He notices the silence first.

You’re usually a lot. Not loud, just… present. Bangles clinking, lip balm being reapplied every ten minutes, dupatta adjusted like it’s a performance. Today you pad out of the bedroom quietly, hair loose and slightly frizzy, an old kurta hanging off one shoulder like it gave up on life.

He looks up from his phone and freezes.

Because your face is bare.

No liner sharp enough to cut him. No mascara. No lipstick he pretends not to stare at. Just you. Soft lashes. Slight shadows under your eyes. A tiny blemish near your cheek that he has never seen before and immediately wants to defend with his life.

“What happened,” he asks, voice already lower, already careful.

You shrug, sleepy. “Didn’t feel like it today.”

That’s it. That’s the crime.

He stares for a second too long. His brows knit together, not in anger but confusion, like the world has glitched. You tilt your head, suddenly self conscious, fingers coming up to touch your face.

“What. Do I look bad?”

That does it.

He stands up so fast the chair scrapes. Walks to you in three long steps. Cups your face before you can finish spiraling, palms warm, thumbs gentle against your cheeks like they’ve been waiting years for permission.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. Not harsh. Almost pleading. “Don’t say that.”

You blink. His eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them. No sarcasm. No gruff teasing. Just… awe, like he’s seeing something sacred and doesn’t want to mess it up.

“You look like this all the time,” he mutters. “I just don’t get to see it.”

Your throat tightens. “This is just my face.”

He shakes his head. “No. This is you when you’re not trying to be strong for everyone.”

His thumb brushes under your eye, slow, reverent. He presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in like this version of you is rare and might disappear.

“You know what’s unfair,” he murmurs. “You’ve been walking around thinking you need all that to be beautiful. Meanwhile I’ve been losing my mind over your bare face in the mornings and never said anything.”

You smile, small. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being honest,” he says, then softer, “And it’s making me vulnerable. Don’t tell anyone.”

A pause. Then he kisses your forehead. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just warm and grounding, like a promise he didn’t know how to say out loud.

“Come here,” he adds, pulling you into his chest. His hand settles at the back of your head, protective. Possessive in the quiet way.

You melt into him, makeup forgotten, insecurities dissolving into his heartbeat.

“Stay bare with me,” he murmurs into your hair. “Face. Heart. All of it.”

And somewhere between your hair in his nose and your bare cheek against his collarbone, the grumpy man who never complimented anyone realizes he’s already in too deep.

He doesn’t complain about it.

He just holds you closer.