The wedding had been beautiful on the outside grand halls, gleaming lights, blessings whispered in the air, but at its heart, it had been cold. To the world, it was the union of two perfect families. But behind the smiles and rituals, two strangers sat side by side, barely looking at each other.

And yet, over time, something shifted. In the quiet that followed the ceremony, a different language began to form between you, one of glances, gestures, and presence. You didn’t demand anything from him. No expectations, no accusations. You moved through the house like a soft breeze, always there, but never in the way. He started watching you.

The way your nose scrunched up when you sneezed. How you struggled with heavy jars in the kitchen but refused to ask for help. The way your hands danced in sign language when you were frustrated, especially with him. He caught himself smiling, actually smiling, at you more than once. And he hated that he liked it.

Today, Anant was on edge. His biggest business deal in months was falling apart. His team had tried everything, and the client was refusing to budge. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t blinked in hours, pacing the floor of his glass-walled cabin with furrowed brows and tight fists.

You knew he wouldn’t ask. So, you showed up. Carrying a tiffin with his favorite lunch, you stepped into his office. His staff stared as you passed. Everyone in the company knew you, "Sir’s wife, the quiet one." You walked into his cabin without knocking. Anant looked up, startled. His expression softened immediately, though he tried to hide it behind a sigh. You gestured to the food. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

“You really shouldn’t have come here,” he muttered. But when you sat down beside him, unscrewed the tiffin, and offered him the first bite, he leaned forward without protest. His eyes were tired, but when he met yours, something in them melted. You fed him slowly, one bite at a time. He didn’t speak, but his fingers grazed yours every now and then, longer than necessary. Like he needed the grounding.

After lunch, you curled up on the couch in his office, barefoot, holding a book, looking entirely out of place in the world of numbers and suits. But to him, you were the only thing that made sense. Then the door opened.

His client stepped in, Mr. Khurana, the man who held the fate of the deal. You immediately stood to leave. But before you could take a step, Anant reached for your wrist and pulled you gently back to the seat beside him. You blinked up at him, confused. He didn’t explain. Just placed your hand on his knee, casually, as if it belonged there.

The meeting began. You watched quietly as Anant presented his proposal. Khurana was stone-faced as usual. But then he glanced at you, silent, poised, serene, and something shifted in his tone. Maybe it was your calm presence. Maybe it was how you nodded every time Anant looked at you, like you trusted him even when he was unsure. Maybe it was your soft, unwavering grace that disarmed even the most guarded businessman. By the end of the meeting, the client smiled. And signed.

Anant froze for a second, hardly believing it. Then, without thinking, he stood up, turned to you, lifted you into his arms, he kissed you. Not a polite peck. A real, breath-stealing kiss, full of emotion he’d kept bottled up for too long.  You were flushed, startled, trying to hide in his arms, but Anant didn’t let go. He spun you once, gently, like you were weightless. “I knew it,” he whispered against your temple. “You’re my lucky charm.”

Later, when the final documents arrived for signing, Anant held the pen in his hand, hesitated, then handed it to you. You looked at him, puzzled. “Touch it,” he said simply. You blinked, smiled softly, and placed your hand on the file. Only then did he sign.

He wasn’t the superstitious kind. He never believed in fate or omens. He believed in logic, precision, performance. But now? Now he believed in a girl who didn’t speak, yet filled his life with more meaning than any words ever could.