You and Neil had grown up in the same neighbourhood, your lives brushing past each other like monsoon breezes through half-open windows. What began as shared glances and lazy Sunday conversations over chai eventually bloomed into something steady, rooted. Love with Neil wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t demand declarations or threats of running away. It was the kind that matured with time, quietly, like dough rising under a damp cloth.

Over the years, you built a rhythm. Fighting over playlists. Whispering your secrets on the terrace. Knowing instinctively when the other needed silence. You knew his favourite breakfast, the way his hand would search for yours even in sleep, the names of every scar on his body. And when it was finally time to talk about marriage, no one was surprised. Not your family's. Not you. Not him.

The wedding was exactly how you’d wanted. Quiet, meaningful, and unapologetically yours. No public spectacle, no performative promises. Just the two of you, surrounded by the people who mattered. Two months into married life, you still weren’t used to how complete everything felt. The way his toothbrush sat next to yours. How he handed you your dupatta when it slipped off your shoulder. He always remembered to charge your phone when you forgot.

But for the last two days, his parents were visiting. His father had some important business to discuss with him, which meant Neil ended up sleeping in the guest room with his father, while you were left alone in the bedroom. Neil, who barely slept without you, tossed and turned both nights. You weren’t much better. The bed suddenly felt too big. Too cold. Too quiet.

That night, sometime after midnight, Neil finally gave up. The house was steeped in darkness, the kind that felt gentle rather than eerie. He padded barefoot down the hallway, the whirring ceiling fans echoing in the silence. Your door was slightly ajar. A silent invitation. He stopped. The door being open felt like you’d left a part of yourself waiting. Damn woman, he muttered under his breath, almost smiling. Without hesitation, he slipped in and slid under the covers beside you, his body gravitating toward yours like muscle memory. His arm settled around your waist, one hand resting under your head in that familiar, possessive way of his. His exhale was the last sound before he drifted off.

Hours later, your eyes blinked open. The urgency in your bladder battled with the weight of his arm holding you close. You could smell his skin—warm, woody, and unmistakably Neil. When did he get here? You tried to shift carefully, hoping not to wake him. But Neil stirred. His voice was groggy, gravelly. “Don’t even think about getting up. Go back to sleep.” You opened your mouth to protest, but he silenced you by burying his face in your hair, his grip tightening as if sleep itself depended on your proximity. You sighed. How typical of him to invade your space like a storm and then demand you stay perfectly still. And yet, somehow, you didn’t mind. Even if your bladder strongly disagreed.