Say it again

 His pov

The letter remained open in my hands, but I was no longer reading it.

I was somewhere ahead of it—already thinking of what I would write back.

Not carefully, not cautiously like before, but with a certainty that had not existed until now. She had answered me, not directly, not in the way most would, but in a way that mattered more. There was no distance left in her words, no careful restraint placed between what she felt and what she allowed herself to say.

And that was enough.

More than enough.

A quiet, almost unfamiliar lightness settled in my chest as I leaned back slightly, the corners of my lips lifting without effort. For the first time, the reply did not feel like something I had to weigh—it felt like something I wanted to write. And then the thought settled, I should write, now I can write.

I glanced at the letter again, as if confirming it was still real, still mine to answer. Then my gaze shifted to the envelope. And stilled.

There was nothing on it. No marking. No direction. No indication of where it had come from or how it had reached me.

The warmth faded, not abruptly, but steadily enough to be noticed. Of course. She had just written what she wanted to say, but she clearly didn’t want to hear. The thought settled more heavily than it should have.

Maybe she is still not sure.

The idea came uninvited, sharp enough to cut through everything that had felt certain just moments ago. She had written all that, yes—but she had not made it easy to reach her. Not openly. Not in a way that allowed me to answer without consequence.

And what if—

My jaw tightened slightly.

What if my letter would cause trouble for her?

What if this—this careful distance—was not hesitation, but protection?

Hriday's words echoed, “She is getting a letter from an unknown husband!”

The ease I had felt began to slip, replaced by something far more restless.

“Shit.”

The word left me under my breath, sharper than intended, and before I could stop myself, my fist drove forward into empty air—a pointless release, a momentary attempt to rid myself of the sudden frustration.

Instead, it found something else.

The nearest sculpted piece on the side table wobbled, then tipped, then fell with a loud, unforgiving crash that shattered the quiet of the chamber.

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair as the sound echoed longer than it should have.

Footsteps approached quickly.

Two soldiers entered without delay, their alertness immediate, their eyes scanning the room before settling on me.

“It’s nothing,” I said before they could ask, my voice steadier than I felt. “It just fell.”

They exchanged a glance but did not question it. One of them bent to lift the fallen sculpture, inspecting it before placing it back in its original position with care, as though restoring order to the room would restore it entirely.

They straightened, nodded once, and left as quietly as they had entered.

I watched them go, the door closing behind them, the room returning to stillness once more.

And then— I turned. She was sitting there. On the couch. As though she had always been. For a second, I did not move.

Did not breathe.

My eyes blinked once, then again, slower this time, as if that might correct whatever illusion had taken shape before me. I lifted a hand, dragging it lightly across my face, grounding myself in something real—

But when I looked again, she was still there.

Unchanged.

Before I could process it, before I could decide whether to question it or accept it, she rose.

And then she was walking toward me.

Each step is quiet, unhurried, certain.

Something in my chest tightened, not with unease, but with something far more unfamiliar—something that made it difficult to remain where I stood.

Her presence felt… close. Too real to dismiss.

My voice left me before I could think to hold it back, softer than I had ever heard it.

“Barkha.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

She stopped a few steps away from me, close enough that I could see the faint tension in her expression, the way her gaze held mine without wavering, as though she had come here with a purpose she had no intention of softening.

“You seem very certain,” she said, her voice calm, but there was nothing soft about it. “Tell me, Aditya… how many wives do you have now?”

The question landed without warning.

For a moment, I only looked at her, trying to understand whether she meant it lightly, whether there was space in it for dismissal—but there wasn’t. There was something sharper beneath it, something that had been waiting to be said.

“Barkha—”

“No,” she cut in immediately, taking another step closer, leaving me no room to ignore it. “Answer me.”

My breath steadied, though I could feel the edge of unease creeping in. “You know the answer.”

“Do I?” she asked, her brows lifting slightly, her gaze unwavering. “Because from what I understand, it seems to be a very… convenient word for you.”

“That’s not what it was,” I said quickly, the response leaving me before I could temper it. “You were in danger. It was the simplest way to—”

“To what?” she pressed, not giving me space to finish. “To solve it? To end the moment?”

Her words were not loud, but they carried weight.

I took a step back without realizing it, more to create space to think than anything else, but she followed just as easily, closing the distance again.

“It wasn’t like that,” I said, more firmly this time, though there was an edge of something else beneath it now—something closer to anxiety than I liked. “You’re taking it the wrong way.”

“Then explain it the right way,” she said, her voice quieter now, but no less intense. “Because from where I stand, it looked very easy for you.”

And I let out a quiet breath, the corner of my mouth lifting despite myself.

