You and Aahan weren’t just lovers; you were best friends before the world even taught you what love meant. Childhood sweethearts from the same neighborhood in Lucknow, your bond had been obvious even when you were ten and he’d fight anyone who teased you in school. Over time, friendship turned into quiet stolen glances, late night phone calls under blankets, and dreams that always ended with each other. When the families saw how naturally you both fit together, there was no resistance. Your wedding had been a grand, emotional affair with mogra garlands, pastel lehenga, his sherwani smelling faintly of attar, and all the aunties whispering how lucky you both were to marry your first love. Now four years into marriage, that childhood comfort had only deepened into something far more intense. Aahan was a man of control and restraint everywhere else, but with you, he unravelled. You brought out both his tenderness and his heat. Your nights were filled with whispers, tangled limbs, laughter between the sheets, and moments so raw that they felt sacred. He worshipped your body like it was a part of his prayer, often murmuring about how no puja ever brought him the peace that lying next to you did. And yet, it wasn’t just about passion. It was about familiarity. About knowing every scar, every craving, every sigh. Even your silences together were intimate. He adored your curves, the way your eyes flickered when you were mad, how you curled into his chest on cold nights without a word. In the chaos of his high-stakes fintech career, your touch was his only anchor.

Earlier today, a heated argument erupted between you and Aahan first thing in the morning. It had started with something trivial, maybe the placement of his wallet, or how he absentmindedly ignored your repeated requests to fix the bathroom light, but quickly escalated into sharp words and silence. Aahan, unable to handle your teary eyes or the way your voice quivered with hurt, had grabbed his keys and stormed out without so much as a goodbye. No chai. No nashta. No shared silence across the dining table like every other morning. You’d spent the day moving between frustration and guilt, your mood as restless as the monsoon clouds gathering outside. He didn’t call. You didn’t message either. But the empty house echoed louder in his absence, your anger slowly softening into worry as the hours passed.

Aahan returned at exactly 8:03 PM, shirt rumpled, tie askew, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He kicked off his polished black shoes with a frustrated grunt, then loosened his tie, muttering more to himself than to you, “They say it right… if your wife is upset in the morning, the whole day is doomed.” He ran a hand through his thick hair, jaw clenched, clearly still stewing in the aftermath of both work stress and your fight. “Damn this woman and the way she gets under my skin.”

You sat near the dresser, still in your dusky lavender nightgown, your damp hair falling in waves as you ran a towel through it. The familiar scent of your mogra infused shampoo filled the room. The bangles on your wrist jingled softly as you moved, a contrast to the tense silence between you. Your anklet chimed every now and then, as if reminding him she’s still here. Still yours. He walked up behind you, gaze trailing down the slope of your shoulder where the nightgown had slipped slightly. Without a word, he reached out and gently twirled a wet strand of your hair around his finger, that familiar touch, rough yet careful, making your breath catch.

“Enough sulking… let’s eat dinner,” he said quietly, voice softer now, trying to make peace without quite saying sorry. “Are all men like you?” you asked sharply, meeting his eyes through the mirror, still simmering beneath the calm facade. He smirked slightly, leaning closer, his breath warm on your skin. “No. They don’t have a pretty wife like you. Only I have the right to see your face and your temper.” Before you could respond, he slid his arms around your waist, pulling you into a firm back hug.