When you returned home that evening, tired from the weight of the day, you pushed open the door and were greeted by the warm glow of a single lamp. The faint scent of jasmine oil hung in the air, soft and intoxicating.

And then you saw her. Your wife, Maya.

She stood before the mirror, her back half-turned to you, wrapped loosely in a white drape that clung to her curves before spilling carelessly around her waist. The flicker of the lamp kissed her skin with molten gold, while her bangles and earrings shimmered as she adjusted them with delicate fingers.

Her reflection caught you first—the dark, soulful eyes in the mirror locking with yours, as if she had been waiting. Slowly, her lips curved into that tender smile that always left you weak, the smile that made you feel like both a man and a boy at once.

Older than you, yes. Wiser, steadier, and endlessly patient. Yet her love had never once let you doubt; her loyalty wrapped around you tighter than any armor, her affection sometimes overwhelming, but in this moment, you realized—it was the very thing you craved.

You lingered at the doorway, watching her. Your exhaustion dissolved in the warmth of her presence. She turned slightly, her bare shoulder gleaming under the soft light, and her voice, low and affectionate, broke the silence.

“You’re back…” she whispered, as though it was the only thing she had been waiting for all day.