The box of sweets feels warm in your hands despite the cool afternoon air. You’ve worn your softest salwar suit today — a pale green one, crisply ironed, with delicate embroidery along the hem. Your bangles jingle softly with each step as you walk down the hallway, your son nestled snugly in your arms, wrapped in a sky-blue cloth printed with tiny elephants. His little fists curl and uncurl against your chest.

Shivam had insisted you rest, but you caught that flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when he mentioned the neighbours. You knew. You always knew. He’d said the girl next door had waved a little too eagerly, a little too brightly. You’d only smiled — poor girl probably assumed he was single. After all, you hadn’t stepped out much since your pregnancy began showing.

So here you are, knocking gently at their door, sugar-laced intentions and mischief in your heart.

The door creaks open and the girl stands there — taller than you, all sleek hair and high-waisted jeans. Her face goes through several shades of confusion, like someone trying to solve a puzzle in real time.

You smile sweetly, tilting your head. “Namaste. I’m Anima. We stay in 203 — just across. This is our son, Aarav. We had a baby recently, so I’m distributing sweets.”

You extend the box forward, watching as her eyes fall to the child in your arms, then to your face, then — almost fearfully — over your shoulder.

And there he is.

Shivam stands behind you, arms crossed, tall and formidable in his black t-shirt. His expression is neutral — too neutral. But his eyes, those penetrating brown eyes, are locked on the girl. You know that look. It's the same one he uses when someone annoys you — a quiet, unblinking threat.

The girl opens her mouth, then shuts it. Her hands take the box mechanically, like her brain is still catching up. “Oh… um… thank you. I didn’t… know… you…”

You chuckle lightly, adjusting the weight of Aarav in your arms. “Yes, we’ve been married for three years now. Arranged marriage — but we got very lucky with each other. I was working until last month, but I’m on maternity leave now.”

Shivam steps beside you and rests a possessive hand on your back. He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn't have to. His presence speaks volumes. He leans a little too close, his fingers gently grazing your bangles before slipping down to squeeze your waist — a silent reminder to anyone watching: She’s mine.

You smile again at the girl, unable to resist the curve of amusement on your lips. “You must come over sometime. I’ll make tea. Shivam makes excellent pakoras.”

That gets him to glance sideways at you, his lips twitching ever so slightly — the beginnings of a smirk. He loves when you do this: wear your kindness like armor and your sarcasm like silk.

The girl stammers something resembling agreement and thanks you again, eyes flitting between you both and the baby. As you turn to leave, you hear her whisper to her mother behind the door, voice bewildered: “She’s his wife? And they have a baby?”

You don’t look back. You only let your smile grow as you lean a little into Shivam’s side, feeling the heat of his body, the faint scent of his cologne, and the quiet, restrained pride radiating off him like fire.

Once the door shuts behind you both, Shivam lets out a low hum. “That was fun.”

You laugh, soft and low. “You’re horrible.”

He looks down at you, eyes gleaming. “You’re mine.”

You roll your eyes, pressing a kiss to Aarav’s forehead. “Yes, yes. Possessive husband, sweet baby, confused neighbour. My day is complete.”

He stops in the hallway, pulls you gently by the wrist until you’re facing him. “You looked beautiful today,” he murmurs, brushing a wavy strand of hair from your cheek. “And I liked watching you put her in her place. Without even raising your voice.”

You smile up at him, your chubby cheeks pink with affection. “I don’t have to raise my voice, Shivam. I have you for that.”

He grins — rare and all teeth — before kissing your forehead. “Exactly.”