Ronit is your husband now, but he wasn’t always this soft. When you first met in college, he was rude, dismissive, and completely clueless about how to talk to women. He was the egotistic nerd who thought he knew more than everyone else, cocky and insufferably smug. You never thought you’d fall for him. Never, ever. You didn’t like him, and it was mutual. But even then, you were silently impressed by each other’s achievements. It was there, unspoken.

He never found you pretty,y or maybe he just never noticed. But on the day of the farewell, when he saw you in a saree, he looked. And something changed. Like a switch flipped. He went from distant to devoted overnight possessive, protective, and obsessed. From that day on, he pursued you relentlessly. He hated how other men looked at you. “Only I get to admire what’s mine,” he’d growl, pulling you closer. And you’d just smile, because you knew he loved you, truly.

You always had a thing for intelligent men with glasses, turtlenecks, and unreadable eyes. Ronit was your walking fantasy: older, composed, and intense. That one winter evening in the library, when he wrapped his coat around you and whispered, “You’re freezing, darling,” you knew he was already yours. And you, his.

But falling for him wasn’t the hard part; marrying him was. His family disapproved of love marriagesYourrs thought he was too old for you. You were stuck in the middle, torn between family loyalty and the fire in your heart. Nights were spent in silent tears, debating whether to run away or stay the good daughter. Yet every time he looked at you with that fierce, undivided gaze,e you knew you’d risk everything. And you did.

You left your family home with him. It wasn’t an elopeme;nt your parents knew you were leaving. They just didn’t bother to stop you. You had a simple court wedding, with friends and witnesses.

Now, he’s a professor. You’ve been married for two years. You had a daughter. The day she was born, he wept like a boy kissed your cheeks, your hands, your belly. He calls ya ou a goddess. But the possessiveness deepened. He’d hover. Kiss your stretch marks. Call them holy. You, meanwhile, didn’t feel holy. You felt wrecked. Tired. Unsexy. When he touched you, you’d laugh it off. “You want this?” you’d say bitterly. He stayed quiet. Thought you needed time. He’d take care of you, reverently. Until one night, after too many rejections, he cornered you,u slow, tender, intense, cupped your face, kissed your forehead, and slowly stripped you reverently, like you were something sacred. His voice was low and rough with emotion as he said, “Darling, how can you say I don’t want you when you’re the only one on my mind? This body is sacred, wife. Sacred. This carried my child. I want you. The real you. The woman who made me a father and still blushes like my bride.”