“You are very concerned about how easy it was,” I said, letting the hint of a smile return. “Should I take that as a compliment or a complaint?”

Her expression hardened. “Take it however you like.”

“I think,” I continued, now unable to stop the teasing edge slipping into my tone, “that you would not be this bothered if it hadn’t sounded convincing.”

“That is not—”

“So you did believe it,” I added, quieter, but far more deliberate.

She stopped.

Just for a second.

And that was enough.

“You’re avoiding the question,” she said, though her voice had shifted again, losing some of its earlier sharpness.

“And you’re asking the wrong one,” I replied.

Her eyes held mine, unwavering.

“Then answer the right one,” she said.

I leaned slightly closer this time, closing the space she had been forcing me to give up.

“You want to know if I would say it again to anyone else,” I said.

She didn’t move.

I exhaled softly, my voice lowering just enough to change the weight of the words.

“What if I were….”

That did it.

Her hand moved before I could complete. Before I could react.

She caught the hem of my kurta, her grip firm as she pulled me toward her in one sharp motion, closing whatever distance remained between us. My hands lifted instinctively, hovering in the air for a second as if unsure whether to steady myself or simply stay where they were.

Her gaze locked onto mine, unyielding.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” she said, her voice low, clear, and entirely certain.

And this time, there was no space left between us to step away.

My mouth opened on instinct—to explain, to fix it—but she didn’t give me the chance.

“Not today,” she continued.

“Not tomorrow.

Not when you’re tired.

Not when you’re angry.

Not even when you think you’re right.”

Each word landed heavier than the last. I could hear my own heartbeat, loud and uneven, filling the silence I wasn’t allowed to break.

I swallowed, the dryness in my throat almost painful.

“You get that?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “Yes. It just—” I stopped myself, exhaling as I shook my head. “It came out wrong. I didn’t mean it.”

Her grip on me didn’t loosen. Her fingers were still curled into the fabric of my kurta, holding me in place like she needed me to understand before she let go.

“Make sure it never comes out again,” she said.

There was no anger left in her voice now. That almost made it worse. It was steady. Certain. A line drawn clean across the ground. I nodded. “It won’t. I promise.” The words felt bare, stripped of everything except what mattered. “I’m sorry.”

No excuses. No defence. Just that.

Something shifted in her expression—subtle, but there. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But a slight easing, like a door no longer slamming shut.

And suddenly I became aware of everything else. Of how close she was.
Of her hand still fisted in my kurta. In the way my breathing had slowed, matching hers without me realizing. She seemed to notice it too.

She cleared her throat, like she was pulling herself back together, piece by piece.

“You’re not allowed to talk to me that way,” she said again, quieter this time. Final.

Her fingers loosened, slowly releasing the fabric of my kurta. The moment she began to pull her hand back, I caught it. Instinct. Immediate.

Not tight—just firm enough to stop her from slipping away. She looked up at me, startled. My voice came out softer than I expected. Careful, like I was stepping onto something that could break if I wasn’t steady.

“But you are allowed,” I said, “to hold me like that.”

Her breath caught. I felt it more than I heard it. For a second, neither of us moved. The argument didn’t end the way arguments usually do. No winner. No conclusion neatly tied.

It just… dissolved. Because something else had settled in its place.

A boundary had been drawn.
And something quieter—more fragile, but far harder to ignore—had been held between us. Her first instinct was to pull her hand back again. This time slower. Careful. But I didn’t let go immediately.

My fingers stayed wrapped around hers, my thumb resting lightly against her knuckles—like it had found a place it recognized before I did. And suddenly I was aware of everything. How close we were.

She cleared her throat. Once. Then again.

“You—” she started, and stopped.

Tried again. “That’s not what this is about.”

I tilted my head slightly, watching her. I could feel the pull to let the moment stay serious… and ignored it.

“I know,” I said quietly. “I’m just making an observation.”

That did it.

She slipped her hand free—this time I let her—and immediately folded her arms, like she needed something to hold herself together.

Her gaze dropped to the floor.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered. And then her head snapped up. “I was making a point.”

“A very strong point,” I said, unable to help myself. “With excellent grip strength.”

The colour rose to her cheeks almost instantly. “Stop.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

“I said stop,” she repeated, but the force had drained out of it, replaced by something far more revealing—embarrassment she was trying, and failing, to contain. I took a small step closer. Not enough to corner her, just enough that she would notice.

“You are teasing,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me.

“Yes,” I admitted easily. “A little.”

She glanced at me from the corner of her eye, cautious, like she wasn’t sure if engaging would make it worse. “You’re enjoying this.”

I let a beat pass, just to make her wait for it.

“Maybe,” I said, deliberately mild. “But I reserve the right to look a little smug, knowing my wife can silence me with one hand.”

