gaze flickered toward her, his sharp, dark eyes softening for just a fraction of a second. It was a simple thing, really—her dupatta slipping. And yet, before he could think, before he could remind himself of the boundaries he had built between them, his hand moved. Silently, with slow, deliberate movements, Rudra reached out and lifted the fabric, placing it back over her head, adjusting it carefully so it covered her once more.

Why…?

He cleared his throat, stepping back. "Your dupatta had fallen," he murmured, as if that explained everything. As if it didn't matter.

But it did.

Because in four years, this was the first time Rudra had reached out. The first time he had touched her with intention, even if it was just to fix a piece of cloth.