The room was bathed in soft morning light, the pale gold spilling through sheer curtains that fluttered in the early breeze. The sheets were tangled, a silent testament to the night they'd spent trying to say everything their words couldn’t.

Vikram lay on his side, head propped up on one arm, his other hand brushing soft strokes down his wife’s bare spine. Your skin was warm, marked with the ghost of his touch, and you rested with your cheek against his chest, eyes half-lidded, fingers tracing the tattoo near his collarbone—the one you had kissed right before whispering “Don’t go” into the dark.

He looked at you for a beat, like he was trying to imprint every inch of your face into his soul. Then, carefully, he began to untangle himself from the bed.

“I’m running you a bath,” he said. “Epsom salts, lavender oil, and that expensive bubble bath you only use when you miss me.”

You reached for his hand, stopping him.

He paused.

You spoke softly, pulling his hand back to your chest.

Vikram hesitated, torn between logic and longing. But then he saw the shimmer in your eyes—something between strength and sadness—and he knew this wasn’t just about physical soreness. This was about your heart. About the ache you wouldn’t let show when he walked out the door in a few hours.

So he climbed back into the bed, wrapping you in his arms again, his hand resting on the small of your back.

They lay there in silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall—a cruel reminder of time slipping away.

“Do you ever think,” he whispered, “what if this was the last time?”