She groaned and covered her face. “You’re unbearable.”

I laughed under my breath and stepped back, giving her the space I knew she needed before she even asked for it.

“Only because you let me be,” I said.

She dropped her hand slowly, exhaling, and for a moment something softer slipped through—a shy smile she clearly hadn’t meant to show.

And then, just as quickly, she recovered.

Too quickly.

She tilted her head, folding her arms loosely now, her gaze settling on me with a steadiness that immediately made me suspicious.

“Oh?” she said, voice light in a way that never meant anything harmless. “So you liked that?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she replied smoothly. “Your face did all the talking.”

“My face?” I echoed, almost offended.

“Yes,” she said, nodding once, entirely composed now. “Very expressive. Slightly startled. A little impressed. Definitely flustered.”

I scoffed, though I could feel the corner of my mouth threatening to give me away. “That is an exaggeration.”

She smiled then—small, precise, and far more dangerous than anything she’d said so far. “Is it?” she asked. “Because you forgot how to blink for a second.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then stopped. Closed it. Took a breath instead.

“Alright,” I said finally. “I’ll admit I didn’t expect it.”

She stepped closer, just enough to tilt the balance between us again. “You underestimate me.”

“Not anymore,” I said, and I meant it.

Her confidence sharpened at that, warming into something bolder. “Good. Because next time—”

“Next time?” I cut in, eyebrows lifting. “You’re planning a sequel?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t push it.”

I leaned back against the counter, from where the sculpture fell a moment ago, folding my arms, letting the amusement take over now. “I’m just curious. What exactly would you do if I did?”

Her chin lifted slightly. “I already showed you.”

“That was once,” I said lightly. “What if I say something now?”

She gave me a look that should have been enough warning. “Stop.”

I didn’t.

“Oh come on,” I said, the teasing slipping fully into place. “What will you do? Grab me again? Scold me?”

“Stop,” she repeated, sharper this time.

Instead of listening, I pushed just a little further, stepping closer, drawn in by something I wasn’t even pretending to resist anymore.

“What,” I said, smiling, “will you do? You won’t—”

I didn’t get to finish.

Her hand came up, just as fast as before, catching the front of my kurta. The grip was sure this time, practiced. She pulled me forward in one clean motion.

And before I could react—

She kissed me.

It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t careful. There was no room for doubt in it, no room for me to question what it meant.

It was brief, but it landed like something far larger than the moment itself. A statement. Clear. Undeniable. And then she pulled back just as quickly, her breath uneven, her eyes bright with something caught between triumph and sudden awareness.

“I told you to stop,” she said.

I stared at her, the words not quite catching up with what had just happened. And then I laughed—quiet, breathless, surprised out of me.

“Oh,” I said. “So that’s what you’ll do.”

Her cheeks flushed deeper. “Don’t you dare—”

“Too late,” I replied, still smiling, still trying to find my footing in something that had shifted without warning. “Noted.”

She turned away immediately, like the distance might undo it, her hand coming up to her mouth as if she could take it back.

I adjusted my kurta slowly, more to steady myself than anything else.

“Just for the record,” I added, softer now, “you make a very convincing argument.”

She was already moving, heading toward the doorway, her steps quick, almost urgent. She didn’t get far.

I followed without thinking, closing the distance in a second. Not grabbing her, not stopping her outright—but stepping in close enough that she had nowhere to go without acknowledging me.

My hands came to rest on the counter on either side of her, bracketing her in place. I didn’t touch her at first. I didn’t need to.

The space between us disappeared anyway.

I leaned in, lowering my head until it rested lightly against her shoulder, my cheek brushing the side of her neck. It felt natural in a way I hadn’t expected—like something that had been waiting for the right moment to exist.

“Let me go,” she said.

Her voice was steady.

But I could feel the truth of it in the way she held herself—the tension, the uneven breath, the awareness that hadn’t left either of us since that kiss.

I didn’t move.

Not yet.

“Do you want me to,” I asked quietly, my voice softer than anything I’d said all evening, “or do you just think you should?”

She didn’t say anything.

For a moment, all I could hear was her breathing—quiet, uneven in a way she was trying to hide. I lifted my head just slightly, enough to see her face without stepping away.

There it was. That flicker. A little embarrassed. A little startled. And beneath it—something more uncertain, something that hadn’t quite decided what this was, what we were, or where any of this was supposed to go.

And just like that, the teasing slipped out of me.

I remembered.

She wasn’t steady in this yet. Not the way I was beginning to be.

My hands stayed where they were, braced on either side of her, but I didn’t close the space any further. If anything, I held myself back.

“Say it again,” I said quietly. “And I will.”